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.

Victim of Rape by the Toyota Dealership. Or so it seems.

I love my car.  I really do.  I drive a little, 2004 Rav 4, it's white, it has 118,000 miles, and it runs.  It runs really well.

But GOD DAMN, when did car parts start getting so expensive?  Like, seriously?  I remember getting my oil changed for $12.  Now it's $36.  And they don't even vacuum the interior.  As if they could get to the floor mats.  I digress.

Today I dropped my car off to get an oil change, and also to have the dealership "fix the check engine light." This will be the third time said car has been into said dealership to fix said light.  We have:  1) put a new cover on the gas cap.  2) changed out the O2 sensor.  Neither of these things worked.  So now, SO NOW, they call me to tell me that I need a new EVAP system.  Know how much that costs?

Guess.

NO YOU ARE WRONG.  $1032.  FOR FUCKING REAL.

Anyway.

So I'm getting it fixed, because my mother loves me, and this is still cheaper than buying a new car, and you know what?  FUCK IT.  FUCK IT ALL.

I think she knows this makes me feel bad about myself, like I personally broke my fucking EVAP system, like I did so on purpose, because she just offered to feed me and my kids dinner.

You bet your ass I want you to feed me dinner.  So let's summarize:

1) My car is not really broken, but my mother is about to drop $1000 into it to make some lights turn off.
2) She feels sorry for me for this, and is going to feed me.

Guess who is a great big winner today?

ME!

Debbie Does Dallas

We did a major overhaul on our office area at work, over the last two weeks.  It's been a pretty much total fucking nightmare, a lot of the time.  We all worked from one common area, for several days, and - who knew?  This girl actually likes privacy.  So fuck that.

But anyway, we did all of this because we got new carpeting, and OhMyGod there was some disgusting shit on the old carpets.  Ever seen spider eggs?  THEY ARE GROSS.

Anyway, the result of all of this was a full-on rearrangement of our spaces at work, the offices, the common areas, pretty much everything.  I am now tucked into a corner, all cozy, and I FREAKING love it.

But here's the best thing:  I got a new monitor, and this one fits all snug up under the little shelf thingy above my desk.  Which is to say, it's COMPLETELY SECRET.

A few minutes ago, a girl stopped by my desk to ask me a question.  I interrupted her:

"You have no idea that I am looking at porn right now, do you?"

HAHAHA.

Porn-friendly desk and two new filing cabinets.  I'm never going to quit this job.  Unless people can't stop leaving their shit on my desk.  Because that's still a problem...

Happy Friday!

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:

OH FUCK YES, THAT IS DAWSON'S CREEK.

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.

SHUT UP.

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. 

Ahem.

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!!! 

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.

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.