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.

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:

Awwwwww.

---

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.

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.

30.something-or-other.

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.

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.

Delightful.

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!

Bienvenue en Louisiane

Oh, shit, y'all.  It's been a week.  Like a few weeks, actually, but whatevs.  Whatevs.

So, I had vacation I had to burn or lose, and so I took it last week.  Was off work for a week.  A WEEK.

We had Mardi Gras parades and stuff like that the weekend before, so we took the beginning of last week to recompose ourselves, to relax and unwind and the like.

And then the Doodle and I headed on up to the ATL (I seriously almost typed Hot-lanta, which is uncool because I like to make fun of people who say that.)  I was seeing the Janie girl and her sweet baby but her mom, who had been ill for a very long time, had taken a bad turn, so I ended up doing some un-planned things.  Drinks with old coworker friends.  Sing-alongs with my favorite gay boyfriend.  Yarn shopping.

Ahem.

And it was all super fun times.  It really was.  Saturday morning, J's mom passed away, so that part was sad.  It wasn't unexpected, but still.  It also gave me the impetus to stay in Atlanta a few extra days, to attend the service and whatnot.

We ended up having adventures in funeral planning, and there was a good reason to be thankful for my sweet little Rav 4, which did a badass job in hauling me around.  I love my car.

In the meantime, the baby spent time with his daddy's family, and I drank Dunkin Donuts and ate barbecue and indulged in at least one Sweetwater Blue, and so forth.

There were a few memorable moments.  Let's see:

1) Ask DADT about his inappropriate computer password, that he had to give to the deskside support team at his work.  Which is HILARIOUS.  Because it is INAPPROPRIATE.

2)  Ask the funeral director why on EARTH he thinks it was possible that "that girl with the baby," namely JANIE, could be my DAUGHTER, since, you know, she's a teensy bit older than me (just saying.) And, you know, there for her mother's funeral.

There are more.  TONS more, but I am tired, and I've got a cold thing going on, and I'm about to go eat lunch.

Just know this.  When we were getting off the interstate at my exit, yesterday, I said to the baby,  "Caleb, are you glad to be getting off of this highway and going home?"   He said, "YUP!"  I said, "Me, too!"  He said, "THANK JESUS."

Because that's how we roll.

Mardi Gras Mambo

Welcome to Louisiana!  You know what time it is?  It's CARNIVAL TIME, bitches, and that means one thing.  Pah  Rades.

PARADES.

We've been to four so far, this year.  Three of which were this last weekend.  This is what our Sunday afternoons look like:

My phone sucks.  The case always blurs out the bottom.

But anyway, so here is a parade we went to yesterday.  Doodle was in a good mood, compared to last week, when it was much chillier, which looked like this:

Awesome.

Anyway, we caught a bunch of shit yesterday, including a new snake baby (all stuffed animals are called babies at my house) for the cat to steal.

Two nights ago was the only walking parade in our town, one that we usually love love love because it's all about moon pies and we usually catch, like, 40.  This year we caught 4.  FOUR.  After waiting an hour-and-a-half.

I'd be thoroughly pissed off, but I am still glad we went, because, you see, I saw my future husband.

THIS GUY IS SO FUCKING HOT.

Wait for it...






wait...


for...


it...

Ohmygod.  Where do I start?  He's, say, 28 years old.  Awful facial hair.  Big ol' front butt.  Cane.  And his shirt reads, "I would cuddle you so hard"

Who can blame me.  This must be love.

Here's the baby at the same parade:

He had fun, until the waiting for an hour and a half resulted in FOUR moon pies.  After that, he was really over it.  Thank God for the snake baby.

I chickened out in the end, didn't get this guy's number.  I told Melissa I would.  Her response was, "How many beers, boo?"

Knowing that, after six?  I'm easy.

Happy Mardi Gras!

Don't Poop On Me

My bigger child is the person in my life who provides me with the most entertainment, I think.  Every day or two, he sends me a link, usually to a video (these are teenagers.  they SUBSCRIBE to youtube channels.  I mean, that's just weird.)  Anyway, lately, there have been some excellent examples.

I give to you, ham.  Dayum.




At least twice a day, my coworkers and I will look at each other and tenderly say, "I wish you could smell, what I'm smellin'."

The gift that keeps on giving.

Kid has also introduced me to Jenna Marbles.  She definitely cracks me up, and now I say "GET THE FUCK OUT, ADELE" on a regular basis.  HAHA.



And then, this week, we were gifted with this.  A parrot.  If you don't know, I motherfuckingHATEbirds, but if I DID have to have a bird, and I never would, mind you, because birds are motherfuckingDISGUSTING, but if I DID, it would be a parrot that had a potty mouth.  I would teach it to say the worst phrases I know, the most nasty and off-putting, particulary, "cunt-licker" and "ass-fucker."  Because I can.

Could.  I won't, though, because I will never get a bird, because birds are motherfuckingDISGUSTING, and guess what?  THEY CANNOT CONTROL THEIR BOWELS.

I'm pretty sure this guy discovered that lack of control, and uttered a phrase, a phrase that also will live with you for days to come, and listened to his parrot echo it back.  Note, this might be a Macaw.  AS IF I CARE.



Don't poop on me.  FUCKING SHIT.

Don't poop on me.

My god, how I love that phrase.  FUCKING SHIT rocks, too, and that this bird sounds like Pacino just makes me all the happier.

In other news of video-viewing, I finally finished Dawson(GoodGodIWishINeverStartedThatStupidEndeavor) and have moved on to The West Wing.  MUCH more respectable and far less likely to make me hate myself for watching.  The music isn't as good, but the characters are so good.  I want Jeb Bartlett for president.  Fuck it.  Also, I like to think of myself as a Donna at work.  In real life, I might be more like Mya's assistant on that one show with David Spade and Mya's dad owns a magazine and is an idiot?  Right, you know what I mean, right?



Fast Forward to 5:45.  Best moment in adminning EVER.  EVER.

Alas, I have to go work and cannot watch more videos.  Happy Thursday, everybody.  If Death stops by, I'll let you know.