Monday, December 2, 2013

Half Marathoner.

The bottom line is this:  I ran 13.2 miles on Saturday, and I freaking mutha fucking LOVED IT and I ROCKED IT and I am PROUD.


Here's what's crazy, I can pretty much remember each mile of the race.  It went like this:

Mile 1 - why isn't my music playing? It's cold.  I can't see the face of my phone and I can't make the music play- oh wait, I was pressing the down button instead of the up button on the volume.  Oh look, a mile already?  Wowza.  I kind of need to pee.  Water?  Already?  Well, why not.  Bottom's up.  I kind of need to pee.

Mile 2 - I kind of need to pee.  Look at those guys peeing in the bushes.  I wish I were a guy.  I wish I had a ponytail like that girl.  She's got to be hot in that jacket.  It's not cold at all any more.  I kind of need to pee.  Oh, he must have had a rock in his shoe, bummer for him.  There is a canal here?  Who knew?

Mile 3 - I kind of need to pee a lot.  None of these bushes look awesome for peeing, but I will if I have to.  hummdyhummhumm I need to peeeee hummdyhumm OHHELLYESAPORTAPOTTY.  And a water stop. Let's eat a gel and then pee so my hands won't be dirty until after I eat something.

Mile 4 - Game on, muthafuckers, I'm in the zone.  Look at me just a-smiling.  I like those girls' shirts ("Tramps like us.") and the team with the orange "13.1 - We are only HALF CRAZY" - I wish I were one of them.  It's flipping GORGEOUS out here.  Look!  Space ship parts!  (the race was at a space center.)

Mile 5 - I love everythingggggggggggggggggggggggg let's eat a gel smiley smiley smiley.

Mile 6 - STILL LOVE EVERYTHINGGGGGG smiley smiley smiley that girl that I'm passing right now has a big ol' bohonkus.  I also think it's weird to be running a half marathon in jean shorts but I lovee youuuuuuuu smiley smiley smiley.

Mile 7 - High fived a stranger.  Love everything.  Ate a gel.  Love love love love smiley YOU ARE ALL MY BROTHERS.

Mile 8 - Two random people.  I just caught them after trailing them for two miles.  Eek.  "Do you have sunscreen?"  I asked the girl.  "No," she said, smiling ruefully.  Bummer for her.  I will stick with them for a little while.  He says "pretty weather, right?"  I go, "yeah!"  He goes, "perfect for running!"  I nod.  This is not the time for a conversation, but I appreciate you being friendly.  Sign - "Great job, random runner!"  I love them.  LOVE EVERYONE.

Mile 9 - Leaving the random people.  A race official on a bike brought her some sunscreen.  That was nice.  See some of the full marathoners, now.  Eat a gel.  Home stretch now.  Hey, I haven't walked yet.  I was supposed to start walking by, like, mile 6.  Whattha....

Mile 10 - Hmm.  Not loving EVERYTHING but I can taste victory.  Just realized that I may actually FINISH this race.

Mile 11 - Getting tired.  Gel.  Also some extra chomps.  Because I can.  Still running.

Mile 12 - Out of my way, dude who can't run any more.  I know you are tired, and I'm about to cry.  But move, because I am NOT WALKING.

Mile 13 - Around the last curve, and there are lots of people cheering and ringing noise makers.  At the last possible minute, the first marathoner flies past me - I was lapped by 13 miles.  Imagine.  Doesn't matter.  I go around that last curve and the finish is directly ahead of me.  "It's right there?"  I ask a stranger.  "Yes," they say.  "You have got this."

I had it.  I may or may not have cried a little bit at the end (SHUT UP.  YOU WOULD HAVE, TOO.)  Think about it like this.  I'm a fat, middle aged woman with a 30 year smoking habit just barely behind me, and I just ran a half marathon.  Note, I didn't walk/run it.  I ran it.  I had hoped to finish in 2:50.  That would be an average of 13 minute miles, a touch faster than my long training runs were.

Actuals are below.  A few things to note:  My splits ROCKED.  Hello, very, very smart race.  Less than a minute's spread across the whole freaking race, not counting my potty break at mile 4.  Also?  Note that I kick total ass.  Average speeds well under my intended.  TOTAL ASS.

I am superman.  I am the terminator.  I am ready for a tiny little 13.1  tattoo.

I kick ultimate, total, amazing, utter, unbelievable, incredible, outstanding, complete ASS.

Who wants to be me?  EVERYONE.

Bring on 26.

Monday, November 25, 2013

Turkey Savior

Well, it's Thanksgiving week, y'all.  YIPPEE, you say.  PIE, you say.

I go, "eh."

Here's the thing, the big kid is thanking sgiving with his significant other's family, and the little one is at his father's for the week, so it's just me and my old parents.  My mama, she offered to cook, but I told her that was dumb.  And now, I fear that I will eat the following on Thanksgiving Day:

1.  One pot of coffee
2.  Three scrambled eggs.
3.  Two Jimmy Dean Sausage Links.
4.  Two frozen waffles (toasted).
5.  3/4 of a package of oreos.

And that, my friends, is both sad and absolutely fine, all at the same time.

Thing is, I really don't care about missing T'giving.  That makes me feel bad, like I'm a goddamn commie red bastard who's unamer'can.


I will, however, be doing the following in the next week:
1.  Going obsessively to the gym.  OH THE GYM.  Yes, the gym.  It's free, right now, so I plan to wholly get my money's worth.
2.  Running.  Got two races this week.  What?  Oh, yeah, I meant to type that.  Two.  That's how I roll.  (OMG.)  Seriously, though, it's a little 5K on Thursday morning and a HALF MARATHON on Saturday.




(i am, i know.)

3.  Knitting.  Because that is what I do.

If I REALLY crave pumpkin pie, I'll buy a pumpkin spice latte one day.  And I heard that Burger King is open on Thanksgiving Day.

It's all good, yo.

Unforutnately THE GYM is closed on Thursday.  But otherwise, it's ALL GOOD.

Happy Thanksgiving to those of you who are into that sort of thing!

Wednesday, November 20, 2013

Updates from the Crib. Yo.

Goddamn house buying sucks.  After waiting for EVER AND EVER for the financing to be organized to everyone's satisfaction - which it now is - they do a "title search" and they find out that the seller cannot freely sell the house without working with her ex husband.  As HE also owns part of it.

HOW can they not know that??  I mean, she HAD to know that and then just hoped with fingers crossed nobody would notice.  Did I mention that, as of right now, HE doesn't want to sell my house to me?


So that's my week.  I get the pleasure of finding a whole new house.  This could be fixed in a few weeks, or it could be never fixed, but most likely it will be fixed in a few months.  SIGH.

And let's not forget that my old house, the rental?  Is completely packed.  Oh, you wanted to make muffins? Too fucking bad, there are no muffin tins outside of boxes.  Guess you didn't REALLY want muffins, right?

So, it's back to the drawing board.  Unfortunately, there really aren't any listings that I have not already seen and veto'ed.

This week is a suck.

In other news, I am ten days shy of my first half marathon.  I ran 9 miles two weekends ago.  11 last weekend.

At nine miles - "oh, I'm tired but I am also feeling refreshed, and so fucking self-satisfied and righteous and goody-goody about my fitness level and let's smile humbly and just be like, 'oh it was nothing'..."

At eleven miles - "I just hit nine miles and I have two more to run.  I think I will just sit down right here and weep on this curb, only I can't because I can't spare the water the tears would take."

I am kind of scared of the 13.  Not going to lie.  And then I've been kind of thinking I will do 26 in January.  Not so completely sure about that, either...

And, at the end of the day, what really matters is this---  Miley Cyrus is nowhere near as good of a singer as me, but she has a slamming bod and now I want to join a gym.

Have a good day.

Wednesday, November 6, 2013

Bedazzled Art Mogul

If you were my mother's daughter, you too could enjoy some of the fun times which is called, "try to not get really irritated with your mother while you are preparing to move houses."

Exhibit A:  The microwave stand

I have this one, verugly (figure it out) piece of "furniture," that sits at the end of my kitchen countertops in old-house-land, because old house has EXTREMELY little counterspace, and there needs to be a place for a microwave to live.  Oddly or awesomely, depending on your perspective, this furniture is, indeed, a microwave stand, and it's white.  It's ugly, but it serves its purpose in life.  Microwave lives on it.

Several (four?  three?) weeks ago, which is to say, possibly one day upon the homeowner accepting my offer but well before the actual inspection took place, my mom goes like this, "are you planning to keep that ugly microwave stand in the new house?"  I replied that I am not, as the new house has a built-in microwave and a lot more storage, and thus the stand is redundant, and since it remains ugly, this is the time when we say goodbye.

Please note:  closing is pushed back to mid-December.

That day, so several weeks ago, I arrived home from work to find said microwave stand on the curb in front of my house.

Forfuckssake, mom.  Now the tiny old-house kitchen is full to the brim with crap that had been on or in the microwave stand, up on the countertops, which makes it damn hard to, you know, stir stuff or what-all.  SIGH.

Exhibit B:  The paint choices.

I orignially REALLYREALLYREALLY wanted a celery-green kitchen.  Honestly, I really still do, but it being an open floor plan, there's no way I can have a celery-green kitchen without having a celery-green family room, which I most definitely do NOT want.  And don't start telling me I can change paint colors at the place where rooms change function, even though it is the same wall, I will not do that, and I will not throw up a piece of trim, because that would be dumb.

Anyway.  So I've given up on that, and I've pretty much decided on colors.  Kitchen/dining/family is going to be a very light peach, warm, basically off-white, and neutral.  Boom.  Fancy and daring.  Same color will be on foyer and all hallways.

Front room is either a fairly dark, dusty purple, or else terra cotta.  I haven't decided yet.

Little kid bedroom is blue.  Other bedroom is purple or terra cotta.  Master is celery green.  Master bathroom is brown.  Hall bathroom is blue.

My mother, she no likey the terra cotta.  Or the purple.

S.I.G.H.  Not 100% sure that either of those colors will happen.

Exhibit C:  Artwork

The artist formerly known as my husband and I had very differing taste in art.  I like things that are red and may or may not look like things.  I'm good with swirls and shapes and big poppies and flowers and stuff that is red.  He liked churches.  And church "paintings" that have sparkly paint in them so they glimmer.  And one in particular that plugs in, so light shines through the church windows.

I'm trying to not be judgy here.  Different does not mean wrong.  It just means different.  But New White House is all mine and the baby's and the cat's. No former artist.  So it's my taste that gets to be everywhere, and by God, I'm going to decorate this bitch, even though I have zero idea how one does that, and I'm going to be on pinterest a lot, I think.

Anyway.  Art.

I've declared the following:  Nothing sparkling.  Nothing that plugs in.  Nothing with words on it (like a picture of a church with a nice bible verse underneath it.  I'm sure that would be lovely, but that's not the aesthetic I'm going for.)  Nothing with a metallic (gold OR silver) frame.

My mama, she comes home from Big Lots the other day, with....  "art" for my new house.

Let's stop for a minute and let me acknowledge that I'm a snob.  I get it.  I admit it.  But seriously.  Art from Hob Lob is a-ok with me.  Cute.  Love it.  Big Lots is pushing it, though.

So there's that.

And then, too, the "art" that she bought has words on it.  It's kind of incorporated into a fairly modern design, so that's something.  And it's stretched canvas, so no frame, so that's good, too.  And the predominate color is red, so that's great.

But...  it's bedazzled.

Yes.  You heard me.

With sparkly rhinestones.  Red.  Still.


But, for all my complaining, it's very sweet.  Irritating as a mutha, but sweet.  Good intentions.  Still.  Fucking Bedazzled??

Tuesday, October 29, 2013

Home Owner Extraordinaire... almost!

Once upon a time...

there was a poor, lonely, neglected, repo'ed, bank-owned house.

And then this one lady, who is mean and has a thick grey stripe through otherwise reddish-brown hair, a lot like Bonnie Raitt, only she is mean and you know Bonnie Raitt isn't mean, anyway, this one lady, she bought that house.

She paid some dude (I can't think of his name, so let's go with Carl, because I think it might actually BE Carl) to overhaul it.

He overhauled it a lot, and did a good job, did Carl, and he painted it all white.  Very, very white.

And then, this girl decided to buy it.

We close in the next week, I think.

Here's a little tour.  All out of order, because I don't LIKE ORDER, DAMMIT...

Here is the family room.  Under that window, one arm of my giant sofa of death will be sitting, which means, you are looking at the place where I knit.  That window has a sill that is about a foot deep, so the cat, she will be sitting there, biting my head.  Oh, yes, she will.

Here is the opposite side of that family room, and this is the fireplace.  It's curvy.  I won't be able to hang anything on it.  But it is cute.  And it's functioning (so I'm told, by Carl, or whatnot) and I do like me a fireplace.

Here is where you walk in the front door.  It's too little to be called a foyer.  Note the boob light fixture.  I hate lights that look like boobs.  Gonna have to replace that bitch eventually.

"Front Room."  Normal people might call this a "formal living room," but we are a) not normal, and b) not formal, so we will just call it the "front room."  This is where video games will be played until the little person grows up, at which time it becomes the space where the old lady drinks coffee with her church friends.

This is the hall bathroom.  I like that it has Help-I've-Fallen-And-I-Can't-Get-Up handles.  Good times.

This is the tiniest of the bedrooms, and it's not too small.  So let's call it "your room," shall we?  You can sleep there when you come visit.

This is the Baby's Room.  Right now, he says he would rather have your room, because he doesn't want to have to turn upon entering his room.  His mother just sighs, because this room is significantly bigger.  She isn't sure whether to indulge or overrule him on this one.

Why, hello, extraordinarily white kitchen.  My, my.  Guess what, y'all!!  There is a lazy susan cupboard under that peninsula.  WHAT WHAT??!!

You know what is behind those (now fixed, on their track) accordian doors?  You thought it would be the washing machine, didn't you?  Nope.  It's a BIGASS PANTRY.  KA.  BOOM.

whitey white white white

Here's the eaty place.  Dining room, or whatever, but obvs not a formal dining room, which is absolutely good by me.  Note that this space is the same space as the kitchen and the family/knitting room, so I've got that whole "open floor plan" thing people pay big dollars for on HGTV.  Also, there is another very deep window sill, wherein the cat can sit while I eat (and bite my head.)

Open Floor Plan.  WOW!  

This is the master.  It has a full 3-piece attached bath, and a good sized walk-in closet.  Super duper.
Isn't it CUTE!?!?!?!!!  You love it, you know you do.

Know what's fun? Fun is "painting" this house on Olympic Paint's website.  I've got the colors almost completely picked out.  Good stuff.  More to follow, once I get keys in hand!

Happy housing!!!

Sunday, October 20, 2013

Vicodin Dreams and Stranger Things

I have hurt my neck.  Shoulder.  Whatever.  Again.  This time it made me holler (for a dolla) in the shower when I tried to wash my hair (and not in some Herbal-essencey-quickie freebie way, either.). You know what that is?  Bullshit.  That's what that is.

In frustration, I went to a chiropractor.  I knew better, and no harm was done but she suggested I avoid ibuprofen and come three times a week, so...  No.  In response, I thanked her for her time, drove to work and took some Advil.  Boom.

I got a little weepy.  It hurts, and there is that, but also, it's really thefuck frustrating because everybody is all, "ooh, stop running" and "ooh, stop knitting."  I'm like, well tell me to stop breathing because that is just as fucking likely as me stopping knitting.  And as for running, I might WOULD stop but I've already paid for a fucking half marathon, and ain't no way I'm throwing out that kind of money.

I went back to my regular doctor.  Last time, I went to see him- well, his p/a- and she gave me steroids and a muscle relaxer.  Two or three days and I felt better, and very well rested, but I don't think the muscle relaxer did any good, so I told him so, this time.  "Yeah, I don't think this is muscular," he said.  I agreed.  "I think you have a pinched nerve."  Me too.  "And some bone spurs."  THE FUCK?

So...  He sent me down for some x-rays, which were unpleasant but maybe only do because I hada a prescription for Vicodin in my purse that really wanted to be taken to the CVS.  The X-Ray tech, clearly in response to my cuteness, pointed out something on some of the films (speaking the lingo, boom, I am obviously a doctor now.). Something between either the 3rd and 4th vertebrae, or the 4th and 5th, or something.  Know what it looked like??  It looked like all the fucking REST of the vertebrae.  (Aaaaaaand, there goes my medical license, just that quickly.)

The fair was that night, and I let the baby take pics which are worthy of their own post.  This is the fair that is at a school, in my neighborhood (for now, more about my house in yet another upcoming post!) (oh, the teasers!!), where there is $2.00 amber and the baby can ride all night for $30.00.  My Favorite Thing Ever.  I went, despite CVS not filling my rx just yet, leaning on ibuprofen and Abita Amber to get through the night.  Muchly I was ok, unless my littlest nephew pulled on my arm or I tried to move to the left.  It was worth it, at any rate.

I went home afterwards and began to take my medicine, a lovely mix of a Vicodin (which really does help, ain't gonna lie) and a steroid (which is now really helping so much that I no longer need the Vicodin, or, apparently, sleep) (ain't gonna lie), which brought me some crazy dreams, about house guests and my mother saying "oh, have them sleep in the Vietnam room" and doing crafts projects real quick to provide them with those neck travel pillows.

This awake at 4 stuff is kind of not my favorite, but I feel so much better today that I am looking forward to going for a run this afternoon, and then packing up a room or two of the house.  It's getting close to moving time!  As it stands, I still have 3 hours before I have to be awake, and so iI think I will go lie down in the Vietnam room (I mean, what IS that???)...

Monday, October 7, 2013

Rememberer When

I'm pining for a few things that are long gone.

Jello Pudding Pops, for one.  My God.  Best snack popsicle ever.  EVER.  Dammit, Bill Cosby, why, oh WHY did you have to allow these things to disappear?  I have children now, I have the opportunity to buy them under the guise of "for the children" and eat my little pudding-pop-loving-heart out.

Manna from Heaven.

Then we have The Littles.
I find their goofy teeth to be both insulting, a mark of poor character, and oddly adorable.  Damn these Littles.
This one cartoon, one of those Saturday morning cartoons.  It was called, "The Littles," and it always had a craft idea at the end.  Make a fancy necklace out of a button and some embroidery floss!  WHY NOT??!!  My kid has a book called "The Borrowers" that appears to be freakishly alike The Littles, but I can't bring myself to give enough of a shit to read "The Borrowers" or determine if one is based upon the other.

Really, though, for sure this doesn't have a neato how-to lesson on something crafty and awesome.

My own goddamn bait box that I used as a makeup box, although I cannot tell you why, in that it was so fucking heavy and enormous that it wasn't like a travel box or anything, just occupied it's own corner in my bedroom, near a mirror...


Here I am being all nostalgic, and the thing is, there's really only one thing worth talking about which is how, you know, yesterday, I offered to pay these one people some money, and they, in turn, are letting me take a house.


And it's super freaking adorable.  Yep.

And it may lack pudding pops, Littles, etc., but it has a LOT going for it regardless.  And I can create my own nostalgia.  And I probably will. 

More to come.  In the meantime, let's all go listen to A-Ha and call it a day...

Friday, October 4, 2013

Storm Chaser

Sarie loves her a good storm.  Apparently, I have a lot of company who also loves a good storm, because here is the thing:

1) I give you "Karen," who is so not-scary as to not even have a well-defined eye.
(Hi, Karen!)
(Isn't she cute?)

I predict that she will bring to me rain, some rain, a little but not a lot of wind, and some rain.  During which I STILL have to run 8 miles.

So.  Um, Karen?  Could you hold off until after I get my run in on Saturday morning?  kthanksbai

2)  I give you Karen-panic:
---She has a facebook!

Here is a sample of the commenting, so far:
Vicki Mitchell is a dumbass.

Oh, Louisiana.

What I am most looking forward to is the drinking, the cooking, the jigsaw-puzzling, the spending time with little kids that are my own, the cat-snuggling.

I may or may not have mentioned yet that I have QUIT SMOKING (again) (shut up) (this time I am sticking to it) (at least for now) and so I'm kind of dreading the quiet there-is-nothing-to-do-and-I-can't-even-go-smoke part, but otherwise, Bringy ony a little storm.

I love a storm.

Friday, September 27, 2013

Homeowner? For real?

There have been several times in the past when I have - or my then-husband and I had - considered purchasing a house.  I've met with real estate agents, obsessively watched HGTV (for ideas, and for how-to-behave-when-house-hunting) (which is to say, snotty as shit), done ride-arounds on the neighborhoods I am most interested in.

And then I always p-worded out.  Quit while I was ahead.  Never pushed the "send" button on a loan request on the internet.  And this is back when even I could get a loan.  Just shut up.

Oddly, or awesomely, in the past two years, I have worked very diligently to improve my credit score (DOING IT!) and to be financially smarter.  I've done well.  I am proud to report that I haven't bounced a check since I got my own checking account, a seriously stressful activity for me.  I have money anxiety.

Doing it.

Anyway.  So I did some math, and I realized that I have poured more than $50,000 into the (very nice, but still) house that I am renting.  I'm a good tenant, follow the rules, get along well with the neighbors, keep it decently clean and I've been there for more than four years.  In return, they haven't raised my rent, though they certainly could at any time.

In addition, a couple of months ago, a crew showed up to repair all the wooden siding on the outside of the house, paint a bunch of the outside, and fix the door. Once you get past wondering why in the HELL one would put wooden siding on a house in Louisiana, you have to wonder... why did they do all that work?

I never asked them to, that's for sure.  I can only come to one conclusion.  Looking.  To.  Sell.

It is not currently on the market, but I can see/smell the writing on the (freshly painted) wall.  Which means, this is my cue.  It's time.

I started meeting with a new, great agent a couple of months ago.  Kind of half-assed, I looked at, oh, I don't know a dozen or so houses in the school district.

And then I found one that is really pretty much perfect.  It has:  tile floors (yay!).  a pantry (omg, yay!) (says the girl who hasn't had a pantry since 2002).  a fireplace (yes, it is stupid in Louisiana but mama loves her fireplace, lights it every night that falls below 65 degrees, and besides, how else would Santa get in?).  a drinking patio.  virtually no yard (to mow.  ka-boom.)

It's much smaller than my rental, 1000 square feet smaller, which is great.  It should be cheaper to heat and cool.

I made an offer this week.  Despite my efforts, it makes more financial sense for my folks to buy this house and then sell it to me, so that's the plan.  They are all in, too.  We are all sitting on pins and needles waiting for the counter-offer (we low-balled, that's fo sho.)

I'll let you know.  Don't want to jinx anything, so I'm not going to post a picture and I'm going to try really hard to stop driving by it every single day and referring to it as "my new house."

In other news, I'm going to have to deal with moving, which totally sucks ass.

Think happy housey thoughts, everybody.  I'll let you know!

Tuesday, September 3, 2013


1.  There is this lady.  She's not a client, she's like... a frenemy, I guess, of our boss.  She comes to our work, and brings her dog with her.  Her dog.  To our work.  Truth be told, it's a cute dog, but my favorite time is when that little dog runs into one of the manager's office and he kicks the dog.  She hasn't been in in a long time, but she called on Friday, tied me up for about 40 minutes.

I'm not terribly busy today, just not in the mood for that level of crazy, so when she called, I just dumped her on my boss.  Sorry, boss person.  I'm evil.

40-some-odd minutes later, my boss gets off the phone.  "Sarah, you are evil."

Told you so.

2.  I miss our temp.  She called me princess and made me coffee.  For some reason, she TOTALLY thought I was the boss of her, which I am TOTALLY not.  But whatever.  Meanwhile, we have hired a new McBaseball McSalesMcManager, and I AM the boss of him.  Only I'm not.  But nobody has told him that, so let's just keep that to ourselves, shall we?

Here's what I like about HM (ie, Hottie McBaseball).  He is a slob.  He carries crap everywhere, and leaves it wherever it lands.  I like the whole Pig Pennishness and I like that I can just collect his crap and bring it to him periodically.  No idea why this all amuses me, but it does.

Good times.

3.  I'm supposed to do the following this week:  a) find a photographer.  b) order Christmas cards.  c) re-write my boss's self-review (I know.  Seriously.).  I intend to do these things at, like, 4pm on Friday.

4.  I knitted a sweater.  This is not work-related, except in that I will wear it to work, if I can get it to shrink a little bit.

5.  Also un-work-related, but YES I DID make everybody at my work enjoy it - - - last night, the baby and I spent several minutes recording ourselves singing pop songs in the correct (ish) tune, but with only the word "meow."  "Meow, meow, meow meow meowwww meow..."  THAT is ART, people.

6.  Football is here!!!!!!  I wore purple.  With gold.  Hottie McBaseball, who went to ama-bay, wore burgandy pants with tiny little gray "A's."  Imagine.  I love the football.  I do NOT love the LSU team who thinks it is fun to jerk my cold dry little heart around.  Of course, I AM lying.  I DO love the LSU.  They just try really hard to give me a heart attack.  GRACIOUS.

And such is life.  Happy times.

Tuesday, August 27, 2013

Hottie McBaseball's At-Work-BFF

We hired a new Sales Manager at work.  This guy is mid-twenties, used to play pro baseball, and is 6'7".  He shall, therefore, be hereafter called "Hottie McBaseball."  For good reason.

So.  Hottie McBaseball started last week.  I began the process of acclimatizing him, teaching him how my workplace functions.  I, being the world's greatest employee, know the ins and outs of his job (of course I do) and only I am able to show him how to do it.  Because that's how I roll.

So that's fun.

But anyway.

He gets a work cell phone.  His predecessor had the same number, and so, when she left, oh, six months or so ago, I forwarded the work cell phone number to my cell phone.  So as to not miss any calls.

I forgot that I did that, though.  And this weekend?

Hottie McB's brother called.  Who sounds like Junior Hottie McBaseball on the phone.

So I sent Hottie McBaseball (sr) a text message:

"Hi!  Sorry.  Your phone number is forwarded to my phone number.  To un-forward, just dial *73, and follow the prompts."
"oh, and your brother wants you call him."

Good times.

Friday, August 9, 2013

Kryate Mom (including unicorn washer.)

First of all, let's talk about my baby.  My baby keeps a diary.  Not a journal.  He gets mad if you say "journal."  It's a goddamn diary.  Get it straight.

In said dairy, he records random musings, lists of Nintendo games and the Skylanders characters he has, stuff like that.

Occasionally, he records the lyrics of a song he loves:
"I got a filling.  I got a filling that tonight is gongea be a good that tonight is goning a good good night."
That's a funny, funny boy, is that one.  Same little boy started second grade today, only he started it with a sour face, a bad attitude, a "sore froat," and frowns.  Poor little wookie:
Second grade is going to suck.  And you made me carry my crap in a WalMart bag.
Oh, the joys of elementary school.

Same kid decided he does not want to do soccer this year, and that's fine, since his mother is not GIANTLY in love with sitting at the soccer field, being eaten alive by bugs, while wearing work clothes, and either freezing her tiny little bohonkus clean off, or boiling alive.  Because, in Louisiana, we play soccer in the winter (that's approximately 6 weeks), and in the summer (the rest of the year.)

So, instead of soccer, I asked what he WOULD like to do.

"Kry-ah-te."  He said.  "Karate?" I asked.  "Yes.  They wear cool unicorns."

Awesome.  So, my future ninja jedi has now been enrolled in Tae Kwon Do, which he will continue to call "Kryahte," and where he will get to wear a unicorn.  When it comes in.  In the meantime, he did have a private lesson.  All he remembers is that he is supposed to say "Yes, ma'am," and "No, sir," to the instructors, and he will not remember to actually say either of those things, but he WILL BE UNICORNED, DAMMIT.
I can already kick like that.

He looks like that scene in Karate Kid II (should that be Kryahte Kid II?)

Watch your nuts!

Very much on the way to falling down.  
Oh, the fun times I shall have, sitting in that Dance Moms Room in the back, behind the glass, with lady-on-her-cell-phone and various toddlers.  Oh, the fun times indeed. 

In other news, I'm a running machine, a freaking boss.  I run like the wind.  On a still day.  Well, but anyway, you get my point.  I'm running at least five days/week, sometimes six.  I'm running at least 2-4 miles per run.  The time I tried for 5, well, that was a big suck, but whatever.  It's 100 degrees here.  Seriously.  Not like, "it feels like 100 degrees," it IS 100 degrees.  And so, running ONE mile is muthafuckingrockstar material.  Right?  Right.

Here's a "before" picture from the Worst Race Ever:
Heyyyyy, cutie skinny pink girl in the middle!  Holllaaaaaa for a dolllllaaaaa!
What made it the Worst Race Ever, you ask?

Let's just say...  it was NOT the alligator:
Swear to God, there is an alligator in this picture.
Although the alligator was noted to be "aggressive," and apparently came up on the bank at one point, but not too many people were around.

Nope, not the alligator.  Also, not that I was beaten by two friends who Hardly Run Ever (fuckers) (but really, good for them) (but still, fuckers.)


The problem was that, about a mile into the race, which was a trail race, of course, through a swamp, the rain started.  Hard.

And my shoes weren't awesome on slippery grass, anyway, so I was sliding everywhere.  And then, oh, about a 1/2 mile from the end of the race, I FELL ON MY ASS HARD. 

Yep.  That's it.

A nice guy that I was ahead of (GUY.  AHEAD OF.) stopped to make sure I was okay (I was.)  I finished the race (vs. staying in the swamp and crying.), and there were pork barbecue sandwiches (boom), but then one of my friends kind of made fun of me for being both: a) filthy, and b) a fucking crybaby (NOTE:  I DID NOT CRY), and so I was miserable.  And I couldn't leave because this was the time when they were giving out beer steins to people who had completed the series, which I had, and I NEED BEER STEINS.

So.  Worst race.  Ever.

But I got a beer stein!

And, despite being accused of being older than 40 yesterday, it's clear from the "before" picture above that I'm a fucking hottie.

So there, people.

And I still think the alligator was a cutie.

Friday, July 19, 2013

Soapbox Stander.

I'm bound to piss somebody off, but...

I have a lot of conservative friends.  And that's okay.  I live in South Louisiana, and before that, in North Georgia, and those, well, are largely conservative communities.

I have a lot of friends who know how to hunt, who wear Carhartts and camo, who own more than one baseball hat, and the hats OFTEN do not represent a college.

It's all okay.

I have friends that know the difference between a rifle and a shotgun and that make fun of me for not knowing the difference between a rifle and a shotgun.  Also, okay.

I used to be married to a conservative republican, and he liked to debate, and that was a giant pain in the ass, but, ultimately, that was also okay.

I am not these things.  I am not conservative, although I'm a fairly conservative liberal, by which I mean that I don't make my own soap or own a compost unit.


In light of the Zimmerman trial, there is currently a lot of buzz about the president - and yes, I mean OUR president, who, even if you don't adore him, your country's citizens voted for, so... - and how he has indicated that he feels like, as a young black man, he would have been similarly (potentially) targeted, like Trayvon Martin.

And as an aside, here's what I think.  I think Zimmerman should never have gotten out of his car.  I think it's wrong that he took this boy's life.  I understand that he was afraid.  There is no winning this trial.  A mother grieves her son.  That's all there is to it.  I'm so sorry that any of this happened.  I'm so sorry.

Anyway, back to what I was saying.  My very conservative friends are blasting our president, and I'm all, well?  Well?  I've never been a young black man.  I do not know what it is like to be a minority in my community.  I have really been blessed with a gilded life, where I am mostly oblivious to danger.  It is my understanding that half of our youth cannot have that oblivion.  They have been taught as children to watch their backs.  Because whitey might misinterpret their behavior, their action, their simply being.


Just, no.

As a representative of Whitey, what can I say?  I'm sorry.  I don't understand how hard it is to be in that sort of situation.  It's like being whistled at when I walk by a construction zone (because, hell, yeah, mama still got it goin' on), only more nefarious.  I like being whistled at.  I would NOT like it if a construction worker decided to follow me, instigate conversation...  that sort of thing.


Anyway, back to our liberal/conservative differences, I just want to ask one thing.  Please, will you stop posting your politics on Facebook?  I love you conservative people and it breaks my heart to think that you think I am stupid, that you think I am going to change my mind, because you are posting on Facebook.

Understand that I'm not hugely in love with the job the president is doing.  Understand that I thought W did a decent job his first several years, until I realized that the rest of the world mocked our country because he cannot pronounce "nuclear."  Understand that I don't want to continue to live in a country where 30% of the houses in America remain uninhabited as a result of the sub-prime lending catastrophe, while children go unfed and live in shelters - or worse.

Also.  Hear me, please.  I am a liberal.  I am not on Welfare.  I don't have children for extra WIC dollars.  I don't collect food stamps, unemployment, or medicaid.  I work 50ish hours every week, for a decent job.  I make a decent - but by all means, not extravagent - wage.  I'm never going to be able to retire because I planned poorly in my twenties.  I rent my home.  I don't have a massive amount of credit card debt.  I'm just living.  Same as you.

I am sure there are people that take advantage of "the system," and perhaps the current politics make that easier to do.  I don't know.  I just know that generalizations that get posted all over Facebook are ridiculous.  Not all Democrats are losers, you know?

Neither are all Republicans.

Just saying.  Now let's go drink together and talk about something that really matters, like the finale of Mad Men this season, and what they are going to name the new British Baby, and whether or not you can really dye your hair red with kool aid.

Monday, May 20, 2013

Suri's Biggest Fan

So.  There's this:

That's pretty much all it takes to amuse me today.

Love you,

Wednesday, May 15, 2013

Magenta Ho

First, my brother posted a story on his webpage about his experience with bad teachers, which was inspired by this Slate article.  So I decided to chime in.

I think I was pretty fortunate to have the teachers I had, for the most part.  I can remember being in elementary school in Little Rock, and standing around with the teachers while at recess, while they smoked their cigarettes and we "smoked" candy cigarettes.  This seems insane to me, now, but it was totally awesome when I was 9.

As a little girl, I was pretty much identified as one of the *special people* who was *extra smart*, which might have been more the result of good parenting and a relatively balanced diet rather than any genetic nonsense, although my parents are both remarkably smart people (even my hillbilly mother, who offers apologetic "nice ham" to me on a regular basis), and my brother was certainly gifted.

In Little Rock, and before that, in Columbus, Indiana, we went to pretty decent - and completely un-segregated - schools.  In Arkansas, our school was in our neighborhood, and there was a big fancy wooden playground and we played dodgeball and kickball with impunity, and I did get to go to the gifted classes where we recorded movies and created log cabin villages out of card board.  I was even a little extra special, because I was a year younger than my classmates, having been elected to skip Kindergarten since I was reading Nancy Drew by that time.  Reading was easy.  Writing, not at all so much, but that's another story.

Things were good, really, until we moved to Connecticut.  In the beginning of the 8th grade.

In Connecticut, I was, more or less, average.  Not at all special. Short.  They kind of stuck me in remedial writing, because I'd never written an essay at that time.  I was 11.  Give me a break.

But then, in high school, I got the mother load of all music teachers.  Instant hate, because I auditioned for the select choir.  "I heard you have a brother," she said.  I replied that I did.  "I heard that he sings in the church choir," she said.  It's true, he did, although for the life of me, I still cannot understand why.  I replied that he did.  "If HE would like to join the show choir, then I am sure we can make a place for you," she said.

The fuck?

I told her that I didn't think he would be interested.  I don't even think I told him about this offer.  I didn't make the show choir that year.

In regular choir, I spent many hours correcting her fat ass.  "Haydn," I would say.  "H-A-Y-D-N." "Bach was Baroque, not classical."  "Bogoroditsye Dyevo" is how that is pronounced.

She hated me back.

By my junior year, I did, finally, make the show choir.  By then, the hatred was visceral.

She had a long, long, long, maybe 12 feet long, magenta scarf that she liked to wind around her neck in a very dramatic fashion.

We called her the "magenta ho."

Once, we were on our way to all state try-outs, and she got in her little red mazda as we piled onto the school bus.  She slammed her door, and a solid 5 feet of that scarf hung out the driver side door, dragging through the slushy crap on the winter street, all the way to New Haven.


That does still make me laugh.

When we were seniors, my closest music friends and I convinced substitutes - which we seemed to have, often - that we were supposed to clean out her office when she was absent.  We found weed that she had confiscated from another student, one that we secretly discussed her bj'ing.  Which probably didn't happen, but it definitely COULD have, and she DEFINITELY WOULD have.  I think that guy - who was horrible - had higher standards than that.

Anyway, at the end of senior year, with graduation approaching, I started to get excited about auditioning to sing the solo at our graduation.  I KILLED in the Senior Play.  I knew I had a fighting chance, although there was a LOT of talent in our class.  I secretly realized how incredibly scary that would be, singing in front of all of those people, but I still was looking forward to the opportunity.

One day, in class, the magenta ho averted her eyes and told us that auditions had been held, and so-and-so had been elected.  Which is to say, I had not even been allowed to audition.  I was PISSED.  PISSED.

I left class and called my then-boyfriend, who was in college at the time, crying.  He was all, "what's the big deal," and I hung up on him and found my soon-to-be-boyfriend, whose response was, "I will KICK THAT BITCH'S ASS."

You see why that had to happen.

But the best day- the best day- maybe in my entire high school career - was the day she lost her temper with us, the select choir.  There were about 15 of us, all lined up in a row, and she chewed our ass.  Through her tears, she said, "You people...  treat me...  like a piece of SHIT.  S- H- I- T.  Shit."

God, it was hard to not laugh.  It was one of those times where you thought you might cry trying to hold in the laughter.

I bet five dollars that I could look at my friend Sarah H. right now, and go, "You people... treat me..." and she would fall apart laughing.

I secretly kind of miss the magenta ho.

Oh- and by the way - she really made it clear that she didn't think much of me as a vocalist.  I went by her office once, when I was home from college my freshman year.  "Oh, what are you majoring in," she asked.  "Well, I was one of 3 freshman to be accepted into LSU's School of Music as a Vocal Performance Major," I responded.  Her lips tightened.  Clearly, LSU was no longer a respectable school of music in her opinion.

I'd still treat her like a piece of S-H-I-T, given the opportunity.

Friday, May 10, 2013

Flower Growing Baby Mama Future Nun Pirate Whore.

It's a little known fact, but I like to kill grow flowers.  I do.  The artist formerly known as my husband really wasn't a fan, especially of inside flowers, but I still went through a phase every few years where I would spend a few dollars on some flowers, tend to them for a while, then get all "eh, fuck it" and let them die.

It's been a few years, though, and...  I dunno.  I think I might be back in the place that I once lived in, a place that once featured about 30 potted plants on a back porch.  I like pot.  s.  Pots.  haha.

We started with impatiens, and oooooh, they are pretty, and ooooooooh, they are easy.

This success has brought us to pot two (not to be read as pot, too):  marigolds and petunias.

 Thing is, my plan was ultimately to be to become a nun, so they can teach me how to garden and my kids won't have to support me come retirement age.  We all know I won't be able to support myself.  But now, what to do?  I'm learning how to garden all on my own!

Speaking of kids, it's almost Mother's Day, and, good gracious, I love these kids.  My sweet babies:

 The ni ni kitty was cold.  Bless it.

 Look at my sweet baby.  He's just getting too big.

This boy was tired out, kind of dirty, and had just gotten home from work.  Also, "Sam, smile," doesn't work well with him.  He's such a cute boy, though.

Anyway, the other day, I told the baby, "Hey, Mother's Day is coming up, did you know that?"  "I know," he said, "I made you a picture at school."  "Wow, thanks," I said.  "I LOVE your pictures!  I can't wait to see it."

"You are in the picture.   And you are wearing one of your dresses."

Okay.  I mean, it's like, once every four months that I wear a dress, but, you know, cool.

"You know that part where you can see your chest?  I drew that in, too."


Happy Mother's Day, everybody!  I'll post the drawing of my rack once it comes to me.  I'm not known as The Pirate Whore Monsterknockers for nothin.

Wednesday, May 1, 2013

Big Nose.

AND WELCOME, WELCOME, WELCOME to the month of presents!!!!

May is here, and May continues to be my very favorite month in the whole year, mainly due to it being the, as aforementioned, Month of Presents.

It has always started, technically, with the last Wednesday of April, the Administrative Professionals Day celebration that typically involves cake, presents, cake, balloons, and cake.

I'm a fan.

This year, the girlies at my work brought me a coffee mug.  And a cake.  The boss person, though...  took me as her "guest" to a luncheon, wherein she was modeling in a fashion show.  Oh, and we were sponsors.  My ticket was free.


And there was cake, but it was very mediocre.  Ahem.  That may long remain the very worst presentage I've ever been given on Admin Day, but in troof, I have to say that I think Admin Day in and of itself is kind of stupid, because really, you know what present I like to get for being a fantastic employee?

A paycheck.  Just saying.

However, in the near future, there are other opportunities for presents.  Used to be, my anniversary was May 4, but that is no longer applicable, so I have to let that one go.  However, Mother's Day is just a week after that.

I saw a groupon for a bracelet I wanted.  Made the boys buy it for me for Mother's Day.  I like it.  I'm wearing it.  Screw convention!  The little stones are our birth stones- the two reds are the boys.  The green is me.  The paw-shaped "diamond" is the cat.  That's how we roll.  The red heart says "Family."  Awwwww.

A week or so after that, I'll turn 32.  Birthdays are a fun time.  I'll probably drink.  I mean, "probably."  Come on, now.

My little bit has been the sickest he has every been in his whole life for the last few weeks.  Two Sundays ago, he woke up with a fever.  Strep.  Of course.  My mom took him to the doctor and they go, "strep."  Of course.  Gave him antibiotics, game on.  He got a little better, until the Tuesday night thereafter, when his temperature shot up to 105.  Shit.  Back to the doctor, and they determined it was pneumonia.

And strep.

Do it big, says I.

Anyway, so they put him on MORE antibiotics and then THOSE didn't really do any good, so then they did shots of antibiotics in his legs, and then they did MORE shots of antibiotics in his legs, and then MORE antibiotics, and finally, he managed to go without fever all day.  On Monday.  Over a week of being sick.  Sucktastic.

So he's back at school.

He said, "I think I would like to be sick on every day except Saturday."

I looked at this picture, and I go, "Hey, we have EXACTLY the same nose."

He goes, "um....   except yours is a lot bigger."

Just saying.

Glad he's back at school.  Glad we are back to normal.  Glad I opened my bracelet early.  Glad it's warm outside.  Glad we got a new - much cooler - temp at work, thus allowing me to screw around a little bit, like back in the old days.  Glad I have yarn. Glad it's Wednesday.  

Just not so glad I have a big nose.

Monday, April 15, 2013

Week of Bad Things.

Dear Fucking Universe,

I'm pretty Goddamn Sick and Tired of The Week of Bad Things.

For the last two years, I've steadfastly ignored that The Week of Bad Things exists.  "Oh, it's April 17," I'd think.  "We are mid-way through The Week Of --- no, no, this is just any ol' week."

And kind of, it worked.

Three years ago, I'm all THE SPELL IS BROKEN, and all NOTHING BAD HAPPENED "except a little fire on an oil tanker or something," which turned out to be the most historic and devastating oil issue in the history of time.

And here we have a shooting, at a marathon.  White man's sports, running.

God dammit.

I've got to go for a run.

Monday, April 1, 2013

Friend Named Joe

I cut my hair off.  Not, like, a little.  A LOT.  All of it.  Most of it.  I'm happy I did that.  I look awesome.  And young.  And hot.  HAWWWT.

And like a villainess from a 1981 movie...
Works for me.

In other news, this weekend was the Louisiana Derby.  Like the Kentucky Derby, but white-trashier.  Well, honestly, just trashier in general.  It was a gorgeous day, and we wore hats, as one should.  My mother has developed a proper hunchback, and in a ridiculously large sunhat, it's very obvious:

My, how I love that woman.

I didn't win anything, and that's unfortunate, but it is so.  However, C-Luv won big monies on a single race, by betting a horse with long odds but wearing his middle name for a win.  We are talking $53.40 payout.  Big monies.  Otherwise, he mostly just hung out with his littlest cousin:

One of my favorite people from the grand state of Georgia passed away, suddenly, a week and some change ago.  The night he died, I sang karaoke, because that makes sense to me, and it had been a bad fucking day, and I wanted to drink.  So I did.  With Melissa.  Who danced backup for me, which was... odd.

I went to Georgia the following day.  Cried off and on for an entire weekend, and said my goodbyes on Monday.  The hardest funeral I have ever - ever - sung.  I hope he liked it.  I'm pretty sure he was there, fucking around with the piano while the pianist was trying to play.  In the spirit of Joe, I'd like to think that was him.  Good lord, he'd like fucking with the piano.  He also made it snow on us.  Thanks, Joe.  But really, he was an amazing friend.  Thanks for everything, Joe.  I hope you knew how much we all love you.  

As an aside, Joe was a namer- which is to say, he called everybody something, and mine was Sarie, and he was the only adult human being that could do that without getting a punch in the nose.  Perhaps.  Nobody else really ever tried.  When we couldn't agree on a name for Caleb (I mean, really, "DeMarcus"?  I do not think so.), it was on Joe we called, and he said, "Well, I've always been partial to the name Caleb."  Hence, history.

And so, on that somber note, I'm going to call this done.  I have a new (unusual) temp at work, and it's hard to tell her who to screen, so every time the phone rings, I jump out of my skin.  

Happy Monday, everybody.  And here's to Joe, one of the best I'll ever know.

Tuesday, March 12, 2013

Stretch Armstrong Runs a Race

It's been a few years since I started running.  I started at... Christmas... of 2009.  So, a few.  I ran a race last weekend, my fourth time in this race, which was my first race ever.  I have run this race with two other people, now, and twice by myself.  It was both of their first races ever, too, and it's so much fun to be there for that experience.

This race is 2 miles.  Last year I finished in 18 minutes.  Boom.  The year before that, 19 and change, and I PLACED and got a trophy.  I still don't know how I missed my trophy last year.

This year, I was coming off of pneumonia and had not run for a solid month prior to the race.  I was nervous going in, actually, afraid of how bad it was going to feel to finish last, or, you know, second to last.

There's this big ass loser in our town that I cannot stand, for whom I have a visceral dislike that I can't even pinpoint, there's really no reason for it.  This guy typically plays the National Antehm at this particular race, on trumpet.  He's all right on the trumpet.  Whatever.

This year, he also ran.  Make no mistake, I don't care if I did one solid cough the entire race, I was DETERMINED to beat this guy.

The first year I ran this race, and I ran every step, I finished in 24.40.  That's not at all a good time, that's super duper slow, but whatever.  I don't give a shit what you think.  I am a runner, goddammit.

Anyway.  This year, I ran about a half mile, then walk-ran the rest of the race.  It was a gorgeous day, warm and sunny, and I decided, well, fuck it.  I don't even care.  I enjoyed myself.  In that first 1/2 mile, I noticed the tubby yellow shirt of The Trumpeter, just ahead of me.  I looked at Mel- let's do this shit.  We pulled ahead of him, and even though a little while later I started walking some, and Mel ran on, go ahead her, his bright yellow shirt stayed behind us.

In the end, I finished in 24.40 - I KNOW - and was pretty satisfied, considering the state I was in.  Had time for some animal crackers and gatorade, when I heard the announcer call the Trumpeter's name, and announce his time.


HAHA.  Fat fucker.  I beat the shit out of you, and I'm out of shape.

Oh, how unsportsmanlike I am.  Fuck it.

I had fun racing, and I'm pretty much ready to get back on the pavement.  Daylight savings is here, it's warm enough, and I've got to maintain a significant lead on trumpeters.

In other news, there's been some sad times lately, but during the sad times, there is often a moment where I can see people I love, and this was one of those.  Look at these cute girlies:

Now, look at my left arm.  It's freakishly long, and bent at an odd angle, and extremely thin.  Stretch armstrong.  That's me.

The baby is writing in a diary.  I did that, when I was little.  He doesn't know I took a picture.  He also doesn't know I'm going to post a picture of his diary on the internet.  PARENTING WIN.
"I went to a britthay at crassgates."  I went to a birthday at Cross Gates.  He had fun at that birthday party, a party of triplets, who live across the street from me.  I'm so glad.  I feel no compunction about letting him go over there to play, because I'm pretty sure she can't remember how many first graders are supposed to be there anyway, and so one more doesn't really make an impact.

Oh, how hilarious is the life.  Happy Tuesday, everybody.  I wish you a long arm, a britthay and a good run, beating out a yellow shirted trumpet playing asshole.

Monday, March 4, 2013

Label wearer. In case I lose my V.

And so this one time, I said, "I've got a cold thing going on."

You all know just how very much this girlie likes to be sick.  Well, if you don't, you definitely should.  Pales compared to how much I like a band-aid, but still.

As an aside, my friend Mel's daughter is EXACTLY like me.  Girl fell and hurt her wrist like two weeks ago.  After much whining, Mel took little bit to the urgent care for an x-ray and it wasn't broken.  But girl child really seriously considered that perhaps they screwed up the x-ray.  God, how I love that kid.

Anyway, despite my delight in ailments, I do not really go running off to the doctor with every little sneeze.  No, no.  I like to be martyr-like, stoic in my rapid decline.  And thus it has been for the last two weeks, what started off as a little sniff, a dry cough, turned into a big ol' shaking fever and a cough that sounded like, in my mother's words, the cough of a dog with heartworms.


Anyway, after coming to work one day last week, I decided that there was a definite issue and did, in fact, make an appointment with my Doctor.  I got to go and see the fabulous and slightly sexy new PA, whom I will call Doctor Dirty Dianna, her name being Dianna, and me being 12.

DDD called me "thin," though, so please note, I'm pretty much in total love.

And guess what?  My cold?  Not a cold.  Pneumonia.  She took a PULSE OX, which you just know I fucking LOOOOOOOOOVED.  I took another day off and resolutely, stoically returned to work, just so they could send me home because my cough was scaring them.  I like being scary.

It's been a week now, and I'm well medicated (five prescriptions - HIGH FIVE), and I'm improving, although I still have a little cough.  But good gracious.

In the midst of that nonsense, the little boy of my household SCORED A GOAL playing soccer (BOOM) and then attended a birthday party for TRIPLETS.  Because we are awesome.

Here are some pictures for you, of random crap.

Here is me, kissing an alligator.  I asked them to un-tape his mouth.  They said no.  I asked them if I could have him.  They said no.  Please note, I had the phone with me at the time.  I'm a very good worker.  I love alligators.  Especially their feet.  That's some cute feet.

Here is me, trying on a dress (while wearing my "winter flip flops", shoes which really ought to be thrown away) at the mall.  Which is, in and of itself, really fucking weird because I don't go to the mall.  Anyway, I tried on this dress, me with my little tiny white legs, because I thought it was cute, completely unaware that it was also a label for my v.  V.  Because, you know, I might lose it.  Nope, there it is!  Righty thery, ho ho!  That's my V!

When I am sick, I knit at about half speed.  Which is to say, still really fucking a lot faster than you do.  I imagine.  Whatever.  But anyway.  I knitted an elephant.  A pneumoniaphant.

With little, black, island-of-misfit-toys eyes.

And a little penis nose!  Hooray for penis noses!