Because sometimes a status update just isn't enough.

Because sometimes a status update just isn't enough.

31 July 2011

facebooking from the edge...: Quirks

facebooking from the edge...: Quirks: "My husband Dan, bless his heart, drives me friggin' nuts about 98% of the time. Between his Asberger's Syndrome and the fact that he was ne..."


My husband Dan, bless his heart, drives me friggin' nuts about 98% of the time.  Between his Asberger's Syndrome and the fact that he was never expected to do anything for himself before I was blessed with his presence, he literally believes that if he goes to work and collects a paycheck, he's done for the day.

We have the exact same conversations over and over and overrrr again while I beg, plead, yell, scream, threaten, and bang my head on the floor just to get him to do something as rudimentary as before he sticks his plate in the sink, empty what's left on it into the trash can because we don't have a garbage disposal.  

I've been making this request for 10 years, because we've NEVER had a garbage disposal, in ANY of the houses we've lived in.  (Yes, it makes me cry, too.  Why would someone build a house without a garbage disposal and a dishwasher?  Bastards.)  HOWEVER.  Dumping your food into the sink will not create a garbage disposal where one does not already exist, and having to remind my husband of that fact every single day for 10 years makes me feel a little stabby.  

If that were his only "quirk" I could probably live with it.  Sadly, it's a mere drop in the bucket of Dan's Fatal Flaws.

He chews gum like he's being paid to do it, which is irritating enough in itself.  (Picture Violet Beauregard, the gum chewing girl in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.  Now, replace her face with Dan's.  Kinda want to smack it, no?)  What takes it from merely irritating to I Want To Hurt Him is the fact that he seemingly forgets that there is gum in his mouth and it just... falls out.  I find gum everywhere.  In the bottom of drinking glasses, on the floor of the shower, randomly sitting at the bottom of the dishwasher, stuck to the dog's ass... And I will turn red and steam will shoot out of my ears and I will spew venom and lava and profanity (because seriously, this?  This gum thing?  DRIVES ME FREAKING INSANE) and Dan will look wounded and falsely accused and say, "What makes you think it was me?"

What makes me think that?  Is that I DON'T CHEW GUM, and I'm pretty sure that the dogs don't, either.

Dan wouldn't wash a dish if his life depended on it.  If he ran out of clean clothes, he would go buy more before he did laundry.  (When we first moved in together, he brought with him an entire Hefty bag full of socks.  That should have been a clue, but alas?  I was blinded by love and stupidity.)  He throws his clothes in the general vicinity of the hamper but if they don't make it in, it's not exactly going to keep him awake at night.  I, on the other hand, skeeve and gag at the sight of his socks and underwear lying limply on the floor, sometimes hanging over the rim of the hamper, but rarely inside.  

He lets the dogs lick his plate when he's done eating, despite my threatening to divorce him if he ever did it again.  (I first made that threat in 2002.  Apparently, my word cannot be trusted.) He has no idea where we keep the vacuum, how to turn it on, or possibly even what it's for.  

Dan rocks at delegating.  He can get a whole crew up and moving and cleaning and polishing without breaking a sweat.  He can point and issue orders and make everyone else get the job done while he sits and watches a football game.  (While Dan was staying with his parents before I came out to NY, he told me one night that he and the grandkids had cleaned the house and made dinner for his mom.  I said, "Wow, really?  That's awesome!"  He put his 12 year old niece on the phone to tell me all about it.  She told me how she and her brother and sister had cleaned this and that, put this and that away, and how they worked together to make dinner.  "What did Uncle Dan do?" I asked.  She was silent for a minute then she said, "He told us what to do.")

The other day I came completely unglued when I stepped in the lake left by Dan in the bathroom and skidded across the bathroom floor before finally crashing and burning and bruising my knee and re-injuring the same damn foot that I've broken 3 times.  

(Backstory:  I put the bathmat into the wash the day before and Dan, who never pays attention, took a shower without first putting a towel down.  When he climbed out of the shower onto bare floor, dripping water like a St. Bernard that had just stood under Niagara Falls, it didn't occur to him to clean up the rivers of water he had left behind.  Seriously, he got so much water on the floor that it had a current.  He went sailing off to work and I went sailing into the bathroom.  The rest is history.)

When he came home that night, we had a Talk.  I laid out for him all of his flaws and told him that he needed to fix them, pronto.  I'm not his mommy and I wouldn't have put up with this shit from my own kids, and I'll be damned if I'm going to suck it up and clean up after HIM.  (I get real bad-ass when I'm injured from a fall in the bathroom.)

He listened and nodded his head and then said those four fatal words:

"You're not perfect, either."

*brakes squealing*

Me:  "What do you mean, "I'm not perfect, either"?  I never said I was perfect.  We're talking about you, not me."

Dan:  "So let's talk about you, then."

Me:  "Okay, fine.  What bothers you about me?"

(Note to women everywhere:  This is the stupidest question you could ever ask.  Seriously.  It's even dumber than "Do I look fat in this?")

Dan:  "Well, let's see.  You never close the cupboard doors, you leave your fake fingernails all over the house, every time you do your hair you leave your straightening iron on, you forget to shut the windows when you turn on the AC, you watch tv with the volume off, I mean seriously, who does that? You hog the covers, you use powder and then leave powder footprints all over the bedroom, your purse weighs 15 lbs and you can never find anything in it, you have so much crap in the shower that every time I turn around I knock something over, every time you floss your teeth you wad the floss up into a little ball and leave it on the end table which is GROSS.... Want me to continue?"


Him:  "Because I can."


Him:  *looking smug*



29 July 2011

facebooking from the edge...: Whoops there goes another rubber tree...

facebooking from the edge...: Whoops there goes another rubber tree...: "(*Disclaimer: In no way, shape, or form do I intend this to be an attack on the southern states or agreement with the way in which the Unio..."

Whoops there goes another rubber tree...

(*Disclaimer:  In no way, shape, or form do I intend this to be an attack on the southern states or agreement with the way in which the Union Army burned them down.  I am not making a political statement and quite seriously, would flunk a test on the civil war if I were asked to take one.  I'm from California.  Ask me about the Gold Rush or the Donner Party.  I am merely using the example of Sherman's March on Georgia to make a point.  Also?  I had to google to make sure I was referring to the right general.  Also also?  If you google his picture?  Dude looks pissed off and ugly.  Have you ever noticed that extreme radicals who are filled with blood-lust and hate are usually not attractive?  I know there are probably exceptions to the rule, but most homicidal maniacs are not pretty.  I wonder if there's been a study on this?  Perhaps I should suggest it?  Anyway.  Carry on.)

If you've spent any time at all in the great state of California, you've met an ant.  Usually it's not just one (though sometimes that does happen... one lone ant marching across the counter with the one grain of sugar that fell off of your cereal perched on it's back), usually it's a goddamn herd of the little bastards, making your life miserable in so, soooo many ways.

I don't ever remember living in a house where keeping the ants away wasn't a priority.  My mother wielded that can of ant spray like it was her job, spraying every surface of the house and demolishing ant hills with the spirit and determination of Sherman's March on Georgia and leaving the same results behind.  

And just like the South, the ants would rise AGAIN.

And again.

I'm pretty sure that between the ages of 2 and 18 I was terminally high on Raid fumes.   (Exposing my sister and I to pesticides and carcinogens paled in comparison to ridding our environments from those tiny black poison-scented minions of Satan.)

Anyway, point being that it's been ingrained into my psyche that all food stuffs must be hermetically sealed to avoid ant contamination.  If it can't be put in the fridge or freezer, it must be placed in an air-tight container because if it isn't?  You'd better like the taste and smell of ants.  Because they will find it.  They will descend upon it.  They will destroy it.

(Why do ants smell like ant poison?  Do they inject themselves with anti-Raid, thus carrying the same scent?  Blah.)

I've never in my life left a plate of cookies (or anything else, for that matter) on the counter.  I've never opened a box of cereal and casually placed it back in the cupboard without first enclosing the contents in a freezer bag.  I've never had a sugar bowl or a cookie jar that contained anything other than spare change and packets of leftover taco sauce from Taco Bell.

So imagine my surprise when, upon moving to New York, I began noticing that something was missing.

"Where are the ants?" I asked Dan last night, as he poured himself his nightly bowl of Lucky Charms and then placed the box back in the pantry, leaving the top half open and marshmallow dust on the counter.  

"In California," he replied, leaving his sugary mess in plain sight without a care in the world and planting himself back on the couch.

I had to think about that.  

It's like believing your entire life that the earth is round, knowing in your heart of hearts that the EARTH IS ROUND, seeing pictures of the very round earth taken from space and having no doubt whatsoever that the very round earth is spinning it's ass off so that you don't fall off and never once taking that fact for anything but God's Own Truth and then suddenly, without any warning, God comes over the loud speaker and says, "The Earth is ONLY ROUND in CALIFORNIA."

Wait, whoaaaa... WHAT?

I looked high and nigh under every surface and in every box and there was not a freaking ant in sight.

No comprende, said my brain.  

I looked in the drawer where I keep alllllllll the saran wrap, aluminum foil, and econo size boxes of freezer bags and had an epiphany:

Me:  "Wait... there aren't any ants in New York?"

Dan:  "I don't know.  I've never seen any."

Never seen any?

Me:  "How can you have never seen any?"

Dan:  *casually, as if he says this every day*  "I never saw ants until I moved to California."

At that very moment, angels began singing in my ears.  The Hallelujah Chorus was filling my heart and I almost began to weep with joy.

"No ANTS?" I screamed, "There are no ants here?"

Dan paused the Mets game he was engrossed in long enough to look at me as if I'd lost my mind and said, "No ants.  Do you have a problem with that?"

Seriously, y'all... I'm so happy right now.  I left the plate of chocolate chip cookies I made yesterday on the kitchen counter, all night, loosely covered with Saran Wrap, and there wasn't an ant in sight.

It's the little things.


28 July 2011

facebooking from the edge: If you hold a shell up to my ear, you can hear the...

facebooking from the edge: If you hold a shell up to my ear, you can hear the...: "I think it's time for me to invest in a shock collar, just to stop myself from saying stupid things. Of course, that would require a respon..."

If you hold a shell up to my ear, you can hear the emptiness in my head.

I think it's time for me to invest in a shock collar, just to stop myself from saying stupid things.  Of course, that would require a responsible, intelligent person who would be willing to zap me beFORE the idiocy actually came flying out of my mouth, or at least stop me mid flow.  Unfortunately, most of the people in my life prefer to sit and watch me self-combust as trickle after trickle of stupidity dribbles from my constantly moving lips...

(Note to self:  Shut up once  in a while, mmmkay?  Or here's a thought:  THINK BEFORE YOU SPEAK.)

Yesterday, Dan and I had the following conversation.  (Please note how long he allowed me to ramble on and onnn and onnnnnn before he actually clued me in on what an idiot I am.  Have I ever mentioned he's as asshole?   No?  Hmmm.  I wonder how I let that slide by...)

Me:  "So today, when I was driving home from Price Chopper, a CHP followed me clear back to Norwood.  Dude was TOTALLY riding my ass."

Dan:  "What?"

Me:  "Today, coming back from the store... I had a CHP on my ass the whole way back to Norwood."

Dan:  "A what?"

Me:  "A CHP.  You know how I always feel like I'm on the lam and just managing to keep one step ahead of the law?  It totally freaks me out when I have a CHP following me.  I kept checking my speedometer and wondering if I was going the right speed or if there was a warrant out for me that I don't know about, like if I robbed a bank on Ambien or shot a man in Reno, just to watch him die."

Dan:  "What do you mean, CHP?"

Me:  "Highway patrol guy.  CHP.  Duh?  I swear if they would just post the damn speed limit like NORMAL states, I wouldn't be so worried all the time.  I have no idea if I was speeding or going to slow."

Dan:  *automatically, because he's said it so many times*  "The speed limit is 55, unless otherwise posted."

Me:  "That's dumb.  How am I supposed to know that?"


Me:  "Anyway, so I started to get really nervous.  I'm all thinking, am I speeding?  Am I holding up traffic?  Is my brake light out?  Is my third brake light pissing him off?  (My third brake light says BITE ME every time I hit the brakes.  Hee hee!)  Seriously, I couldn't get him off my tail.  I was starting to panic."

Dan:  *finally*  "Dani, the CHP was not tailing you."

Me:  "How do you know?  He wouldn't get off my ass!"

Dan:  "Because I know for a fact that the CHP was not tailing you."

Me:  *getting a little annoyed*  "How can you possibly know that "for a fact"?  (Yes, I totally did air quotes.) You weren't there!  And I didn't SAY he was tailing me, I just SAID he wouldn't get off my ASS!"

Dan:  *condescendingly enough to make me want to hurt him*  "Dani, I can guarantee that the CHP was not riding your ass."

Me:  "Really, DAN?  REALLY?  You can GUARANTEE that the CHP was not riding my ass?  REALLY?  And how are you going to do that?  Look into your crystal ball and magically see my drive back from Potsdam with a damn CHP officer NOT riding up the back of my car?  Hmmm?"

Dan:  "State trooper."



Me:  "What?"

Dan:  "State TROOPER."

Me:  "What are you talking about?"

Dan:  "We don't call them CHPs out here.  CHPs are ONLY in California.  It stands for California Highway Patrol. We call them State Troopers."

Me:  "You do?"

Dan:  *laughing himself stupid*

Me:  "That's dumb."

Dan:  "Haaaahahahahahahahahaaaaaa!  CHP!!  Haaaaahahahahahahahahahaaaa!!!

Me:  "I hate you."

Sadly, I can once again reach back into my genetic profile and blame ALL of this on my mother, because I can guarantee that both she AND my sister would have had this exact same conversation with Dan, had they been in the car with me.  I don't know if I find that comforting or frightening, but there ya go.  

I'm genetically stupid.  

Thanks again, MOM.

P.S.  I KNOW CHP stands for California Highway Patrol.  I really do.  Just an FYI.

27 July 2011

facebooking from the edge: Lightbulb Moments

facebooking from the edge: Lightbulb Moments: "I'm not 100% sure but sometimes I'm afraid I'm a little stupid. Not stupid as in ' That girl din't git no book larnin'' but stupid as in ..."

Lightbulb Moments

I'm not 100% sure but sometimes I'm afraid I'm a little stupid.  Not stupid as in "That girl din't git no book larnin'" but stupid as in "What the hell is she thinking?  Is she thinking?"  

For example, Monday I got up, ate breakfast, and then had THE worst heartburn I've ever had, ever, in my entire life.  EVER.   

Tuesday, I got up and ate the exact same breakfast I'd had Monday and got THE worst heartburn I've ever had, ever, in my entire life, EVER, except for Monday.  

This morning (Wednesday) I got up, ate the exact same breakfast again that I'd eaten Monday and Tuesday and lo and behold, I have THE worst heartburn I've ever had, ever, in my entire life, EVER, except for Monday and Tuesday.

The STUPID part is that it didn't occur to me until TODAY that my heartburn was most likely caused by my breakfast.  

Seriously.  Three days in a ROW I ate the EXACT SAME FOOD with the EXACT SAME RESULTS and it took me THREE DAYS TO FIGURE IT OUT.

If Forrest Gump were real and sitting next to me he'd say, "You're not a very smahhhht girl..."

The thing is, I do stupid shit like this all the time and never seem to learn from it.  

I keep buying the same 144 pack of cheap-ass kitchen garbage bags, even though 99% of the time the bottom falls out while I'm hauling them off to the dumpster.  It's not like I'm only buying a 12 pack and figuring, "What the hell, they're cheap, I'll just get 12 more..."  Oh HELL no.  I'm buying 144 at a time and thinking, "These things are freaking useless... why did I buy them again?"  and then 2 months later, I go buy ANOTHER 144 OF THEM. 

Moving right along, let's take a look at the fact that I am lactose intolerant.  (Don't worry, I'm not going to go into detail.)  I know I'm lactose intolerant.  I know that if I eat ice cream, sour cream, cream cheese, or anything containing the words "cream" or "cheese" I will become very sick.  I am a ROCK STAR at not eating ice cream or drinking milk or putting sour cream on my baked potato (*sob*) but for some reason, I can't get it through my head that CHEESECAKE is DAIRY.

I know, I know... the word "cheese" is right in the title.  And yet time and again I am faced with a dessert menu and without hesitation I will order the one item with the word "cheesecake" in the title.  Pumpkin cheesecake?  Bring it.  Raspberry cheesecake?  Ohhhhh yeah, baby... serve it right here.  Apple cheesecake?  Blueberry cheesecake?  Turtle cheesecake?  Cheesecake cheesecake?  Bring.  It.  On.  

An hour later, as I'm sprinting to the bathroom, I will scream at Dan, "If you EVER see me ordering cheesecake again, KILL ME BEFORE I TAKE MY FIRST BITE!"  

He says (soooo helpfully, I might add, because, you know, he's an asshole), "Why did you order it, then?"


Here's the thing:  I know, with absolute certainty, that the sun will rise and set tomorrow, the tides will continue to ebb and flow, I will yell at Maisy 16 times today for walking back and forth under the coffee table scratching her back, and I will, again, order cheesecake.  And eat it.  And hate myself for it later.

(I hear there's a restaurant close by that makes Snickers cheesecake.  Can you imagine?  SNICKERS CHEESECAKE.  O. M. G.)

And so it goes.

And even though I am well-known in some circles as the person who has an answer for everything, the only answer I have as to why I keep doing the same dumb-ass things over and over again and achieving the exact same results every single time is, "I don't know..."  

(You know how when you were a kid and your mom would tell you not to do something and then you'd do it anyway and the results were catastrophic and your mom would say, "I just TOLD you not to do that!  Why did you do it?" and you would look down at your feet and say, "I don't know..."  It's kind of like that.  Only I'm the one doing the asking AND the answering.  "Danielle, WHY are you a dumbass?"  "I don't know..."  Sigh.)

Backstory, to explain why absolutely none of this is my fault:  My mother is the queen of doing stupid shit.  She's incredibly smart, has her Master's Degree, and when it comes to book larnin', she's right on top of her game.  Anything else and she's a friggin' blonde joke.  My sister and I spent our childhoods rolling around on the floor pointing and laughing at my mom for all the bonehead things she did.  We would chortle and guffaw and clutch our sides squealing, "Oh my GODDDD... you're STUUUPIDDDD!"  (It was all in good fun.  Really.)  

I remember when my dad tried to teach my mother how to drive a stick shift.  She simply could not grasp the concept.  Every weekend he would take us out to the boonies and my mother would try to drive, and my sister and I would sit in the backseat singing this song that we made up, over and over again, to a tune that we invented all by ourselves:

"Don't sweat, just hope
we make it through the day...
Drive carefully
and don't drive up a tree..."

I'm sure she was very proud.

Paybacks are a bitch, yo.

26 July 2011

facebooking from the edge: Riding the Cotton Pony

facebooking from the edge: Riding the Cotton Pony: "*Author's note: This blog is completely offensive and wayyyyyy overloaded with TMI. Continue at your own risk. My period and I are not ..."

Riding the Cotton Pony

*Author's note:  This blog is completely offensive and wayyyyyy overloaded with TMI.  Continue at your own risk.

My period and I are not friends.  In fact, I'm pretty sure we hate each other.  You know how those girls in the Judy Blume books were all bummed because they were the last ones to get their periods, and the other girls who did were all smug and exotic and pleased as punch and used a tampon the first time and celebrated by having sex and sprouting boobs?  

That's all crap, ya'll.

There has been no dancing and twirling on the beach in white pants during my "time of the month"... oh HELL no.  (Or frolicking in a white bikini, or wafting along the beach gently in a white sun dress, or bouncing out of bed in white pajama bottoms...)  There was, however, copious amounts of weeping, cramping, bloating, screaming, cursing, wearing every color except white and lying in the fetal position clutching a heating pad.  

My mother was one of those annoying women who didn't believe in PMS, mainly because SHE didn't have it.  Then my sister came along and lo and behold, neither did she.  (Proof positive, according to my mother, that PMS is a myth.  No one in HER family got it, ergo, it wasn't true.)

Then came me.

I got my mother's PMS, my sister's PMS, my grandmother's PMS, and the PMS of all previous generations of women who share my mother's DNA.  (These are the same women who paused only long enough while working in the fields to give birth, attach the baby to a boob, and keep going.  They're all related to my mother.)

I, unfortunately, was made of weaker stuff.  

(My mother:  *looking indignant and taking it really personally*  "You didn't get this from me!")

I had cramps that caused me to fold in half and vomit and pass out cold.

I didn't have them occasionally, I had them every single month.

My mother was hugely irritated by this because, again, no one in her family has this problem.  (We had the same issue when it took me 5 days to give birth to my first child.  As previously stated, my mother's family views birth as a blip in their day between brunch and lunch.  Of course, I had to fuck it all up by not going into labor without medical intervention and then spending a week on pitocin not giving birth already.  I'm pretty sure she thought I was doing it just to be contrary.  She actually called the hospital and demanded to talk to me, after explaining to the nurses that I should have had that baby by now.  She held the same theory regarding my cramps and PMS... I was just trying to be difficult, because apparently my secret method of rebelling against her and her child-bearing pelvis was to put myself through horrific pain every single month and refusing to give birth in a timely manner.  I needed to suck it up and stop being such a brat.)   She could never quite wrap her head around the fact that my pain was not only real, it was brutal.  So were the crazy-ass mood swings that had me sobbing uncontrollably one minute then wanting to kill everybody in their sleep while eating peanut butter cups the next.  

(My parents should have been wayyyyy more afraid of me than they actually were.  True story.)

Anyhoo, as time went by the cramps lessened to some degree but the mood swings kicked it up a notch.  Through the years they went from a couple of days before to the entire week before, the week during, AND the week after.  (I'm a rock star.  I am the Queen of PMS, yo.)

Three weeks out of the month, Dan is in fear for his life.

As well he should be.

The thing is, there's nothing I can do about it.  I don't use it as an excuse (in fact, I deny it... "WHAT DO YOU MEAN, I HAVE PMS??!!!  HAS IT EVER OCCURRED TO YOU THAT YOU'RE JUST AN ASSHOLE??")  or even acknowledge that maybe I'm feeling a certain way because my hormones are tap dancing on my uterus and depleting the seratonin in my brain (totally made all that up, but it could be what actually happens, yes?  I suppose I could google but I'm not going to).  While I'm sitting around snarling and eating chocolate I'm also finding 157 reasons why it's all Dan's fault.  What do you mean it's hormones?  Fuck you! (Which is why I refer to the week before my period as "Stay the fuck away from me" Week.  We celebrate it with me crying and blaming Dan for everything that's wrong in the world and Dan playing mum and avoiding me until the day I start my period, at which time I inform him, "I have cramps.  I started my period," and he says, "Nooooo shitttttttt.  Imagine that" and then the bastard has the audacity to roll his eyes.

Things that piss me off the most about other people and periods:

1.  Men who say, "Must be nice to be a bitch anytime you want and blame it on your period."  (As opposed to men who just get to be an asshole whenever and not feel the need to make an excuse for it, am I right?  Smack it high, girls!)

2.  Women who wear a light days pad for 3 days and that's it.  (I hate you all.)

3.  Tampon commercials.  Hate them.  HATE THEM.

4.  Pad commercials.  Hate them.  HATE THEM.

5.  All the people who saw me in 9th grade wearing my light blue Dittos with a blood stain the size of a salad plate on the back and didn't bother telling me.  I walked all the way home from school like that, people.  ALL THE WAY HOME.  I never wore those pants again.  I was too traumatized.  I was planning on never going back to school but my mother nixed that plan.  (Thanks, MOM.)

6.  People who say, "Exercise helps!"  Newsflash:  No it doesn't.  You know what helps?  Vicodin.  Vicodin helps.  Vicodin, sweatpants, heating pads, Reese's peanut butter cups, and leaving me the hell alone.  All of that helps tremendously.  

7.  Dan.  Dan pisses me off A LOT while I'm on my period.  He says the same thing EVERY TIME.  About two days into it he will suggest something inappropriate and I will remind him, for the umpteenth time, that I'm on my period.  I'm all, "Dude!  I'm shark bait, for Christ's sake!" and he says, "STILL?"  Yes, DAN.... STILL.  


For your amusement (or mine, whichever), here are some euphemisms for Aunt Flow that seriously crack me up:

15. Miss Scarlett's Come Home to Tara

14. Trolling for Vampires

13. A Dishonorable Discharge from the Uterine Navy

12. Saddling Old Rusty

11. Feelin' Menstru-riffic!

10. Clean-Up in Aisle One

9. Massacre at the Y

8. T-Minus 9 Months and Holding

7. Game Day for the Crimson Tide

6. Panty Shields Up, Captain!

5. Taking Carrie to the Prom

4. Playing Banjo in Sgt. Zygote's Ragtime Band

3. Ordering l'Omelette Rouge

2. Arts and Crafts Week at Panty Camp

1. Rebooting the Ovarian Operating System

(Note how I turned them all red... bwaaahahaaa!)  

My personal favorite:  Taking Carrie to the prom.  Classic.

25 July 2011

facebooking from the edge: Whiny-Ass Men

facebooking from the edge: Whiny-Ass Men: "Men are the biggest babies in the world when they're sick. Period. End of story. Okay, maybe not quite the end, because Dan is lying ..."

Whiny-Ass Men

Men are the biggest babies in the world when they're sick.  Period.  End of story.  

Okay, maybe not quite the end, because Dan is lying in bed AS WE SPEAK potentially dying from a baseball umping injury.  

He can barely move without assistance.  He needs me to help him get up out of bed and then lie back down again.

You'd think I should feel sorry for him.

You'd be wrong.

Back story, before you decide I am a cold, heartless bitch:  Dan spent Saturday umping at a youth baseball tournament.  He was behind the plate and since he is large and the children were small, he had to spend a lot of time squatting.  My man is fat and out of shape.  (Bless his heart.)  He injured his hamstring and his lower back attempting to emerge from a full squat.  

(God strike me dead because I think that's funny as hell and I kinda sorta wish I'd been there to see it.)

He came limping and moaning home Saturday evening and spent 20 minutes trying to get up the stairs.  I was sympathetic and kind, gave him a leg massage and lower back massage, plied him with Advil and TLC and didn't once make a disparaging remark.  


Sunday we spent the day driving through the mountains and wandering through old graveyards.  Every time he had to get out of the truck, this is what I heard:

Dan:  *moan* *whimper* *gasp*  "Daniiiiiii... oh my godddddd.... my legs are killing meeeee... *moan* *whimper*  Daniiiiii.... my back... my whole lower body hurts...."

Me:  "Sorry, baby."

(But honestly... what was I apologizing for?  I didn't do it.  I didn't tell him to spend a entire day hunkering down behind home plate in 100 degree heat.  He didn't even ask for my opinion.  If he had, I would have said, "You're fat and out of shape with weak knees and a bad back." And you know what?  He would have done it anyway.)

So yesterday I was sympathetic. I was nice, I catered to his whims, waited on him hand and foot, and "poor baby'd" him until I was throwing up a little bit in my mouth.

And then?  Last night?  THIS happened:

Dan was lying in bed, moaning and groaning and unable to move.  He used the house phone to call me from the bedroom (seriously.... he was 10 feet away from me but apparently too weak to call my name) and tell me he needed help getting up so he could go to the bathroom.

I rolled my eyes, mentally called him a giant wuss, put my book down, dislodged Maisy from my lap and walked into the bedroom.

(Important sidebar here:  Dan is 6'2 and weighs 265 lbs.  I am 5'1 and weigh considerably less than that.  And... GO.)

He held out his arms for me to grab his hands and pull him into a sitting position.  With much grunting and pulling on my end and much whimpering, gasping and moaning on his, we managed to get his legs over the side of the bed and him sitting up.

He reached his arms out again for me to help him stand up.  He grabbed my wrists and I yanked back as hard as I could.

Him:  "Don't stop!"

Me:  *%$#@!*  "I'm not!"

Him:  "Pull harder!"

Me:  *pulling with all my might and main*

Him:  *letting go*

Me:  *flying backwards into the wall, tripping over his size 14 fucking work boots, and landing on my ASS in the closet*

Him:  *still moaning from pain*  "Are you okay?"

Me:  *breath knocked out of me but seriously, SERIOUSLY pissed*

Him:  *starting to laugh, the rat bastard*  "Are you all right?"

Me:  *sooooooo not finding this funny*  

Him:  *showing a modicum of concern beneath his obvious mirth*  "Dani, are you okay??  I'm sorry, I didn't mean to let go!"


Him:  "I didn't think you'd fall like that."

Me:  *fuming and kicking his boots and saying bad words*

Him:  *trying to look really, really sorry while laughing himself stupid*


So this morning, he called in almost dead and is staying home from work.  After the required bitching, moaning, whimpering and complaining about how much pain he's in, we had this conversation:

Me:  "You do realize that I'm done feeling sorry for you."

Him:  *nodding head*

Me:  "You do realize that if you call me on the phone from the bedroom to ask me for anything, I will kill you."

Him:  *nodding head*

Me:  "Just checking."

I did go to the store and buy him some icy hot and a treat, but that's all he's getting out of me.


23 July 2011

facebooking from the edge: When a picture is worth a thousand words...

facebooking from the edge: When a picture is worth a thousand words...: "I can't begin to describe my happiness when we passed this immaculate toilet garden on our way out of town yesterday. Oh joy! Oh rapture..."

When a picture is worth a thousand words...

I can't begin to describe my happiness when we passed this immaculate toilet garden on our way out of town yesterday.  Oh joy!  Oh rapture!  Seriously, does anything scream "class!" as loudly as planting flowers in an old toilet?  (Because I can't think of anything.  Maybe.... Nope.  Still nothing.)  

But then... then... not far down the street there was... ANOTHER ONE!!!!!

(Dan wouldn't slow down or stop to let me get a nice shot of this one, but trust me... it was special.)

So what is better than a toilet garden in downtown Potsdam?

TWO toilet gardens in downtown Potsdam!!!

(Javi and Maisy showing shock and awe at the appearance of two toilet gardens.)

Stay classy, Potsdam.

22 July 2011

facebooking from the edge: Childhood, Revisited

facebooking from the edge: Childhood, Revisited: "My mother had three standard responses to our most frequent childhood complaints: 1. Us: 'We're hungry!' My mom: 'Eat an apple...."

Childhood, Revisited

My mother had three standard responses to our most frequent childhood complaints:


Us:  "We're hungry!"

My mom:  "Eat an apple."


Us:  "We're cold!"

My mom:  "Put on a sweater."


Us:  "We're hot!"

My mom:  "Turn on a fan."

When (if) my mother ever chooses to leave this earthly plain (plane?  Hmmmm) this is what I am putting on her tombstone:

Dear Mom,

Turn on a fan.



(I don't know why that just popped into my head or why I think it's so damn funny... probably because it's a million degrees outside and I would maim, murder, and kill for a really huge energy sucking air conditioner right about now.)

If I could do it over...

A friend posted a status about spoiled, entitled, Kids These Days... and it got me to thinking.  In many ways, I'm sure my sister and I were spoiled and entitled.  I also think that it's important TO spoil and entitle your kids, to some degree.  Being a hard-ass all the time is exhausting and saying "Yes" is pretty damn easy.  

I was not a perfect parent, by any stretch of the imagination.  If I could go back and do it over, not only would I, (mostly because my kids were so damn cute and I had so much fun with them), but I would also take a list back with me of everything I needed to do differently.  

The things I wouldn't change would be the times I said yes, the times I gave them pumpkin ice cream for breakfast, the times we frosted cupcakes and turned off the lights and lit candles and played music really loud and danced like crazy people, because it was pouring down rain on Halloween and dammit, we needed to party, the Christmases I gave in at 4 a.m. and let them get up and open their stockings, the times I spent our last $20 on pizza because we needed a treat... 

Mostly I would change the times that I said no, the times that I got angry because I was tired and frustrated and a single parent and took it out on them, the times that I wished I could just have a minute of peace, the days when I made them play outside because I couldn't take one more minute of their noise... 

If I could take all those days back and change them to happy memories of time I spent with them, I would do it in a heart beat.  

I'm glad I brought them home a treat every time I went to the store.

I'm glad I put new Ninja Turtles on their beds to surprise them when they came home from school one day, just because.

I'm glad I let them stay home sometimes because we'd had a bad day the day before and we needed to cuddle up and watch movies together and be calm and happy.

I'm glad I gave in and said "yes" when I probably should have said "no."  

I'm glad I was able to teach them to appreciate the little things because we didn't have that many big things to give.  

I wish I could have given them more big things.

I wish I could have spoiled and entitled them more.  

Shea, Kacey, Brennan... I love you.

facebooking from the edge: When Husbands LIE

facebooking from the edge: When Husbands LIE: "As many of you know, moving to New York from the beautiful north coast of California was NOT my idea. It wasn't on my agenda, on my radar,..."

When Husbands LIE

As many of you know, moving to New York from the beautiful north coast of California was NOT my idea.  It wasn't on my agenda, on my radar, on my bucket list, or even something I occasionally flirted with while very, very drunk.  My ass was firmly planted in California.  I was born there and I'd be damned if I wasn't going to die there, too.

(I know I've said this before but California, Texas, and Alabama have state pride in SPADES.  Have you ever noticed that?  Ponder, ponder... I mean, I GET California and TEXAS being all, "California loooove and don't mess with Texas!"  But ALABAMA?  Yes, I GET that Skynard wrote a really cool song and all, but ya need more than that, yo.)  

Anyway, after all (some) of the drama passed after Dan made his announcement about quitting his job and "moving back home" (at which point I may or may not have pointed out that it was his home, not mine) he made a few statements that I stupidly took as gospel.  (Because really, why would I expect my husband, who was born and raised in northern New York, to know what he was talking about?  DUMB, Dani... DUMB.)

One of these statements was, "You'll love the weather!  Summers are warm but not hot..."

I'm going to stop right there.

I grew up in California's Central Valley, which isn't just hot in the summer, it's Africa Hot.  I know heat, y'all.  I've burned my hands on the steering wheel and my ass on the seat every time I climbed into a car between May and September.  I've swum in pool water that was warmer than the air because it had been so flaming hot for weeks and the water shortage forbade us from adding water to the pool.  I've had blisters on the bottoms of my feet because I was too stupid to wear shoes when running across the smoldering pavement to check the mail, and slept outside on a hammock in the backyard because the house was over 120 degrees and my mother, the AC Nazi, refused to turn on the air conditioner and sleeping outside was a matter of life or death.  (I firmly believe that statement to be true.  I think my mother was trying to kill us.)  

In other words, "hot" is not a foreign concept to me.

What is a foreign concept to me is "hot" that comes with a steam bath.  

The heat here is like being slapped in the face with a hot, wet towel.  I've never been much of a sweater (person who sweats, not garment with long sleeves that one wears to keep warm) but I'm so damp and moist (which is just as gross as it sounds) all the time that it takes me 20 minutes every morning just to put on my bra and panties because I have to spend so much time unsticking them from my legs and back just to pull them up, around, and hook.  

(Guess what Dan and I haven't been doing much of lately?  Dan:  "Mmmmmm baby... *snuggle snuggle*"  Me:  "If you can do this without touching me, fine.  But you need to be at least 12 inches away from me because the steam and heat from your body is making me sweat.  Actually, I'd prefer it if you were in another room entirely.  You're too hot.  Get away from me.")

I've been questioning Dan about how this "isn't too hot."  His response?  

Dan:   *apparently suffering from amnesia*  "It was never like this before."

Me:  *not buying it*

Dan: *protesting too much*  "I'm serious!  It's never been this hot and humid before!"

Me: *squinty eyed and pissed that he dragged me from California to the armpit of hell*

Dan:  *back-pedaling and changing his story* "At the most, we had this weather for maybe a week or two in August and the rest of the time it's 75-80 with no humidity."

Me:  *not convinced or pretending to be*

Dan:  "I'm serious!"

Me:  *mentally creating little Dan-shaped effigies that I may or may not burn during the waning moon*

Dan:  *thinking that if he says it often and sincerely enough I'll believe him* "Dani, I swear to GOD it wasn't like this when I moved to California."

Me:  *charting the moon phases and buying matches*

Keep talkin', dude... because according to the 10 day forecast, this heat isn't going anywhere.  And Dan accidentally let it slip that it's gonna stay this way through August.  When questioned as to how he would know that, since it's never been like this before, he seemed to be at a loss for words.


21 July 2011

facebooking from the edge: Adventures in Ambien, Part Infinity

facebooking from the edge: Adventures in Ambien, Part Infinity: "I've been really good about ONLY taking Ambien if I haven't slept in 5646738756 days. Basically, I take it about once a week and I'm very..."

Adventures in Ambien, Part Infinity

I've been really good about ONLY taking Ambien if I haven't slept in 5646738756 days.  Basically, I take it about once a week and I'm very responsible about getting into bed as soon as I take it, so as not to have any head shaving, dog shaving, eating everything in sight mishaps.  (Or texting, phoning, messaging, emailing, Tweeting, FBing, etc.) 

(Read:  Dan is very responsible about getting me into bed as soon as I take it and keeping me off the phone and out of the fridge and away from the clippers.) 

I've been averaging 2-4 hours of sleep a night for the past week and yesterday I finally succumbed to a migraine and exhaustion and took an Ambien at about 8:00.  I meandered into the bedroom with the fan, and passed out face down on the bed and slept like the dead.  

Dan, being unusually thoughtful and considerate (and really glad that I went to bed early so he could channel-surf to his heart's content, which drives me 100% batshit crazy, and watch the Met's game without me sitting on the couch huffing and puffing and being bored), stayed up until about 10:30 then tip-toed into the bedroom without turning on any lights and apparently passed out next to me.

(Sidebar:  Speaking of channel surfing:  THIS DRIVES ME NUTS.  NUTS.  NUTS, I TELL YOU.  Dan cannot sit and watch ONE PROGRAM.  He watches ALLLLL of them at the same time.  I seriously CAN'T STAND IT.  And while he's watching umpteen shows, he's also constantly scanning the guide to see if he's missing anything.  I'm all, "PICK A SHOW!  OH MY GOD!  JUST PICK ONE AND WATCH IT!"  And he's all, "Why does this bother you?"  GAHHHHH!)

I woke up at 2:30, so hot and sweaty that there was literally a puddle between my boobs.  (Sexy, right?)  I got up, peed, pondered briefly on why it was cooler in the rest of the house than in our bedroom, and went back to bed, pausing briefly in front of the fan to air dry myself.

Ugh.  Hot hot hot.  No air.  Miserable. I kicked off the sheet, flopped around a few times, accidentally knocked Javi off of the bed and elbowed Dan while I was flailing around trying to find a cool breeze.  Dan woke up, got up, peed like a race horse (that needed to be said because seriously... WHY DO MEN PEE SO LOUDLY????)  and came back to bed, muttering something about it being too fucking hot to sleep.

Eight seconds later he re-commenced snoring and I drifted back off.

At 4:30 I was awake again,  sweating like a cold drink on a hot day.  I got back up, peed again (I mean, I was awake, so why not?  It's kind of my M.O.  If I wake up, I pee.  Period) and once again stood in front of the fan for a few minutes to cool off and air dry.

Plopped back into bed, trying to figure out why the fan wasn't putting off enough of a breeze to cool us off from less than 5 feet away.

Cursed the fan.

Cursed the heat.

Cursed the bloody Empire State.

Cursed the bloody Empire.



Fell back asleep.

When we got up this morning we bitched and moaned about how miserably hot we were last night, how little Dan slept due to the heat (apparently he snores while he's awake and annoyed about not sleeping), and how we apparently need a new fan because this one?  Ain't workin'.

Dan went to work and I went back into the bedroom to grab the fan to bring it out to the livingroom.


Something doesn't seem... right.

*Lightbulb moment*

Apparently, in my Ambien fog, when I hauled the fan into the bedroom last night and set it up, I pointed it TOWARDS THE WINDOW, so it was blowing air OUT of the bedroom.  Every time I got up and cooled myself off in front of it, I was standing between the window and the fan.

Oh my freaking DUH.

Guess what Dan isn't going to hear about this evening... 

20 July 2011

facebooking from the edge: Leg Hair 101

facebooking from the edge: Leg Hair 101: "(*Author's note: TMI, but whatever. Apparently, after 3 months of unemployment, I have no shame.) Back in the day, before I was broke a..."

Leg Hair 101

(*Author's note:  TMI, but whatever.  Apparently, after 3 months of unemployment, I have no shame.)

Back in the day, before I was broke and unemployed, I was a fanatical daily leg-shaver.  Didn't matter if I was going to be wearing long pants, knee socks and boots... the legs, they were smooooov.  It was a matter of pride and principle.  Considering how often I fall down, the risk of breaking my ankle or foot is a constant threat, so if I wound up on a stretcher with hard bodied paramedics cutting my jeans off, they would not find King Kong under there.  (Priorities, y'all.  Our mothers insisted on clean underwear, I insist on a tidy brazillion with cleanly shaved legs.)

About a year ago, my friend Wendy and I went to a woman's retreat.  She was there to do waxing and facials and I was there to do massage. When we first arrived, we all went out to do yoga together and to what to our wondering eyes should appear but 20 women who had never owned a razor.  

Never.  Owned.  A RAZOR.

There was leg hair up the wazoo.  There was wazoo hair up the ying yang.  Don't even get me started on the pit hair, the sideburns, and the lack of interest in deodorant.  As nipped, tucked, enhanced, augmented, waxed, primped, and pruned relatively shallow girly-girls, this was definitely our first rodeo.

We went in with hot wax steaming.  These women lined up like it was their last meal and let Wendy rip all of their excess body hair from every crack and crevice while I massaged their hairy legs as they waited for their turn.  

Pluses:  We made bank.  Also?  I have the memory of one woman screaming, "My labia!  My labia! Don't rip off my labia!" while Wendy gave her a bikini wax forever burned into my brain.  (Seriously... fucking hilarious.  Every once in a while I have to fight back the urge to randomly scream, "My labia!  My labia!")

Negatives:  I had to touch a lottttttttt of hairy, undeodorized bodies and naked, saggy boobies, yo.  Because these girls?  Did. Not. Care.  And since we were sharing a room for our spa services, I had an up-close and personal view of all the waxing while Wendy was treated to all the total nudity of my massage victims.  (Me:  "Can I give you some privacy to get ready for your massage?"  Hippy Women, one and all:  "For what?" as they dropped trow and plopped down nekkid on the massage table.)  

But I really can't complain because while I did have to touch hairy women, Wendy is the one who had to rip out their pubes, and her up-close and personal was wayyyyyyyyy more up-close and personal than MY view.  Nuff said.

(Sorry for throwing you under the bus there, Wendy.)

Anyway, here I am one year later, unemployed and suddenly unconcerned about what's going on with my leg hair.  I'm not wildly hairy, thanks to my father's Native American roots (I was going to say Indian but I'm nothing if not PC, yo) but I'm not a platinum blonde Swede, either.  So after much studying and some trial and error, I have determined that I can go 4 days without shaving my legs.  

Day 1:  Smooth and moisturized!  Can wear shorts and flip flops in public.

Day 2:  Can feel but not see the stubble.  Still wearing shorts and flip flops.

Day 3:  Prickly and definitely not smooth... time to switch to Capris.

Day 4:  Definite leg hair, could probably sand the finish off of my coffee table, still in Capris but walking a fine line between middle-aged woman in Capris and disgusting hippy who thinks women should totally rock their leg hair.  If it wasn't so damn hot I'd definitely be rocking jeans, socks, and boots.  

If I suffer an injury, I'm screwed.  Paramedics would definitely be grossed out by disgusting leg hair.

Day 5:  Must shave legs because a) I'm grossing myself out and b) I refuse to leave the house until I do.

I still keep up with the pit hair because let's face it... pit hair is gross.  (I have my standards.)  

I had way less time to keep up with the hair removal when I was working but now that I'm unemployed and have alllll the time in the world, I don't feel like I can squeeze this in.  Go figure.

(I also am lately wayyyyy more inclined to stick a hat on my head than spend the 5 minutes it takes to do my hair.  Weird.)

I really need to find a job before I say "Fuck it all!" and grow a beard.  True, sad, story.