Because sometimes a status update just isn't enough.

Because sometimes a status update just isn't enough.

30 September 2011

A blast from the ass of the past...

My 30th *gag* high school reunion is this weekend.


High school.



None of those words make any sense to me.

This would mean, it appears, that I graduated from high school THIRTY YEARS AGO.

That would make this, what? 2011?

Also? That would make me ridiculously close to being 50.

I'm pretty sure that there's no way in HELL that could possibly be true. According to my mirror and my rampant denial (which I inherited, fair and square, from my mother) I'm pretty sure I'm closer to 29 than I am to 50. Old people are 50. Vibrant, sexy, immature women like me are not almost 50.

Basically? Father Time can kiss the oldest, saggiest, part of my ass.

Meanwhile, during my senior year in high school the photographer had the smashing idea (that needs to be said with a cultured, snobby British accent) to
have the student body form an 8 and then a 1 (because the year, you may have guessed if you can add and subtract, was 1981). We all hung out on the football field on a cold, foggy, California Central Valley morning, smooshing ourselves into the white chalk numbers drawn on the grass.

Lord, but we were a clever bunch.

When I got my yearbook that year and was thumbing through the photos, I had no problem finding myself immediately in the picture of the 8.

There I was, right smack dab in front (naturally), with the rest of the really, really tiny people... (Have I ever mentioned that I'm vertically challenged? No? I think of myself as "Fun Size!" like a little Snicker's bar.)

Except for that amazon girl standing next to me, gazing at me adoringly and hanging on to my arm.



I have no idea who she is. I am just as perplexed today as I was 30 years ago.

Who is she?

Where did she come from?

And why the hell is she hanging on to my arm??!!

(Also? How fabulously feathered was my hair? And how awesome was 80s fashion?)

Best Facebook Post of the Week

*Author's note: Please keep in mind that once you've seen this, you can't UN-see it. Consider yourselves warned. Thus endeth my public service announcement of the day.

This was posted by my friend Dave yesterday:

Confession: I couldn't stop myself from wondering what they looked like from the front. I mean, I know, I know... What is wrong with me, right? I DON'T KNOW WHAT'S WRONG WITH ME. All I know is that I'm sitting here right now watching an episode of Maury simply because the title of the show is "That baby doesn't have 12 fingers, so I can't be the father!" and wondering what the front half of a chunky body stuffed into form fitting nude stretch pants might look like, okay?


Thank you, Dave, for having no boundaries... you rock, dude!! xoxo

28 September 2011

When Murphy calls

It's always the same. The one morning I sleep late (because I didn't fall asleep until 6:00 in the morning, thanks to my persistent and determined insomnia), roll out of bed and don't shower or get dressed (or brush my teeth or comb my hair or even, for that matter, put on pants), ignore the dishes in the sink left over from my mad, inspired baking of the night before, plop on the couch wearing only underwear and a tank top, turn on Maury and prepare to spend an hour drinking an iced latte and watching crap TV, someone knocks on my door.

And it turns out to be my landlord.

*insert expletive*

What to do, what to do.

1. He knows I'm home, because my car is parked out front, he can hear the TV, and let's face it, I never go anywhere.

2. Even if I put on pants, my hair is still a mess, I'm still not wearing a bra, and my house is still a pig sty.

3. I'm pretty sure he won't wait in the hallway for me to shower, blow dry, and clean the kitchen.

4. If I don't answer, he will either assume a) that I'm avoiding him for some reason OTHER than the fact that I'm slothful and unkempt or b) have been the victim of a homicide.


I go WEEKS without anybody stopping by. In fact, I've gone MONTHS without anybody stopping by. And yet, I get up every single morning at the same time Dan does, shower, get dressed, clean my house, and make myself presentable. EVERY SINGLE DAY.

No one sees me from 7:30 in the morning until 8:30 at night, when Dan comes home. By that time, I'm back in my pajamas, my make-up is smeared, my hair is a mess... but you know what? I STILL DO IT. JUST IN CASE. BECAUSE YOU NEVER KNOW.

Except for today.

Murphy's Freaking Law.


So of course, I took the coward's way out. I didn't answer the door. I talked myself into a hissy-fit, insisting that if he was going to drop by, he should have called first. I am under no obligation to answer my door to ANYONE. In fact, I got all up in arms with myself and started muttering under my breath, "Knock on MY door in the morning without calling first, expecting me to just BE THERE to answer it AT YOUR CONVENIENCE... I don't THINK so, Mr. Man... *grumble grumble swear words*"

(Also? I figured that if they called later and mentioned it, I could say something like, "Oh, I must have been in the shower! I'm sorryyyyy!")

Two hours later I was still sitting on the couch, still in my tank top and underwear, still unclean and unconcerned, when he knocked on the door... again.

Well, FUCK.

Now I was really pissed. Who did he think he was, just dropping by for no good reason in the middle of the week? Seriously, if it was that important, why didn't he call first? RUDE.

I was not answering the door on principle. (Really... it had nothing to do with the fact that I still hadn't moved, bathed, brushed my teeth or put on pants in two hours. Honest.)

A short time later, I got a text message from Dan. It said, "Why aren't you answering the phone?"

Me, texting back: "No one has called."

Dan: "I've been calling all morning. I sent the landlord over to pick up the receipts for the work I did on his car. He said you weren't there."

I picked up the phone and turned it on. Sure enough, no dial tone.

What the fuck? I thought.

And then I noticed... Somehow, the phone had become unplugged from the wall, God only knows when (come to think of it, no one's called in a while... hmmmm).


Now I just look like an asshole.

I HATE when that happens.

bite me

27 September 2011

The Updated Update

Tonight's dinner: Fajitas, the Sequel.

Here's why:

After everything I went through yesterday so that Dan would not have to eat Cod Fajitas, I received a phone call from him at around 6:30.

*Keep in mind, he already knew I was cooking dinner, what we were having, and had a good guffaw at my expense with all of his co-workers...

Dan: "Hey, baby, my mom is going to take me out to dinner tonight after practice."

Me: *longggggggggggggggggggg pause* "She is? Oh. Um, okay... where are you going?"

(Because you'd damn well better be going to Texas Roadhouse.)

Dan: "McDonalds."

Yeah. That happened.

Fortunately for him, I was too tired to kill him by the time he got home, so he's lived to see another day.

Meanwhile, he just called me and asked what's for dinner.

Me: "Fajitas."

Dan: "Again...?"


This just in: He is going to be served fajitas for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Until they're gone. Word.

as promised, she served him his balls on a tray

While waiting for Inspiration...

After basically having no sleep for 5 days (no, thank YOU, Insomnia!!) my brain has officially quit on me. When I say I don't have a single original thought in my head, I'm actually not being quite truthful: The truth is, I don't have ANY thoughts in my head. Not one. Zip. Zero. Goose egg.

I've been sitting here for about an hour staring stupidly at my empty New Post page, waiting on Inspiration. Well, it just called and said, "Ummm, Danielle? Remember the time we were supposed to get together and hang out and do lunch? Yeahhh... about that... Not gonna happen. Later!"

Inspiration is a real asshole. Just sayin'.

So instead, I'm going to leave you with a picture of my youngest son, Brennan. This was sent to me on Sunday, while he was getting ready to watch the Vikings play. Brennan was born in California, grew up in California, and yet, for some reason, named his dog "Minnesota" when he was 7 and became an avid Vikings fan shortly there-after. We don't quite know why. There are no Norsemen in my family, or his father's family, or anywhere on the family tree. Not one.

Until now.

Don't hate him because he's beautiful.

26 September 2011

This little piggy went to market...

UPDATE: Dan just called me and said, "What were you doing at the Big M?" Me: "When?" Dan: "When you had to exchange some meat." Seriously? SERIOUSLY?? Apparently, one of his co-workers was on a test-drive and stopped in at the store because he saw the Douche in the parking lot and witnessed the whole ordeal.

Dear Karma,





It happened again.

I went to the little local grocery store (the Big M) and just happened, for the umpteenth time, to make a complete jackass out of myself.

I may have even surpassed The Great Ring Tone Incident of earlier this summer. (You can read all about my previous shame here... I can't even beGIN to tell you how much I wish this hadn't happened:

So, I decided to make crock pot chicken fajitas for dinner. Since the only ingredient I actually had in my house was the crock pot, this forced me to run to the store (which, since moving here, has been my least favorite thing to do, because every time I walk through the doors of the Big M I enter an alternate universe where I'm always the biggest asshole in the room. I hate that).

Also? (This has nothing to do with anything, other than that it's another reason I hate leaving the house right now) Dan has been driving my car lately because he has to drive an hour each way to coach Pee Wee football after work and my little HHR gets good mileage, which forces ME to drive the Blue Douche-Mobile, (so called because it's a pimped out blue truck with *choke* *shudder* *cringe* ghost flames on the hood). He has fancy lights on the back, a specialized hood, and did something to the intake (no, I don't know what that is... I'm just repeating what I've been told) so that it's ridiculously loud. (My husband went through his second teen-hood recently. This is how it evolved. I almost think an affair with a bimbo might have been a little more acceptable. And probably cheaper. And less permanent. And I wouldn't have had to drive her when he borrowed my car.) Basically, it screams, "Look at me! I'm an asshole!"

So yeah... there was that.

My desire for chicken fajitas eventually outweighed my hatred of the Big M and the Douche-Mobile, so I girded up my loins and did what needed to be done.

Everything went smoothly, for once. I was feeling mighty cocky when I exited the market and climbed back into the truck, most likely making every teen-age boy in the parking lot green with envy. ("Dude... look at her rad truck!" "Dude! Bitchen, right?" "Killer!" )

*Authors note: The teen-age boys in my head all live in California, circa 1980-ish. (In case there was some confusion as to why they sounded like they were from Ridgemont High.)

When I got home, I hauled my purchases up the stairs, got out the crock pot, and started throwing together the ingredients for dinner. When I grabbed the two packages of chicken that I'd bought, I just happened to look at the wrapping as I was grabbing the knife to slice it open (I hate touching meat with my hands... I use a nifty knife-fork combo for meat retrieval to avoid physical contact at all costs). And that's when I saw, on the packing lable: Cod Fillets.

*sound of brakes squealing*


I looked at the other package...

Cod Fillets.

Are you FREAKING kidding me?

How in the HELL did I think that two packages of cod fillets were chicken breasts?

I have to go back to the store...



I stood there for a minute staring at $12.00 of meat, wondering if there was any way that I could make Dan believe it was chicken. If I'd thought for one second that Dan would eat a fajita made with fish, I would have done it, even though I hate fish. I would have eaten that damn, miserable cod for a week to avoid doing what I knew I needed to do: Go back to the Big M and confess to the miserable old bitch at the check out that I had, indeed, fulfilled all of her previous assumptions of me and was, also indeed, a complete moron.

I finally forced myself to do the inevitable. I put on a cap and dark sunglasses (not that there is one single person in this town, or even this whole county, that knows me, but it made me feel a little better), got back into the Douche, drove back to the market, slunk back inside, approached the cashier, explained my idiocy, suffered through her look of incredulous disbelief which turned into a smirk of superiority (because I'm pretty sure she'd never mistaken fish for chicken breast), which led to the manager being summoned (because "we don't usually do exchanges on meat"), which eventually resulted in me walking out of the store with two packages of chicken breast and no dignity.

I am now licking my wounds and contemplating my next move.

25 September 2011

When Awesomeness Goes Rogue

So last night, the Awesomes (my downstairs neighbor and his posse, so named because of the giant douche-y sticker he has on the back of his truck informing the world of his Awesomeness) threw a party.

So. Freaking. Awesome.

It started around 6-ish in the evening, which was fine.  They're young, they're pretty... They deserve to celebrate that fact with friends, food, and booze.  Right?  (Because your prettiness isn't going to last forever, children.  Better work it while you've got it.  Father Time and Gravity are coming for you one day soon.)

What they don't deserve is to celebrate it with Karaoke.  Until 6:30 in the morning.  In an apartment directly below me.  Until 6:30 in the morning.  Did I mention the 6:30 in the morning part?  

That's right... 12 1/2  hours of non-stop partying.  

I was home alone with Maisy, as Dan and Javi were out of town for the weekend.  When the party began and I saw vehicles parking up and down my street, I was all, "Ahhhh, to be young and stupid enough to drink myself into a coma at a hot young Marine's house..." (though I feel a little creepy saying that, come to think of it, since two of my boys are young Marines and extremely handsome.  Thank you, Kacey and Brennan, for ruining the military for me.)  

When the music started booming beneath me, literally rattling my furniture (literally, people... LITERALLY.  For once I'm not exaggerating) I smiled, shook my head, and thought, "Young people these days, with their rock and roll..."  (Okay, that part's a lie.  What I really thought was, "Come on, really?  COUNTRY??  WHAT IS WRONG WITH KIDS THESE DAYS?  WHY DOESN'T ANYONE LISTEN TO AC/DC ANYMORE?)

Then the karaoke began.

Oh. My. God.

How is it possible to have 40 people in your apartment and NOT ONE OF THEM is capable of carrying a tune??  HOW DOES THAT HAPPEN??  

Furthermore?  THEY DIDN'T CARE.  (Bless their drunken, tone-deaf, annoying little hearts.) 

Now, don't get me wrong... I've sung some baaaad karaoke in my time.  Bad.  Like, super bad.  Like, waking up the morning after and praying to the Baby Jesus that I'll die before I ever see anyone who witnessed my shame ever again BECAUSE IT WAS SO BAD.   

But here's where it's different:  I had the decency to sing loudly and off-key in a BAR where it is supposed to be filled with people who have left their pride and common sense at the door.  Not in the PRIVACY OF MY OWN HOME where all the neighbors had to be privy to it, too.  (I save that for morning hours while I'm cleaning the house and forget that my windows are open and I'm not invisible, which is entirely different.  After I remember I skulk about in embarrassment, because that's what decent people do, Mr. Awesome.) 

Also?  I had the courtesy to be in the company of people who could actually sing.  That's right, Mr. Awesome... I'M THAT CONSIDERATE.  

You need to think more carefully while choosing your friends, dude.  A good rule of thumb is to have at least two friends who can sing really well to make up for the fact that you can't.  (People appreciate that.  They really do.)
Also?  I'm a little torked that I wasn't invited to the party.  

Just wait, Mr. Awesome.  Just wait.  

Oh yeah.  It'll happen.

Mark my words.

24 September 2011

Facebook Status of the WEEK

This week it goes to my friend, Becca. I posted a status update regarding the fact that I had NO CLUE that Gloria Vanderbilt was Anderson Cooper's MOTHER. (I have no idea how that fact escaped me, but there you go. I was shocked enough to feel the need to comment on it. Really, people... you need to keep me informed about these things.)

That led to this comment, by Becca:

"I didn't know Freddie Mercury was gay until after he died. The fact that he fronted a band called Queen was completely lost on me."

Dear Becca,

Now you know.



23 September 2011

When Good Parents Go Bad

I'd like to start out by saying it wasn't my fault.

First and foremost, I blame Halloween Carnivals. I'm pretty sure the little "Goldfish Game", where your extremely uncoordinated small children randomly throw ping pong balls at fish bowls and then win a goldfish BECAUSE THEY TRIED AND EVERYONE IS A WINNER, are a mass conspiracy put together by psychiatrists to insure that one day, someone will be lying on a therapist's couch talking about the time their mom killed their goldfish... and then lied about it for 10 years.

So here's what happened:

Years ago, when my two youngest boys, Kacey and Brennan were respectively 5 and 7 years old, they went to a Halloween Carnival that was conveniently fronted by a church. (That way no one would suspect that the real goal was to send little children home with goldfish that their parents neither wanted nor expected. Bwaaahaahaaa, said Satan.) Both boys "won a fish!" by lobbing ping pong balls at hundreds of fish bowls all smooshed together, which pretty much made it impossible to lose. (Because that's the way life is, people... No one ever loses, everyone is a winner, and everyone gets a fish for their mad throwing skills. Right?)

They were super proud when they came in the house with their little baggies of fish. Since they'd gone with another family, I couldn't exactly refuse to let them bring them into the house (no one wants to be THAT mom, am I right?) so I smiled and said something like "Yay! Look at that! Awesome!" while thinking, "SHIT! FISH! WHAT AM I GOING TO DO WITH FISH??"

After the other family had left, I launched into a speech about how the fish were THEIR responsibility, how they had to feed them EVERY DAY, and I wasn't going to take care of them. (Yeah right.) We bought a fish bowl, some gravel, some random little plants, and the boys promised to love them and cherish them forever and ever.

Every day for two weeks I reminded the boys to feed their fish.

Every. Single. Day.

It was usually at 8:00 at night, minutes before they were supposed to be in bed, when I'd say, "Did you remember to feed your fish today?"

Of course they hadn't. Duh.

They would feed the fish, vow eternal love to their gilled little friends, and go to bed.

After two weeks, the fish bowl was pretty gross and my house was starting to smell like the harbor. After the boys had gone to bed one night, I decided to clean it.

I dumped the fish in a small plastic bucket, scrubbed out the fish bowl, rinsed out the gravel, filled the bowl back up with clean water, and dumped the fish back in.

Literally one second later, they both floated belly up to the top, having died instantly from shock.

It was one of those moments where as I was dumping them in I was thinking, "NOOOoooooo.... stopppppppp... you forgot to make the water room temperature...."


I quickly came up with a lie (not unlike the Grinch, when confronted by Cindy Lou Who as he was stealing her Christmas presents), flushed the fish, and set the newly clean bowl on the table, just as if the fish were still swimming in it.

I determined that in the morning, when Kacey and Brennan noticed their fish were gone, I would tell them the cat ate their fish.

Because that's what good parents do, people. Like you would have told your sweet faced, rather clueless children that you were a Fish Killer.


Come morning, for the first time EVER, the boys, ON THEIR OWN, sprinkled fish food into the bowl and went off to school.

They never noticed the fish weren't in the bowl.

I was a little flabbergasted, but I let it slide.

For the next 7 days, they religiously sprinkled fish food into the empty bowl, every single morning before school.

Oh dear God.

It was getting embarrassing.

They would blow the bowl kisses before they went to bed at night, saying "Good night, fish!" in their sweet little boy voices, making me feel awful (as well as concerned, because seriously... are my kids that oblivious?).

Finally, I couldn't take it anymore.

On the 8th morning, as the boys were feeding the bowl, I said, "I can't see your fish... can you?"

"Yes," they said.


"Are you sure?" I asked. "Where? I don't see them!"

They looked again and discovered that THEIR FISH WERE GONE!

It was a mystery, for sure.

With a little prompting from Mommy, we determined that the cat, indeed, must have eaten their fish.

Bad kitty.

Tears and accusatory looks at the cat abounded that day. We mourned the fish, ostracized the cat, and decided that since Kitty couldn't be trusted, we probably shouldn't get anymore fish.

(Yes, I know. I know. Seat, Hell, me. Got it.)

I actually held on to that secret for YEARS, finally telling the boys when they were leaving home to join the Marines.

Surprisingly, they were shocked.

"MOM! Really??? YOU DID THAT??!!! HOW COULD YOU??!!!"


It really wasn't that hard.

Sorry, boys.

Anyway, this Geico Commercial is what brought that to mind this morning... I laughed myself stupid when I saw it:

22 September 2011

The Neighbor of the Beast

This is my current blog hit count, as we speak:


I know, right??!!!!!

Did you say something? I didn't think so.

When women complain that men don't listen, trust me... they're not lying. Men don't listen. They don't. And if you say you have one that does? Then he probably has a vagina hidden somewhere in his anatomy. Listening is not in their genetic code. In the spot where women have the "Paying Attention To What Their Mate Is Saying" gene, men have a "Her Lips Are Moving But No Sound Is Coming Out" gene.

I'm not saying they do it on purpose... In fact, I just made it abundantly clear by using scientific evidence that they can't help it. Geneticists all over the world have done extensive studies on why men only hear what they want to hear and they actually isolated the "I'm Not Ignoring You, I Just Am Not Able To Pay Attention To Anything You Say That Doesn't Involve Sex Or Football" DNA particle. Don't believe me? Then come to my house on any given night and listen to my husband ask me the same questions he's asked me 145,747,839,302 times before and then insist that the subject has never come up and I don't know what I'm talking about.

In his mind, he is the innocent victim of my inability to communicate effectively.

It's a scenario that takes place night after night, on couches, at kitchen tables, and in bedrooms all over the world.

Dan is fairly picky, food-wise. (Which is shocking, considering he looks like he's never missed a meal.) If it isn't something he mother made (Hamburger Helper, Rice-a-Roni, frozen fried chicken, or any large hunk of animal flesh served with potatoes and corn), then he's iffy, at best, and is usually pretty sure he won't like it. (In no way do I blame his mother... she had to cook for the pickiest eaters on the face of the planet. If it wasn't meat and potatoes, it wasn't getting eaten. She has my deepest sympathy.) Over the years, I've introduced him to many different foods that he's never eaten before, and literally every single time I cook one of these "weird" foods, he claims I've never made it. Which I have. Many, many times.

Take today:

Dan called from work, as he usually does, around 3:00-ish. Also per usual, he asked what's for dinner.

Me: *answering even though I knew exactly what was going to follow* "Frittata."

Dan: "What?"

Me: "Frittata."

Dan: "What??"


Dan: "Fri-what, now?"

Me: "Fri. Taw. Tuh."

Dan: "What the hell is that?"

Me: "The same thing it was the last 200 times I've made it."

Dan: "You've never made that."

Me: "Yes, I have. It's the egg thingy I make, with ham and cheese."

Dan: "You mean an omelette?"

Me: *remaining calm... I'm a SAINT, people* "If I meant omelette I would have said omelette. It's like a crustless quiche. You like it. I usually serve it with crusty bread and a salad."

Dan: "So it's like an omelette."

Me: "No, Dan, it's like a frittata. Because that's what it is."

Dan: "So is the ham and cheese and stuff inside of it, like an omelette?"

Me: *giving up on Sainthood* "Seriously? Dan... it's a frittata. It's like quiche, only with no crust. I cook it in the oven, cut it into wedges, and then we eat it. Like quiche. Only without crust. Because it's a frittata. I send the leftovers to work with you in the morning for breakfast. We have it probably once a month or so."



Dan: "So what's it called again?"


We go through the same spiel if I make tamales, enchiladas, fruit salad (I know, right? He can't get it through his head that fruit salad is just cut up fruit. He always wants to know if there's Jello in it. NO, THERE'S NO FREAKING JELLO IN FRUIT SALAD. IT'S CUT UP FRUIT. PERIOD. THE END. GAHHHHH!), chili verde...

It's enough to make me crazy.

I also think it's a good enough reason to smother him with a pillow while he sleeps.

(I kid, I kid... Or do I?)

Here's what I know, with absolute certainty: The sun will rise and set, the earth will spin on it's axis, and Dan will come home tonight and say, "Now, what do you call this again?"

Mark my words.

you'll eat it... you'll eat it and like it

21 September 2011

Jeepers, creepers...

I have a stalker. Or maybe it's just wishful thinking.

Here's what happened:

I received a Friend Request on Facebook from a person who's name was familiar. She had no picture on her profile, or any info on her wall that could be checked out prior to Friend Acceptance (tricky bitch, yes?) so I accepted. I mean, I ranted the other day about someone reporting me to the Facebook Police because apparently, I tried to "Friend" them and they didn't know me. (You can read all about my warning and harsh punishment here: Seriously, why couldn't they have just given me a spanking and been done with it? Harsh, Dude.)

After taking such a public stand (after all, I have over one followers) I decided to NOT be THAT PERSON. Because I'm not an asshole. Also? I don't want to be rude (I'm looking at YOU, person who ratted me out to Facebook) just in case it was someone who had been very near and dear to me at some point in my life that I just don't remember. (And since I don't remember a whole lot of things, that really isn't a huge stretch in the realm of possibility.)


After I clicked "Accept" I hustled onto her page (because truthfully? I have absolutely nothing else to do other than spend my days on Facebook... sad but true. In my defense, I AM looking for a job, my house IS clean, my pets ARE fed and other than one or two exceptions, my husband DOES have clean, matching socks, so it's not like I spend my life on the couch looking like an episode of Hoarders, which is, pathetically, a huge fear of mine. I actually spend my days on the couch in a VERY CLEAN HOUSE) just to see who she is, who her other friends are, how many of them I know, if we went to high school together, blah blah blah.

And since I feel like I'm on the verge of being discovered, I don't want to offend any potential discoverers.

And here's where it gets creepy:

*cue Shower Scene from Psycho*

*or maybe theme from Jaws, where you know the shark is coming*



*sound of frenzied slashing in shower/Great White attack... the shark, not the band*

Creepy, right?

But also? Strangely fascinating, yes? (Okay, maybe it's just me.)

So now I'm waiting to see how it all plays out.

Will she get more friends?

Will she add a photo and a bio to her Info page?

Will she send me a lock of her hair?

*soap opera music*

Stay tuned...

Mama needs Valium

I'm having one of those days where I'm over-tired, over-sensitive, and over-caffeinated. I'm also brain dead and possibly PMS-ing.

My plan for the day is to drink a lot of coffee, because you just never know at what point you're going to be required to completely over-react about something.

Usually, Dan is the Diva in our family. He is the Queen of the Over-Reaction, the Sherpa of Mountainous Mole Hills, and can always be counted on to come unglued about nothing. That leaves me the job of being calm, cool, and collected (most of the time) and causes me to down-play just about everything.

Dan: *onboard the Titanic* "Oh my GOD! IT'S AN ICEBURG! IT'S GOING TO HIT US! WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE!"

Me: *casually sipping my martini while up to my ass in iceburgs* "Settle down, Nancy, it's just a freaking chunk of ice. Stop being such a GIRL."

I don't really know anymore if it's just in my nature to scoff at Chicken Little or if it's merely a defense mechanism because I've spent a lot of time dodging glaciers and at some point, I just decided to ignore them.

Once in a blue moon, however, I do catch, out of the corner of my eye, the site of a huge wall of ice looming in my horizon, and when that happens, I'm not sure how to handle it.

In my head, I want to hike my skirt up, stand on a chair and scream, "IT'S A MOUSE! IT'S A MOUSE! KILL IT!"

Instead, I'm just holding it all inside and waiting for my world to implode.


If something devastating occurs in the world today, remember... you heard it here first.


20 September 2011

Going mobile

You know how some people think they would probably die without food, water and shelter? I'm not one of those people. I'm one of those people who thinks I would probably die without a phone.

If I were ship wrecked on a desert island, while the other survivors were setting up shelter, starting a fire, and catching fish with their bare hands (and drawing faces on volley balls) I would be searching for a cell tower. Not necessarily to call for help, but to check my Facebook status and to see if I'd missed any calls. While the others were screaming, "Fresh water!" I'd be squealing, "Yay! I have full bars!!!" (And my status update would be something like, "I can't believe I broke a nail! Fuck you, Desert Island.")

Sad but true.

I know this about myself. I'm not proud of it, but I freely admit it. I am a phone-aholic.

When phones went to cordless, I was ecstatic. I could cook, clean, change diapers, and go to the bathroom without ever having to get off the phone. I could chat on the phone while I took a bath. The only thing that could have made me happier would be a mini bar and a tv in my bathroom. (It's my Life's Goal, people. Before I die I will have a mini bar and a tv in my bathroom. Who says I'm not ambitious and don't have goals, MOM?)

The happiest day of my life was the day I got my first cellphone. (Sorry, kids. You're a very close second. Or maybe even a tie.) I could take my phone with me. I was no longer confined to the boundaries of a land line... I was mobile.

It was like, "I can drive and talk on the phone? Ohhh myyyy GODDDDD! Who needs a man!"

When the law came around and stopped me from talking and texting while driving I was okay with that... I mean, that's why God invented Bluetooth, am I right? Because you can't give me a phone that works in my car and then tell me I can't use it. I'm pretty sure that's a complete violation of the 8th Amendment.

(Sidebar: I had to google this info, fyi, because I wasn't sure which amendment it was. So I typed in 'law against cruel and inhumane punishment' and one of the things that came up was "Law Against Sagging Pants." Now that I know there's a law against sagging pants, I plan on making quite a few citizen's arrests. PULL YOUR PANTS UP, KID! JESUS!)

Here's what it says about the 8th Amendment, from the anals of Congress (annals, anals,.. same thing): ''No cruel and unusual punishment is to be inflicted; it is sometimes necessary to hang a man, villains often deserve whipping, and perhaps having their ears cut off; but are we in the future to be prevented from inflicting these punishments because they are cruel? If a more lenient mode of correcting vice and deterring others from the commission of it would be invented, it would be very prudent in the Legislature to adopt it; but until we have some security that this will be done, we ought not to be restrained from making necessary laws by any declaration of this kind.''


And I'm pretty sure that means "Don't give a girl a phone that she can talk on while she's driving and then tell her she can't use it because otherwise, someone's going to lose an ear or get a whipping. Or swing from the neck til dead."

(That's how I interpret it, anyway.)

So today, for some reason, my CELLPHONE ISN'T WORKING. This is making me feel all loud and stabby and like TYPING IN ALL CAPS. I have the battery out and will recharge in a minute but I'm telling you all HERE AND NOW: If this matter does not resolve itself SOON, Verizon will have some 'splainin' to do. And where I come from? 'Splainin' means "GIVE ME A GODDAMN PHONE THAT WORKS, STAT!"



*pain and suffering*


*get me a rope and some ear removers*


I may never be the same.

Dear Dani,



19 September 2011

When Facebook Attacks...

I'm a little butthurt. I admit it. Facebook hurt my feelings and I'm not sure I'm going to get over it any time soon.

Their side of the story:

Apparently, I sent out a Friend Request to someone who doesn't know me. Rather than scratch their heads and think to themselves, "Hmmmm... maybe I just don't recognize her last name because, you know, she's had several, and she is, like, 30 years older than she was in high school... maybe she looks a little different?" they ratted me out to Facebook. Facebook took it upon themselves to send me a slap on the wrist and ground me from my Friend Requesting Privileges for 7 Days.

Dear Danielle,

We were informed that you have sent out a Friend Request to someone who doesn't know you. You must be punished. You may ONLY send out Friend Requests to people who recognize your name, have met you in person, and had lunch with you at least twice in the past 6 months. Otherwise, we will remove all Friend Requesting privileges and you will die alone.


The Facebooking Team


You have 7 days to straighten your ass up.

Hopefully, in that time frame, I will learn my lesson. Otherwise life as we know it will cease to exist.

My side of the story: I only send out Friend Requests to people I think I know. I don't randomly request strangers, generally I request people whose blogs I read and have a little tab that says "Follow Me On Facebook!" (hey... don't invite me if you don't want me to come to your party, you jerk) or people I remember from high school. That's about it. If you don't remember me from high school, that's fine. I don't remember a lot of you, either. But when I see we went to the same high school and you graduated the same year I did, I give you the benefit of the doubt and accept your Friend Request because, you know, I'm not an asshole.

What kind of tattle-tale tells FACEBOOK on you? "Ummm, Facebook? This girl, Danielle Something Something Lots of Last Names? Sent me a Friend Request. Now my pee-pee hurts."

I can't believe I'm being grounded by Facebook.

Oh, the HUMANITY!!!

Chillin' and Relaxin' all coool....

By most accounts (well, mine, at any rate), I am a fairly level -headed, easygoing person. (No, really... I am. I am. Yes I AM! Well, FUCK you then!) I can go with just about any flow and I take bad news and most of life's many, MANY kicks in the pants with grace, dignity and good humor.

(I DO TOO! What do YOU know? Who are you, anyway?)

Very few things get me rattled. Actually, the list is so small as to be practically non-existent. These are the things that knock me for a loop and make me freak out in my own special way:

1. Running out of toilet paper. That right there, is a biggie. If I notice that I'm down to less than half a roll and there isn't any more in the house, I lose it. No really, I do. I sent Dan to the store yesterday with $5 in quarters to get an emergency supply until I could go to Walmart to stock up. (I was sitting on the toilet when I sent him. It wasn't a proud moment, for sure... but it was effective.)

Me: *bellowing* "Dan! DAN!! We're almost out of toilet paper!!

Dan: "What?"


Gah! I can hear myself echoing down the pipes and into Mr. Awesome's apartment.

(Did you get that, Mr. Awesome? Did you and all your friends that you had over yesterday watching football get that?)

Dan, of course, still can't hear me.

Dan: "Huh? Can't hear youuuu...."

Me: *grabbing my cell, because yeah... I'm one of those people who talks on the phone while I'm in the bathroom. Deal with it* "Ring ring...."

Dan: "Hello?"

Me: "We're almost out of toilet paper."



Dan: "Soooooo...?"

Me: "So go get some. Take change out of my purse."

Dan: "Now???"


(Okay, that was a slight exaggeration. I had half a roll and I wasn't in dire emergency. But like I said, when that's all that's left, I panic. You never know what is going to happen. You just DON'T.

2. Running out of coffee. No coffee is a bad, bad thing. No coffee makes everyone very. afraid. We do not run out of coffee. Ever. It's too horrible to even contemplate. When I notice my coffee getting low I get a little frantic. I've been known to send Dan to the store at midnight just to buy me coffee in case I don't have quite enough to make a smooth, rich pot in the morning. (This is why I'm married, by the way. I don't like running to the store for anything. It's HIS job to hit the all night grocery stores for Tums, Kotex, Toilet Paper, Coffee, NyQuil, Tylenol, and Pamprin. It's my job to stay home relaxing on the couch while he does that.)

3. Mayonnaise: You can read all about that here:

Because I WILL lose my shit over mayonnaise.

4. Bats: Anything that flies and could land in my hair. Because if it flies and lands in my hair, I will assume it's a bat and react accordingly. "Reacting Accordingly" involves Full Blown Stationary Panic, with screaming and slapping myself in the head and face until it's gone or dead. (My apologies to the baby bird I beat to death when it landed in my hair.)

Other than the above? I'm chill, yo.

And since Dan freaks out about literally everything else, we balance eachother out.

18 September 2011

Football and Sympathy

Men are whiners. You know it, I know it, even they know it. I hate to go all Militant Feminist on their asses but I'm gonna toss this out there, just for old time's sake: If it were up to them to give birth, human life on this earth would have ended a bazillion years ago, or whenever Man first made his appearance. (I'm not an anthropologist, for God's sweet sake... I'm just a woman with an opinion. So don't expect actual facts from me, mmmkay?)

Anywho, *inhale* *exhale* when DAN is sick, he becomes the World's Biggest Whiner. He lies in bed, he sleeps for hours, he coughs pathetically, and I wait on him hand and foot because he is soooo helpless. I mean, seriously helpless. I'm usually tolerant for about 24 hours but if it lasts longer than that, I'm pretty much over it and I start getting mean. But that's beside the point.

When I'M sick, he needs to be reminded constantly that I'm, well, sick. I still manage to make my own food, blow my own nose, and usually cook him dinner, while he asks me repeatedly what's wrong with me. I'm going to use yesterday as an example:

I woke up with a migraine that left me dizzy, vomiting, and in so much pain that I couldn't even speak. It was bad. BAD to the degree of Longing for Death. (And if you get migraines, you know exactly what I mean.)

Dan woke up cheerful and loud. I mean, he's usually loud, but yesterday morning he took loud to whole new levels. He was frisky and obnoxious and wayyyy too freaking perky. (I kinda sorta wanted to hurt him. True story.)

After he had grabbed me and squeezed me and bellowed "GOOD MORNING BABYYYYY!" into my ear (which I normally appreciate, really I do), I got up, staggered to the bathroom, and threw up everything I've ever eaten, ever, in my entire life (and a few things that I'm pretty sure I've never seen before. Hmmm.)

When I came back to bed I informed him in as few words as possible that I was sick, I had a migraine, and I was potentially dying.

He looked like he was listening. He nodded his head. He expressed sympathy while he flipped through the channels looking for a football game.

After listening to me puke a few more times, he got up, got dressed, and went to his nephew's football game (he helps coach. It's not like he abandoned me, he was supposed to be there. Just so you know that he may be an asshole, but he's not THAT big of an asshole).

I spent the morning dying and throwing up.

He called when the game was over and bellowed happily into my ear that they'd won the game and as a reward, he was going to let the little monsters shave his head on Tuesday after practice. (Don't get me started. Let's just pretend this is something people do every day and move on.)

I listened but wasn't capable of much speech. I grunted a few times and felt lightning bolts shooting into my head.

Dan: *soooooo damn loudly* "AND HOW ARE YOU DOING, BABY?"

Me: *softly, without opening my mouth because it hurt too bad* "Awful."

Dan: *here's where it get good* "WHY? WHAT'S WRONG?"

Seriously. He had listened to me puke, was looking right at me and nodding his head while I told him I had a migraine and was potentially going to die, and within 3 hours, had completely forgotten.

Me: *with as much annoyance as I could convey without my brain exploding* "I have a migraine and I've been throwing up all morning."

Dan: "Oh yeah. Ha ha, there can't be much left to throw up! Well, I'm gonna go have lunch with the team and then I'll be home. Love you!"

Warm fuzzies, am I right? I could feel the empathy pouring through the phone.

Flash forward an hour:

Dan comes barging through the front door, whistling. He charges into the bedroom exuding energy and good cheer. He shouts, from the doorway, "HI HONEY! I'M HOME!!! WHY ARE YOU STILL IN BED?"


Me: *without moving any part of my body for fear of puking* "Migraine. Vomit. Dying."

Dan: "Oh yeah. Sorry. Mind if I watch the game?"

Me: "Could you go get me some applesauce and 7 Up first?"

Dan: *looking wistfully at the tv* "Right now?"

Me: *snarling* "Yes, right now."

Dan: *sighing dramatically and making a big fat deal out of running to the corner store and buying me applesauce and 7 Up and missing 5 minutes of football* "Fine. *sigh* *sigh*"

Long story short, I started feeling better towards evening. I managed to get up, shower, eat some applesauce, and appreciate that with all the puking and not eating I'd done that day, I might have lost a pound. (It's the little things, yo.)

Dan spent the afternoon watching college football and happily yelling at the tv.

Which brings me to this morning.

When we woke up, Dan was oddly quiet, except for the occasional cough and deep sniffle, followed by a longggggg, longgggggg, longgggggggggggggg sigh. I knew what was coming, I really did.

Dan: *pathetically* "I didn't sleep for shit."

(GOD I hate it when he says that.)

Me: "Sorry, baby. You okay?"

Him: "My throat is scratchy and my sinuses are bothering me. *cough* *cough* *sniffle* *sigh*

Me: "Sorry! Hope you don't come down with what I had yesterday."

Wait for it....

Dan: "Why? What was wrong with you yesterday?"

Back off, girls... He's alllllll mine.

16 September 2011

Best Facebook status of the day...

This one came from my beautiful daughter-in-law and honestly made me shoot diet Pepsi through my nose:

"Really, Dog the Bounty Hunter... button your effing shirt, for the sake of everyone."

(That's my daughter-in-law, Danielle, with my son, Kacey. Are they or are they not the most ridiculously beautiful couple on the planet? Prince William and Kate who? Am I right? Oh, also? We have the same name, which makes her even more awesome. And our family gatherings a little confusing. And makes me think my son is kind of a mama's boy. Which isn't a bad thing.)

Further Adventures in Aspergers

I know I've blogged before about my husband, Dan, having Asperger's Syndrome (which is somewhere, but not quite, on the Autism Spectrum). It amazes me, when I hear the stories about him as a child and young adult, that no one ever thought his behavior was, you know, ODD.

(Dan wasn't diagnosed until I dragged his ass to a doctor in 2004 and said, "Will you please tell him he has Asperger's?" Which they did. Promptly. It was kind of like a "Duh" moment.)

One of the things he did, as a teen-ager and into his early 20s, was wear the same shirt every Friday, eat out of the same bowl, and drink out of the same cup... and use the same towel. They were his Friday shirt, his Friday bowl, his Friday cup, etc. I asked him one time why he did that and he said, "Because I really like Fridays."

Alrighty then.

(I may or may not find this so damn funny that I ask him about it a lot, just because it makes me laugh so hard. I may or may not be real sensitive and thoughtful like that. *cough*)


So let's flash forward 20 years or so to this morning:

Dan was getting ready for work and I was lying in bed with the two dogs and the covers pulled up to my nose. (It's cooooold outside today... I'M SO HAPPY!) Dan was rooting through his sock drawer and came up with a grand total of two socks, neither of which matched.

(Sidebar: There were only two mismatched socks, but at least 12 pairs of underwear were still in his drawer. I'm afraid to ask how that happened.)

Dan: "Did you do any laundry yesterday?"

Me: *guiltily, because I'm home all day and the fact that Dan doesn't have two socks that match is pretty embarrassing, considering he owns approximately 200 pairs* "No... sorry."

Dan: *very patiently, even though I have no good freaking excuse* "I don't have any socks."

Me: *because I'm a problem solver... it's what I do instead of laundry* "You wear work boots... just wear those socks. No one is going to see them."

Dan: *agreeably... which actually kind of shocked me, because if he's ever had a legitimate moment to bitch about me not doing laundry, this was it* "Okay."

He held up the socks and looked at them for a moment and said, "Well, isn't this going to be a special day."

Me: "Why?"

Dan: "Because my socks don't match."

Me: *because I am that person who will beat something I find funny into the ground* "They can be your new Friday socks!"

Dan: *very seriously* "They can't be Friday socks."

Me: *trying very, very hard not to laugh* "Why can't they?"

Dan: *even more seriously* "They're not that special."

I give myself huuuuge amounts of credit for not laughing myself into a coma until AFTER he left.

I'm a giver, yo.

15 September 2011

facebooking from the edge...: Fat Thursday

facebooking from the edge...: Fat Thursday: (Which was apparently preceded by Fat Wednesday, Fat Tuesday, Fat Monday, ad infinity.) I had nothing short of a giant, fucking epiphany th...

Fat Thursday

(Which was apparently preceded by Fat Wednesday, Fat Tuesday, Fat Monday, ad infinity.)

I had nothing short of a giant, fucking epiphany this morning. Seriously: It included lightning, thunder, and the Universe smacking me on the back of the head screaming, "Hey, FAT-ASS! YOUR PANTS DON'T FIT BECAUSE YOU'VE BEEN EATING LIKE A PIG AND SITTING ON YOUR ASS FOR DAYS AT A TIME!"

It started like this:

I needed to run to the bank to deposit Dan's check. I did my usual "Since I know absolutely not one single person in this Godforsaken place I can throw on jeans, a t-shirt and a hat and go happily about my business because there is like a chance in ZERO that I will run into anybody I know" routine (which basically involves a minimum of primping prior to leaving the house... as long as there's no spinach in my teeth or boogers hanging out of my nose, I'm good to go). I tossed off my jammies, grabbed a pair of jeans that haven't seen daylight since we moved here (because it's been hotter than freaking hell since MAY) and yanked them on.

And that's when the aforementioned epiphany occurred:

I could barely button them.

My eyes popped out of my head, I sucked my stomach in as far as it would go (which turned out to be not very far), and almost passed out from lack of air when I finally squeezed the button into the buttonhole.

And for the first time since, like, high school (when wearing jeans tight enough to see your front from the back was all the rage) I had to lie down on my bed to zip them up.

It was tragic.

I had to put on a longgggg t-shirt to hide the camel toe, then cover that with a big old baggy sweatshirt (to hide the exreme muffin top). I had to put my boots on standing up because my pants were too tight for me to lean forward and pull them on from a sitting position (and if I'd unbuttoned my jeans to make it possible for me to achieve the goal of putting on boots while sitting without slicing myself in two, there was a distinct risk that I wouldn't be able to button them up again or that I might die trying).

Oh Em Gee, I said to myself. I think it's a teensy bit possible that I've gained a little weight.

(Okay, that's a lie: What I actually did was yell, out loud, "Fuck! FUCK!! What the FUCK! Why can't I button my pants?")

And that's the part where the Universe arrived and called me a Fat-ass.

Holy Bejeezus, y'all. I had no idea that I've just been sitting around, fattening up like a little Christmas piggy. I mean, I thought I'd maybe gained a little weight... You know, not enough to say so, just enough to round out the number a tad. Like, to stick a 0 where a 5 used to be. Nothing major.

I ran my errands, feeling like a sausage about to burst from it's casing, and couldn't wait to get back home so I could take my freaking pants off.

I came into the house and had my pants undone before I'd even shut the front door behind me. I stripped down to my skivvies, walked into the bathroom, and stared at my poor, dusty, unused scale, sitting helplessly on top of the washing machine (where it's been since, well... May).

Did I dare?

Did I really want to know?

Would being in complete denial really be a bad thing? I mean, I could be one of those Big Girls who walk around feeling all fiiiiiine in low rise jeans and baby tees while their bellies and back fat hang down over the waist band of their pants and obliterate the whale tail and tramp stamp they are showing off... right?

Yeahhhh... I'm gonna go with NO. I just don't have that kind of self-esteem.

I dusted off the scale, stepped on it 16 times, and arrived at the horrifying conclusion that I eat too much and move too little.

Who knew? The Universe was right! That bitch!

Time to fix that.

Dear Skinny People Who "Can't Gain Weight" or "Forget To Eat",

You can pretty much kiss the fattest part of my ass.