Friday, December 21, 2012

Capeside High School Junior, at least in Season Two

It's "let's play a game" time, again!  HO HO HO, FUCKING MERRRRRY CHRISTMAS!

Today's game is called:  Name this late-90's series that was really too young for me, even at that time, that I watched religiously, and now am re-visiting via Netflix, end-to-end, in chronological order!!!

Name it!!!

Need a hint?

Here you go:


Y'all, girl, please.  What is wrong with this girl, who is truly in her late 30s, even though she tries to pull off early 30s, which is still a solid decade and a half too old to like this show.  To, ahem, even shed a few tears at the conclusion of Season 1, when Jen's (SPOILER ALERT) gramps died and Dawson and Joey did a little smooching.


Here's my analysis, here's why I think this is so appealing to me, right now.

1) Set in a New England town:  As you may or may not care, I went to high school in a small town in Connecticut.  Which is to say, a non-seaside town, not even on Long Island Sound, but close e-goddamn-nough.  We spoke with similar cadences to Dawson, which should surprise NOBODY because...  guess what?

James Van Der Beek?  FROM THE SAME TOWN.

Yep.  I know him, at least, I did know him, once upon a time, which meant that, back in 1998, when I had my first obession with this show, this phone call happened:

Me:  "Hi, Jay, look, there's this show, Dawson's Creek, you know, and, have you seen it?  I swear, I can't put my finger on it, but the Dawson guy is just... so familiar..."

Janie:  "Idiot.  We went to high school with him.  James Van Der Beek, only he was usually called "that loser Van Der Geek."

(She didn't really call me an idiot.  She probably thought it, though.  She may also not have shared the slur against his majesty himself, although I definitely, at that time remembered a production of Lil' Abner starring himself, wherein I thought, hey, this guy is super adorable, and then, hey, this guy is a total douchebag.  So there you go.)

2)  Blonde high school age boys:  My very favorite first love in the whole wide world was a blonde boy in my high school.  A boy who was artistic and sensitive and adorable and tall and thin and had super light blonde hair and it flopped in his eyes and he was a super awesome perfect first love, and I treated him like shit because I was a TOTAL BITCH.  But anyway, I was also stupid and in high school, so I forgive myself.  Because I'm rad now.  In addition, we did NOT talk the way the DC kids do, we did not use the big words and speak reallyfuckingquickly causing mid-to-late-30's age people to stop and rewind all of our Deep Conversations, but otherwise, TOTALLY THE SAME.

3)  1998:  DC originally debuted in 1998, wherein I was 23, living in my Very Own Apartment with a little Beanie who was 4.  I was being a grown-up, ish, but still waffled between trying to be Very Grown Up (i.e., watching Ally McBeal) and Embracing My Youth (i.e., Dawson for the win).  But I flipping ADORE the music of that time.  Jann Arden.  Sarah McICan'tSpellHerLastNameAndSheHasRuinedDogsForMe.  Mandy Moore.

Oh, yes, Mandy Moore.  God I want to be her.

As an aside, I'm pretty sure my 1998 Boyfriend ALSO wanted to be her.  Not WITH her, mind you. 


4)  Boats are pretty.

So what's going on?  Am I having a mid-life, I-miss-my-youth, Single-again-feeling-angsty moment?  

Nah.  I just think the show is visually gorgeous, well-written, and entertaining.  With great music.  So fuck it.

So, in the interest of Christmas Cheer, I'm going to do the following all weekend:

Sleep.  Eat.  Be Merry.  Watch A Boat Parade.  Attend a Christmas Party.  Cook.  Shop a little (I'm actually pretty much done, BOOM.)  Watch MOTHERFUCKINGDAWSON'SCREEKSEASONTWO and KNIT.

How badly do you want to be me?

You know you do.

Merry Christmas from Capeside!!! 

Wednesday, December 12, 2012

Tipsy Tina

Two times each year, we have drink-at-work days.  Now, mind you, la boss lady does not know that we consider these days thus, but she also drink-at-works, so fuck it.  Fuck it.

Anyway.  So this is one of those days.  It's called a Poinsettia.  It consists of cheap-ass champagne and cranberry juice.  AND I LOVE IT.

Later, today will be called "Annual Deal With Being Mildly Hungover At Work Day," but right now, no.  Right now is a BOSS.

In return for this bullshit I have to deal with a picture with the staff and Santa! And count toys for pToysforTotsp.  But I also get free lunch.  See?  You win some, you lose some.

You got to take what you get.

In other news, I'm grumpy, terribly, terribly bitchy about work, and not in the mood to fuck around with this shit.

BUT.  My band has a really good gig on Friday.  So that's fun!  And the baby will be performing, the same night, natch, at a different location, and I will be missing that.  Beast.  And the big kid is home for the holiday, and that's good.  And I still have more Poinsettia to drink.

Thursday, November 29, 2012

Hipster Hat Wearer

The other day, the baby and I had to drive the teenagers back to their college campus, after the long Thanksgiving break.  On the way back, we stopped at Panera Bread.  For those of you who have a Panera on every corner (suck it, Atlantans), this is a major big deal for us because we haven't had a Panera here, ever, and it's now in Covington, which is only like 20 miles away.  

The baby didn't even know what to expect.  "Do they have bread?"  Um, yes.  That's why the name of the restaurant includes the word "bread."  He ordered a grilled cheese.  Then he said that it was the best grilled cheese that he has ever had, and only God could make a better grilled cheese.  I'm in agreement about the power of the Panera.  I am not sure even God has that much power.

We were both more or less wearing our pajamas for this run to the Panera.  So inappropriate.

In other news, I've been, as usual, busy with yarn.  I made some shit.  I even got someone to pay me for one of the things that I made.  As if.  I bet they were disappointed, but fuck that.  Not my problem.

I like hats, you know, the big slouchy hats that hipsters wear?  I wanted one.  So I made one.  It is too big.

I'm so fly that it hurts, sometimes.

Anyway, I convinced myself that it was fine, and I wore it one day.  To work.  Because I could.

But just because you CAN wear something, doesn't mean that you SHOULD.

Case in point:

Said hat is in the mail, now.  On its way to a new home.  With someone who is actually young enough to truly be a hipster.

So I'm knitting another one.

Thursday, November 8, 2012

Laughing Hyena, Quite Frankly

1.  It's beginning to get cold here, by which I mean, in the fifties.  Make no mistake, I understand that, where you live, that might be summer weather, but fuck that shit.  I choose to live here.  And I don't have central heat.  Wherein, I must admit that I like to snuggle closer and closer into the fireplace, so that I can possibly set my (tiny, nearly non-existent) ass on fire.  Happy winter!  

2. I don't want to say why, but it's possible that I was trying to text one of my friends, we'll say it was Melissa (because it was) about this made-for-bbc-television version of The Diary of Anne Frank, that I watched, and in said version, Anne was a little pervy, and thus I needed to use the word "masterbation."

Look, I recognize that this is not an oft-texted word, particularly in context.  I have noticed that Siri will change my "fuck" to "duck" or even "guck" if I use it in the same text which talks about knitting.  "Surely no knitter would say, 'fuck,'" Siri must think.  "Surely she means, 'guck.'".  No, goddammit, Siri, I do not mean guck.  I mean, WHO uses the word "guck"?

But anyway.  Siri would NOT let me type masterbation.  Master Nation, she said.  Master Nation Master Nation Master Bastion Master Nation.

I can't tell you why I found this so funny, but I did.  I mean, it's half-nazi-reminiscent, as in "master nation of aryans," I guess, but I really was just trying to describe how weird it was to watch Anne Frank feel herself up.  I mean, is that too much to ask?

3.  You all know how I voted.  And I managed to survive the whole entire political season by ignoring ridiculous facebook messages from my more conservative friends.  People really do have the right to think/believe/vote for whatever they want.  I really am behind that.  On Wednesday, this lady (whose name I'm not even going to try to pixelate, because she obviously doesn't deserve that kind of courtesy from a free-loader like myself) posted this, and I TOTALLY lost my shit about it:


4.  Mardi Gras is just around the corner, and I found a pattern to make these, so BELIEVE YOU ME, I'm making like 10 pair.  I want everyone I know to be wearing this on Mardi Gras, minus the cancer-awareness ribbons.  Especially the dudes.

5.  My sweet little baby is so literal.  I'm certain that the teacher didn't expect "toylot papre," but I also bet this is one of those things that they keep forever in some file called "funny shit the students wrote."

Tuesday, November 6, 2012

Civic Minded, Racially Sensitive Former Pirate Whore Monsterknockers

There has been a request for pictures of the Pirate Whore Monsterknockers, so I'll accommodate that first and foremost:

I'm the one in the middle.  GOD DAMN we are some cute girls.

Anyway.  My friend Melissa who happens to be gifted with the picture-taking-skillz also took a full-on boudoir shot of me, and I look like a whore, but I don't even care, it's a pretty picture:

New Orleans was a bad-ish night for me, way too crowded and my phone was STOLEN FROM MY PURSE, but haha, fuckers, it was an iPhone 3GS, so it cost me like 99 cents.  I mean come on.  And too, I ended up with drunky girls and I was pretty sober, so that's a downer.  BUT, I didn't lose my panties, so we'll still call that one a win.

We revisited the costume on Halloween, as one ought, and even though the baby was tired, I like this one, too.  Far less whorey.

 Today is election day, in other news, and I took the baby to go and vote, so he could see how it works.  He was interested in reading the ballot (out loud), and I had to suggest that he not, as it is a) nobody's business for whom I vote, and b) I live in an extremely conservative little corner of an extremely conservative little town, so I thought it was possible that I might get my tires slashed if my liberalness was broadcasted.


My tires are intact.

Anyway, so there you have it.  I voted, again, for a minority because I think his opinions match mine closer than that of the guy who appears to look more like the people where I live.  Primarily because I'm too tall to fit in a binder.

His minority-ness really has absolutely nothing to do with anything, but I mention it because the baby and I were talking about racial equality the other day, and he said that he knew what I was talking about.  "I can give you an ezample," he said.  "Okay," I said, "go for it."

"Well, I'm white," he said, "but Yaya is black."

um.  Yaya is his name for Beanie, my older son.  The one who is half Greek, half me, so...

Not really black.  More like olive.  But who's counting.

The little person is much whiter than we are, although he has got some mad moves, and the Bean doesn't, so based on this assessment, he's got it backwards.  However, I enjoy having one black kid, one white kid.  I have since referred to Beanie as my black son.  Boom.

Note:  I kind of wish I did have a baby that is either African-American or bi-racial.  They are so freaking gorgeous.  Just saying.  Similarly, I wish I did have one baby that was a girl child, because I'd like to name her Virginia but call her VaJayJay.

Anyway, so we expressed our civic duty, and I was super pissed/disappointed that they were out of stickers, I mean, come ON, so when I got to work, I made one for myself.  Because THAT is how I like to stick it to the man.

Well, that, and blogging...

Monday, October 29, 2012

Jim Cantore Secret Lover

Let's play pretendies.  We like this game.

Pretend I'm a yankee, one that says "you guys" instead of "y'all."  Not one that says "youse guys" because, come on now.  I can't pretend to be that person.

Believe me, there is NOTHING wrong with that person, but I'm just not one of those people.

The ants named Joyce, that lived at Janie's house for a while?  THEY were those people.

I digress, and only she will know what I'm talking about.  Oh well.

Anyway, back to being a You Guys Yankee.

I'd be all, oh, look a wicked bad storm is coming in.  That wicked bad sucks.  It's going to be wicked cold and kinda shitty.

(instead of the way I usually would say something like, "ohhhh heyyy, look, y'all, it's gwine be windy and curazy outsahd, and by the way, y'all wanna go get somethin' to drank?")

You'd think you were not really going to be all Perfect Stormy, right?  And then what would happen?  You would turn on the Weather Channel, right?  And guess what you would see?


Just saying.

(by the way, I kind of super love him, so I think it goes without saying which I would choose.  I'm not the marryin' kind.)

Tuesday, October 23, 2012

Pirate Whore Monsterknockers

We are officially in that time of year that most people would call either fall or autumn.  I can certainly use those terms, but right this instance, I'm sweating my balls off, so it's hard to think of it as non-summer.

Note:  I do not really have balls.

Anyway, so here are a few of the things that happen all upinhyah around this time of the year.  There is a sir-cuss, at my work, and it's, you know, whatever.  Fun-ish.  Whatever.

Then there is the Fair, which is not like a county fair or state fair or world's fair or the like, it's a fair put on by our large local Catholic School.  Which I fucking ADORE because, a) it is more or less in my neighborhood, which is to say, walking distance, and, b) they sell beer, on the cheap.  

What's really funner than walking a half mile, drinking beer while your kid rides on rides and you laugh at humanity?

Nothing, that's what. 

So that's what we did on Saturday.  Beanie came home for the weekend, too, which made it all that much more awesome.

The baby is on the ferris wheel.  You can just barely make out his tiny little head in this picture.  His friend Mafun, whom the rest of us would call "Nathan" rode with him.  God bless that kid- they probably wouldn't have let me take my beer on the ride.

This is the baby at the end of the "Giant Slide," which is to say, a tall bumpy piece of tin on which he slid on a piece of burlap, because, you know, 1896 is a wonderful year.

On Saturday, my little band played at a festival in Olde Towne (and I shit you not, we are SUPPOSED to spell it like that, which means I live in Ye Olde Douchy Selfe-Importante Towne), and we were encouraged to wear costumes.  So I made Beanie wear this hat and pretend to be Gilligan.

"I've never even seen that movie," he said.  No matter, he looks like Gilligan without even trying.

The festival went well, we played a LOT and it was fun and we were tired by the time it was over, which is how it is supposed to be.  We went home and crashed, just chilled out and hung out watching movies about WW II.  The Bean is the master of all knowledge of the Pacific Theater, right down to the battle names.  I am not, but I still find it all fascinating.  This was a Ken Burns documentary, so believe me, after only 2 hours, I am well aware that I have an additional eight or ten hours of WWII footage to enjoy.

On Sunday, I took him back to college.  The baby was beat down tired and fell asleep in the car, but then he woke up when we were almost home, and I go, "hey, you want to go and get you a Halloween costume?"

He thought perhaps he would be Mario, but I talked him out of it.  I keep calling him the Dread Pirate Monkeynuts, or Monkeybutt, when he protests, but anyway, he says no fucking way.  He likes "Pirate Goldenrod Blackeye."  Hmph.

 At any rate, the DPM is adorable:

I would give the little crew-socked pirate some candy, you bet your ass I would.

I'm getting a costume too.  I ordered this one.  Fuckit.  I'll be a slut pirate whore if I goddamn want to.  I bought boots, too.  FUCKIT.

I forgot to mention that, on Thursday, the baby had a "carnival" at HIS school, which was code for, "bring your kid to the school, we will make him participate in math 'games,' and we will give him pizza, and if you are REALLY lucky, we will paint a yellow, orange, and white penis on his cheek.  Only we will tell him it is candy corn."

You thought I made that last part up, didn't you?  Well YOU WERE WRONG.

Happy pre-Halloween, everybody, from Pirate Whore Monsterknockers and the Dread Pirate Monkeynuts.

Wednesday, October 10, 2012

Roseanne Barr

For some reason, I agreed to sing the Star Spangled Banner again, tonight.  At a thing.  A work thing.

I do not know why I do this to myself.

I must leave the office now, to go skank up.

God Bless My Little Heart for thinking I can do this.  Le.  Sigh.

Friday, September 21, 2012

Five Step Program

1.  I got a marketing letter, you know, like an ad, in the mail, from my wireless phone carrier, which I'll call AT&T, here, since, you know, that's what they call themselves.

Here's what it looked like:
They used my correct address.  Look at my name.  LOOK AT MY NAME.

"Dear Sexy Mamma" was my favorite thing all week.  Also, I spell it "Mama."  Also, What the fuck is going on, here??

I called AT&T, to let them know that they had mis-spelled my name.  Fuckers.  The girl on the phone was terribly embarrassed, and I let her know that I was HIGHLY OFFENDED and a GOD-FEARING-CHRISTIAN WOMAN and WHAT-IF-MY-FIRST-GRADER-SAW-THIS and so on.  And I didn't laugh, although OMG it was hard to not laugh.  After apologizing profusely, the girl had me fax this to her attention.  That was a very, very good time.

2.  I know you have laughed at auto-corrects before, as have I, because they are funny.  I did suspect they were likely fake, at least largely, but one happened to me here, and I have to share it.  (Incidentally, once, I tried to text my friend Katie that I loved her "whole bunches," but my phone changed it to "hole punches," and so we now love each other hole punches.  How cute is that, eh?)

This is less cute, but way funnier:

 3.  First soccer game of the year.  He maybe kicked the ball twice.  They did not win.  I'm going to have to develop a taste for cat food if my retirement plans depend on his athleticism.  It's nice in theory.  Sigh.

4.  Everybody knows I like a good steak.  If you don't like steak, you should move somewhere.  I'd suggest maybe Vermont.  Not a lot of cows like the cold.  Right?  I honestly really just made that up.  I have no idea what cows like.  Milk.  Cows like milk.  I'd assume.

Anyway, but Winn-Dixie apparently thinks that all steaks should be grotesquely rare.  And so they put a picture of one with a tiny fat-blob, too - on their truck.  Grrrrrrosssssss...

5.  I went to a meeting in a little town called "Amite" the other day, for a Fema thing, for work.  It was a good meeting, very informative.  It was held in the city council chambers, which was kind of like a courtroom or something, with kind of a panel at the front, in a semi-circle of chairs, and then chairs for the non-council members, or, in this case, people like me.  A professional, fairly nice building, especially (from what I can tell) for Amite's standards.  

After the meeting, I needed to go potty, as I occasionally do.  On the way out of the restroom, I encountered the following sign on the door.  Because, apparently, Amite's council consists of six-year-old-boys, who may or may not be my sons...

It's been a good week here in neverland, where I think I must live, or some such.  Tonight I'm going to the high school football game, and then I'm starting a new quilt tomorrow.  Because I am the Best Grandma EVER, that's why.

Happy weekend!

Tuesday, September 11, 2012

Dancing, drinking Milf Toast

Two stories for you.

1)  Today, we went, as we do almost every day, out to grab lunch through a drive-thru.  Today's choice was Wendy's.  No, I'm not going to bother to couch that and make this less-searchable.  Fuck Wendy's.

Anyway, so here's what happened when we got to the order place:

Dude:  "HI!  We are so glad you came to visit us at Wendy's, would you like to try a baconator today?"

Me:  "No, thank you, but thanks for being so excited to have us here!  I have two orders.  The first one is a kid's meal with a burger only ketchup and mustard, and add bacon, and a Large Diet Coke to drink..."

Dude:  "Oh, I'm sorry, we can't upsize your drink like that..."

Me:  "..."

Well, fuck that stupid rule.

So I changed my whole order, ordered the second one, and drove up to issue my complaint.

They were all, yeah, no, fuck you, you can't have a large diet coke.  Assholes.  I said, "that's ok, I'll call the number..."

Hadn't even picked up our (I'm sure, spit-filled, by this point) food yet, and I called the 800 number.  The girl was very friendly.  Very apologetic.  I told her that, since I was kind of a little person, I needed to get happy meals* but that I wanted a large diet coke, because I don't want a lot of calories, you know?  And she was all, yeah, I get it.  And then she asked if I spell my name with an "h", and I go "YES!  Thanks for ASKING!"

Anyway, so she said she'd call in my complaint and see what they can do, and I'm thinking WORD UP I'm getting coupons for this.

A few minutes ago, my cell phone rang, and it was the Big Mr. Manager from Wendy's.

"OH, HI!" I said.  "Can I call you Mr. Wendy?"

He said no.

And then he explained that I can get a kids meal and also a - get this - 32 oz medium drink, and then they could put them together in a 40 oz cup, and the kids meal drink is a 12 oz, so...  And I'm just thinking, a) I am mathy, and this is shit, because that's 44 oz of diet coke I'd be paying for (NOT TO MENTION THE CUPS) and I would get, at most 40 oz, but probably less, even, because of ice, you know...

and also, b) why wouldn't he let me call him Mr. Wendy?

and also, c) McDonald's makes this place look full on trashy.

And guess what???  Mr. Wendy did not even give me a coupon.  WHAT A JERK.

Here's the second story:

I went out with the girlies this weekend, for a "girl's night" in New Orleans, the kind of thing with dancing until your feet REALLY hurt and then obnoxiously buying flip flops and using your new bff, the lady that works in the bathroom at the Cat's Meow, to get a discount on the flip flops, because really, $16.00 for flip flops is a bit absurd.

It was glorious.

I danced.  Oh, yes, I danced.

Anyway, I had recently encountered this term from the Urban Dictionary, which is to say, "TOAST", which stands for Tits On A STick.  I'm going to tell you right now, I'm thinner than I've been since college, and I look mighty fine in my size six jeans that are a little too big for me, and that night I wore, too, a MEDIUM shirt, which, over this rack, was... snug.  Because I'm a chesty girl.  So there.  I'm a TOAST.  Clearly.

And I'm a milf.

Which...  makes me...

A milftoast.

God DAMN don't you wish you could go to Wendy's with me tomorrow?  I'm totally telling them that Mr. Wendy himself called me.  You don't mess with a milftoast.

*yes, I know, it's only called a "happy meal" at McDonald's, but I was really enjoying being extra obnoxious to that lady today.  It's my only joy.  Leave me alone.

Monday, August 27, 2012


I don't know if it is a freak thing or what, but there are literally hundreds and hundreds of dragonflies swarming right now.  My kitten knows something is up, too.  Animals really can sense strange weather, can't they?

As you know, Isaac, a Big Bad Tropical Storm, is pointed right at me.  I'm actually pretty excited, being that I super big love weather, but I do wish I were not at work right now.  Oddly, my folks, who live right at the water, keep begging me to come to their house.  I can't do that, though, because my plans involve wearing panties and a tank top and drinking beer, pretty much constantly.  Boom!  Hello, Hurricane!

Anyway, my big kid is at college, and he wants to stay there, so I'm going to let him.  If the power goes out up there, I can always go and get him later.  Whatever.

The little boy will probably not have school at all the rest of this week, but certainly not tomorrow or Wednesday.  Ergo, this girl is not working, either.  I wouldn't have to, anyway, because I'm government, by God, and the government has already said we are closing up shop.  God I love everything.

And so, I'm preparing for some good wind (the gusts have already started) and some rain.  We will do jigsaw puzzles and listen to my iPod.  We will read books and play board games and comfort the kitten.  We will snuggle on the air mattress in the living room, if it feels like the right thing to do.  We are going to have a good time.

Wish me luck, people!  Bring it on, Isaac!  I'd like a bloody Mary, and your signature wink, please...

Wednesday, August 22, 2012

Catch-er Up-er

The Bean has been at college for a week and three days, today.  It's going remarkably well, and - get this - I didn't cry.  I mean, of course I miss him, I love him very much and he's like the adult portion of the light of my life (wow, that kind of sounded creepy.  by that I mean, the one that can play Jeopardy with me.), but he's so freaking happy, in love with his (hell hole) dorm room, his (rather ugly) college campus, all the amenities.
Look.  Jesus H., that's a tiny room.  You can't really tell, but he for sure could stretch his arms out and touch both walls.
It does look slightly better, now, since he has, you know, made his bed.

I mean, bottom line, I'm super glad that he's having fun, and the truth is...  well... kid created a lot of mess, a lot of trash, and a lot of dishes.  Not to mention laundry.  So it really is okay.

In the meantime, the little birdie has settled into first grade.  It took him a week or so to figure out how to behave in a way that does not result in notes home that say the following:

"Needs to work on talking, talking in the bathroom, talking in the lunch line, talking while teacher is talking, talking, talking, talking..."

That is a quote.  That's my baby.

Anyway, but so, it's all settling down and he's still a teensy bit in love with his teacher, who is "pretty."  Of course she is.  Six year old boys are so cute.

But not as cute as kittens...

Wednesday, August 8, 2012

First Grader's Biggest Fan

This week has the potential for big, giant suckiness.

The doodlebug started first day today.  Here's what it looked like.  Please note, my mom is responsible for the ridiculous haircut.

 Eyes closed picture.  Of course.

 Big ol' cheesy grin!

 "please can we be done??"

 Let's go, already!

 Look.  He's like, yes, I'm inquisitive and adorable, thank you very much.  New teacher will ADORE you!

 His new backpack has his initials embroidered on it.  Does LL Bean offer a replacement for when he loses it?

True to form, he insisted that he walk in by himself, this year.  He's a big boy.  I'd cry and sniff and such, but... eh.  It's not really that big of a deal.  I mean, I'm happy for him, I think he's going to have great fun, but I have bigger fish to fry.

Which is to say...

The big kid gets moved into his dorm on Sunday.  At college.  In another town than where I live.  Where he will then live.  Away from me.  Without me.

He promises that we can Skype frequently and still watch Jeopardy together and that sort of thing.  But.  Gulp.

I told him that he really doesn't NEED higher education, right, and so he should just stay home with me, but he didn't buy into that plan.

Kid is totally ready.  He has all sorts of electronica and then a fridge, a coffee pot, a toaster, a mass of tupperware...  He is much better set-up than I was, and I was going to school 2500 miles away from where my parents lived.  He's going to be about 60 miles away.



And so, today, I'm going to pick up the doodle and take him to the Soda Shoppe (I'm not sure if it is really douchy enough to be spelled like that, but I'm going to assume that it is) in Olde Towne (fuckit.).  And I'm going to try really hard to not get choked up that only one of my babies is still enrolled in the public school district...

I wonder if Ye Olde Shoppe serves Vodka...

Wednesday, July 18, 2012

Safety Ear Plug Needer

Let's play a game.  Let's pretend it is your work, and you pretty much have to be there, but there is jackhammering going on right outside your building, ergo, right outside your "office."  We can pretend you have a real office and don't work in a reception area if you want to.

Here's what makes that okay, at least somewhat okay.  Your boss doesn't bother to come into work until mid-afternoon, because the noise hurts her back.

Noise.  Hurts her back.  For serious.

Meanwhile, let's talk about how, the other day, you were at your mom's house, drinking with your mom and her friend, and you mentioned how much more fun you would have at work if you could have alcohol while you were there.  And then, all serious, your mom and her friend begin to tell you how simple this is to accomplish:  just fill up one of those grown-up sippy cups that we all have with Vodka, buy a diet coke for a mixer, et voila!


Yes.  My mother was trying to tell me how to be an alcoholic.  As per usual.

One of my friends said that I'm not an alcoholic, because I don't go to meetings.  Perfecto.

Anyway...  so the baby has been out of town for 10 days, and I'm suffering from serious silliness withdrawal.  He's coming home today, hopefully we can right this imbalance very quickly.

This is off topic (what topic, really, did we have?), but I've taken on a second job.  My very good friend Melissa, she has a distaste for laundry.  I know, right?  How can you not LOVE laundry?  Seriously??!!

But anyway, she went out of town, and I stole some of her laundry, and she has since concluded that she thinks it is worthwhile to pay me to do some of her laundry.  I don't even get that.  It's like being paid to eat candy.  Right?  I know!

But I'm stoked.  I enjoy it, and it basically will cover my extravagant desire to eat Outback on a regular basis.  ThanksbetoMelissa!

And that's all that's new.  So, pretty much nothing.  You know what?  I like cheese.  And bread.  Together or separately.  Happy Wednesday!

Tuesday, July 10, 2012

Gay Man's Girlfriend

I've been thinking about men.

Don't get me wrong, I've sworn I'm done with dating, and, I am, except unless they want to buy me free food or take me to a football game.  I do like football.

So I have kind of figured out my plan.  Let me know what you think.

I want to find a guy who is gay, and who knows he is gay, and who is OKAY with being gay (or is HAPPY to be gay--- even better!!!), but who needs to appear to be straight for whatever reason.  Let's say, his very religious and wealthy mother would disown him, or he works for the vatican but, obviously, not as a priest.

This man needs a "girlfriend," so that mama would keep his trust fund up, etc.

Here's why I'm the perfect person for this job:

1.  I'm ridiculously cute.
2.  I'm smart and well-spoken.
3.  I'm good at lying about the man I'm with (have had a rather lot of practice, ha ha)
4.  I'm a happy drunk.
5.  I have no interest in "hooking up."
6.  I'm fine with him "hooking up" with another guy, even while I'm at the event, as long as there is alcohol and a tv.
7.  We can share skin treatments and get pedicures together, and he will just look even more awesome because he is "in touch with his feminine side."

I'm so freaking serious, this is perfect.  If you know someone who needs a me, which is more or less, a sexless whore, let me know.  Straights need not apply.

Friday, July 6, 2012

Boring McBoring Blogger

My little baby boy is about to turn six.  Whoop-tee-doo, right, but it is.  He will only have a sixth birthday one time.  So shut up.

And so, I'm figuring out what to do for his birthday, which is to say, make him taco pie and give him a present.  Because that sweet baby needs a present.  OF COURSE HE DOES.

(actually, he needs nothing in the world, but I'll give him one, or three, because I really love him a LOT.)

After his dinner on Sunday, he's going to go away with his grandmother for a week, and I'm going to miss him like madness, but... it's good for him.  And probably for me and the Bean, too.  We have going-away-to-college shopping to do.

Gah.  Did I really just write that?

I don't have a lot of other things going on.  Just, you know, work, fireworks (which I didn't go watch, this year, so fuck it!) and church.  Time at the beach (because that's what I DO).  Time with friends.  On boats.  Because that is also what I DO...

Rolling along, round here.

To un-boring-ize this a little bit, I'll give you a video of a kitten, doing something that my kitten totally does:

Happy birthday, America.  Mama loves you...

Friday, June 29, 2012

Churchie McChurchiePants

Last night at church, someone (who obviously doesn't know my family that well) asked me if the Bean was my little brother.


As if I'd claim him if that were true.

LOL, JK.  Of course I would.  Maybe.

So when I responded that, no, he was my oldest son, the guy's eyes widened, and he said (I shit you not):  "you wear your age well!"


My age?

How the fuck old AM I???

Anyway, so I go, "oh, no, I was actually much too young when he was born,"  which is pretty much 100% true.

The Bean is 18.  I was 18 when he was born.  I'm (barely) 37.

At a different moment in VBS, my friend Katie-bird, whom I adore, goes, "how old are you right now?" to the kids.  Who were, like, 8, 4, etc.  I go, "20!"

Then she goes, "how old will you be in four years?"

I go, "20!"

Vacation Bible School, which is now over, was pretty awesome.  Here are a few of my favorite moments:

1)  When asked, "what do you do if someone is bullying you," one small boy responded, brightly, with "bite him and kick him in the face!"


2)  I go, "do YOU want to tell me about a God Sighting," to another small boy.  He gets in the microphone, bats his eyelashes at me, and says, "I love you."  SWOOOOOOOON.

3)  "Hot dogs??  I LOVE HOT DOGS!!!  YES!  THIS IS THE BEST DAY EVER!!!"

4)  "Miss Sarah, do you need help tonight?"  I'm all, well, I'm sitting here, hiding under a tree, trying to smoke a cigarette, and I'm pretty unhappy that one of my favorite young people are busting me.  "yep."

5)  Caleb, into the microphone, "GODPROTECTSUSANDKEEPSUSSAFE"  Me, into the microphone, "Lord."

6)  Sometimes, an impromptu belting of Lean on Me around the piano is the only thing in the world that makes perfect sense.

7) "Oh, your name is Andrew?  Can I call you Andy?"  "um, okay."  "no?  How about Brian, I'll just call you Brian."

8) "How's it going, Gabby-The-Second??!!"

9) "Yeah, I just ate a plate of tater tots.  Now I'm having a plate of blueberries.  It's a balanced meal."

They got it, though.  And I'm not even going to do a 10), because the thing is, I heard them get it.  It's a cross, they said.  I can ALWAYS count on God, they said.  Kids are pretty badass.  So is Vacation Bible School.  So is my Katie.  So am I.  :)

Tuesday, June 26, 2012


On Saturday, around 3:00, my mother and I had the following conversation:

Her:  "Oh, so Caleb is going to go to Vacation Bible School this week?  Are you working at it?"
Me:  "No.  Under NO CIRCUMSTANCES am I going to volunteer to do ANYTHING for it.  I am going to drop him off and read for two straight hours."

On Saturday, around 4:30, one of the nicest human beings I've ever met, and her name is Heidi, too, of course, called me and did this:

Her:  (almost weeping) "I am begging, I need you, I need your help, is there any way you could..."

Guess who is leading the music--- and pretty much the, like, majority, of Vacation Bible School?

That'd be me.  The sucka.

Truth is, I'm tired.  Truth is, I didn't have enough time to really learn the dances.  Truth is, I'd have loved another week to prepare.  Truth is, I completely, 100%, totally freaking ADORE it.  LOVE LOVE LOVE.

I should have been a teacher (says the girl who was certified and thinks, ah, maybe every summer, and then thinks, ah, hell no, every fall).

So that's what I'm up to.  That was a pun.  The theme this year is SKY- like, fly away with God, or something.  It's sort of confusing.  But it's funny.

By the way, so am I.

The only thing else to talk about is The Walking Dead, and WHY DID YOU PEOPLE KEEP THIS A SECRET FROM ME?

I'm almost caught up on Season Two.  WORD.

And, by the way?  I'm all mediated.  Like, all the way.  Like, I'm done with the divorcey-horseyshit, and that feels good.  I'm not divorced, but I will be, and it's fine, and I'm fine and I'm glad it's moving along, and a lot of the anger and resentment is moving along, etc.  So that's sort of awesome.

And I love my kitten.

Monday, June 18, 2012


I may have mentioned that I work in an onvention-cay enter-cay in south Louisiana.  Most of the events we get are boring, meetings, parties, that sort of thing.  Occasionally, we get the joy of a dance recital (and nothing is cuter than little girls tapping in the hall outside of my office). 

And then, we have the unusual.

Yesterday, we hosted an ircus-cay.  I'm going to tell you, we have one every fall, but that one is in a big tent out front.  The highlight of that is when an elephant walks by our outside window.  But yesterday's entire event was inside my building.  And you haven't lived until you open a door and find yourself eyeball-to-eyeball with a big, giant elephant.  They have pretty, snuffaluffacus eyelashes, by the way.

And then, there was a tiger.  Deeming it too hot to leave him outside, they put his cage in our back hallway.  I was afraid of being sprayed on by him, but not so afraid that I didn't slip past his cage so I could see his big, sweepy-weepy wittle face.  He was gorgeous.

My favorite critter, though, was the zebra.  Zig Zag was his name, and he was a part of the petting zoo, although his cage was clearly marked with "Zebra May Bite" (I mean, who puts a bitey animal in a petting zoo?)  Identifiying this as a risk, I spent the vast majority of the day hanging out with Zig.

Look.  Isn't he so pretty?  He was a sweetheart.  A bitey sweetheart.  I love him.  I want him.  I tried to talk them into letting me have him, and I got pretty close, but at the end, not so much.

He loved me, too.  I think that's abundantly clear.

In this picture, you can vaguely make out an elephant in the back of the room, and this, of course, was a llama.  Llamas have terrible teeth, in case you were wondering.

Despite having to work eight hours on a Sunday, something that I usually do not care for, this was a pretty fucking fun day.  I also held a baby emu, upside down, by the feet.  Make no mistake, if it had tried to peck me, I'd have had no trouble at all snapping it's tiny emu neck and cooking it into an emu gumbo.  Just saying.

Someone else would have had to pluck its feathers, though.

And, I got hit on by a carnie, someone who actually said, "I wish I had met you years ago," prior to asking me if I wanted to show him my office.  Um, no thank you.  He DID have all of his teeth, but his role was simply to sell popcorn, which makes him pretty much the lowest man on the ircus-cay career ladder, wouldn't you say?  I mean, he had to wear a red-and-white striped shirt.

So that's pretty much a weird day at work.  And Happy Father's Day.  But I'm still thinking about the elephant shit in our side hallway carpet...

Tuesday, June 12, 2012

Minutes Taker

We have this Big Bored (that's an intentional misspell, thanks so much), that meets every month.  This morning was an instance of that meeting.  I am required to take "minutes" at this meeting, wherein I write down the first 30% of what they say before I zone out and start to think about other stuff.  Sometimes I write stuff like this at these meetings:

- Melissa -
   - blah blah blah great stuff rah rah rah

True story.  Today, though, was worse than usual.  Lasted about 2 hours, part of which was spent talking about God Only Knows What (although I know it was about bond refinanc...snooooooooooze).

And then this old dude, the one I refer to sometimes as my at-work-boyfriend, because he's probably around 70 but he likes to wink at me (frequently)?

He said the following:

"I felt like a turd in a punchbowl."

Ho.Ly. Shit.  That's a good turn of phrase.

I've never heard that before, but the internet sure has.  Even has pictures:

This is my joy.

Also, I'm kind of revolted.  But mostly joyful.

Tuesday, June 5, 2012

Mother of a future investment planner. Is there money in that?

Last night, we went to my folks' house for supper (namely, supper that I cooked, but whatever, man, I didn't have to buy it.  So all good.)

While we were at the table, my somewhat-in-the-wine mother asked Doodlebug what he wants for his birthday (which is in just a couple of weeks.)

"mmmm...," he said, thinking...

"I WEAWY WIKE Transformers.  Or how about a savings bond?"

I kid you not.  My kid is planning his future.

I'm pretty sure I'm getting the kid some transformer stuff.  You can handle the savings bond, right?

Monday, June 4, 2012

Cat Mom

Well.  So.  I have had a cat for pretty much my entire life, unless you don't count the times wherein I've had more than one cat.

Priscilla (Presley) moved into my home in the fall of 2004.  Before I got married, before the baby was even considered.  When she moved in, she was already several years old.  Pretty sure this year made 16, for her.

Pretty cat, a bit overweight, mostly a good attitude.  At times, she would completely lose her shit and bite me, but only me, never the boys.

Much of her life these last several years was spent sitting near enough to me to be within earshot.  She didn't necessarily want to be ON my lap, but she definitely knew where I was, all the time.

When she was a bit younger, she would bother to, you know, lift her head.  If ham was a possibility.  Cat digs ham.

About 2 years ago, she was diagnosed with Thyroid cancer.  Make no mistake, that big sucks, but if your cat has to get cancer, this is the way to go.  She had to have medicine every day, to calm her overactive thyroid down, which we smashed up and put into wet cat food.  Fatty did NOT mind.

It worked pretty well, for a long time.  But...  in the last few months, we have noticed a decline.  For one thing, her whole back half hurt and she would fuss you if you touched it.  For another, the goiter in her neck had gotten to be about the size of... what?  I don't know.  between grape and golf ball.  Use your imagination.

The vet was all, "hey, pay $4000 and get her surgery," or "hey, pay $4000 and get her irradiated."  I was all, "hey, that's crazy talk."

Lately, she started having pain when she pooped.  Know how I know?  It made her cry.

So there really was only one okay thing to do.

She went to sleep forever on Saturday.  I was talking to her, petting her at the time.  Beanie was there, too.

She crapped on my leg when the first sedative kicked in.  I like that she got to still make me her bitch.

It was sad.  She'll be missed.  I cried like a bitch.  She has long been one of my very best friends.

She washed my face every night (gross.), including Friday night.  I'll miss that. 

The baby was looking forward to making a list of instructions for God for her, but then he forgot, as he should.  He is five.  And besides, we gave him a distraction...

This is Rosie, Rosanna (Arquette).  She's pretty fucking cute.  She's no Sparklecat, but she has potential...