Because sometimes a status update just isn't enough.

Because sometimes a status update just isn't enough.

26 October 2012

Those Three Little Words, Revisited

Some things never change, you guys.

The sun will rise and set, the earth will tilt on it's axis, if we stop breathing we die, and when Dan is sick, he travels back in time to age 3 and expects to be treated as such.

Oh yeah... he's sick.

He has the sniffles.

He's pouty, whiny, miserable, and seemingly on his death bed.  Not that it kept him from staying up last night to watch the World Series until midnight, but that only gave him an even better excuse to feel sorry for himself this morning.  

He had to go to work.

And he's sick.  No one in the history of work has ever had to go in sick, ever.  EVER.  Except DAN.  AND IT'S SO UNFAIR, Y'ALL.  

I'm sure we'll be holding a vigil around his death bed later tonight.  Because I may or may not be forced to kill him.

And since he acts the same way every single time he so much as gets a pimple, I'ma do the lazy thing and repost last year's sick bed blog.

Happy Friday!!

24 October 2012

Three days in the Twilight Zone

*Author's note:  No Canadians were harmed in the writing of this blog.

*Poutine:  French fries with gravy and cheese curd.

Late Monday morning, I apparently entered a parallel universe that was inhabited by strange people who were determined to talk to me.  

And by "strange" I mean "stupid."  

In case you were wondering.

I thought the first incident was a fluke, that perhaps I'd accidentally gone to the post office at the wrong time and bumped into someone who'd never left northern New York.  (You'd be shocked at how often that happens.)  

As I was waltzing in to pick up the mail I smiled brightly at the middle-aged woman who was holding the door for me.

Her:  "Is it nice enough out there for ya?"

Me:  "Oh yeah, for sure!  It's gorgeous!"

Her:  "So where are you from?"

Ummmm...  what?

Me:  "I moved here a year or so ago from California."

Her:  *doubtfully*  "California?"

Me:  "Um... yeah?"

Her:   "Oh... I thought you were from Sweden or Norway or somewhere over there."

Sweden or Norway?

Why, because they're so known for their short, fat, brunette women?

Her:  "Because of your accent."

Of course.  That makes perfect sense.

In exactly the same way that I sound like I'm Swedish.

Later that same day, I was informed on a friend's Facebook wall by a perfect stranger that I'm Facebooking wrong.

I'm Facebooking wrong.

I'm Facebooking... wrong.


I made a simple comment on a friend's status update, which was a direct response to what he had posted.  The post was somewhat political in nature, but that's neither here nor there.

My comment was then commented upon by a person I don't know with a different political opinion than mine.

I said "I don't argue with strangers on my friend's facebook walls."

And I even included a smiley face emoticon.

Because I'm that goddamn nice.

Fuck off and die, k?

As it turns out, in the parallel universe "I don't argue with strangers on my friend's facebook wall" translates into, "Please keep arguing with me and showing me how wrong I am and how right you are... that's exactly why I'm here."

So THEN I said, because let's face it, I'm kind of a bitch, "Oh, I get it... you're a right fighter!  Awesomeness!  Okay, you're right."


Still waiting for you to fuck off and die!!

As it turns out, in the Twilight Zone?  Calling someone a "right fighter" is almost exactly the same as calling them a racist.

Because after I said that, HE responded with THIS:  "Of course, attack me personally!  Might as well call me an extremist, a racist, and a bigot while you're at it like most liberals do to conservatives who have an opinion that's different from theirs."

(I feel the need to insert here that nothing in the original status update in anyway denigrated Conservatives, nor did my response denigrate Conservatives.  It was actually a discussion on how much money is spent on campaigning for political office.)

Anyway, THIS is where he told me I'm Facebooking wrong:

"This IS facebook, a social network.  People post comments for others to discuss and comment on, have mini debates, etc.  If you don't expect anyone to comment on your comment, send a PM next time."

OHHHhhhhh... because, see, I thought Facebook was a tool for me to keep in touch with my family and friends.

Silly, SILLY me.  I had no idea it was specifically to be used as a forum for debate.

Thank goodness I was set straight by Lord God King Facebook Rule Maker.

I will, indeed, send a private message next time, so as not to use social media incorrectly.

Also?  Note to self:  Right Fighter means "extremist, racist, and bigoted."  So yeah... I totally should have just called him a douchebag and let it go.

Got it.

I had high hopes for Tuesday, I truly did.

Monday is usually an asshole, which would totally explain it, right?

Of COURSE right.

Tuesday is like the Ugly Redheaded Stepchild of the week... so it tries super hard to please.

Tuesday would be good.

I would make Tuesday my bitch.

Tuesday had other ideas.

Tuesday in the Twilight Zone went like this:

First?  I started my period.

Then?  Jessie, the happiest child in the universe, went from singing happy songs about her breakfast to bawling as she got on the school bus because I said something that hurt her feelings.

I have no idea what it was.

Neither did she.

Me:  "Jessie?  What's wrong?  Why are you crying?"

Jessie:  *tears overflowing her China blue eyes and looking exactly like Cindy Lou Who*  "I don't know."

Me:  "Are you sad?"

Jessie:  *nodding*

Me:  "Did Aunt Dani do something to make you sad?"

Jessie:  *nodding*

Me:  "What did I do, honey?  You can tell me.  I don't ever want to hurt your feelings or make you cry."

Jessie:  *gulping back sobs*  "I don't know."

What the hell???  I would have my mouth sewn shut before I would say something to hurt that child.

Fucking Tuesday.

After Jessie left for school, I went about the business of cleaning the house.  My mother is arriving sometime tomorrow (cue sound track from Jaws) and naturally, that means I suddenly can't stop procrastinating.

Lifting a dust cloth is soooo much wooork.  It's sooooo heavyyyyyy.

In other words, since learning my mother would be arriving, I haven't managed to clean a thing.  It's like I physically just can't do it.  Because I know she's coming.  And I know it needs to be done.  So I don't want to do it.

Oh, never mind.

Suffice it to say, as I was vacuuming, I suddenly realized that the vacuum cleaner was doing more spreading the dog hair around than actually sucking it up.

Son of a mo fo, yo.

Since this vacuum cleaner was specifically made to de-pet hair a house, the one damn thing it should be doing is suck up dog hair.

The one damn thing.

*cue hissy fit*

*cue the utterance of many, many, MANY bad words*

*cue me saying "fuckitall" and going to the store to get groceries instead of cleaning my house*

And that's where I once again entered Bizzaro World.

Things went smoothy until I couldn't find the polenta.

I found a shelf stocker and asked, "Do you know where I could find polenta?"

You have no idea what a freaking can of worms THAT opened.

It took FOUR PEOPLE to help locate the polenta...


It wasn't in the Mexican food aisle (which basically is two shelves that contain Taco Bell Complete Dinner Packs and refried beans).

It wasn't in the produce section with the health food and gluten free stuff.

It wasn't in the gluten free aisle.

It wasn't in the pasta aisle, or the baking aisle, or the bread aisle.

It wasn't even lingering amongst the canned goods.

Would you like to know where it was?  Would you?

Because I'm going to tell you where it was:

It was in the refrigerator section with the Pillsbury Pop 'N Fresh products.

It's like, since no one knew what it was, they didn't quite know where to put it.  So they put it someplace where they thought it might make sense.

Let me now share with you the conversations I had regarding polenta:

Every store person that tried to help:  "What is polenta?"

Me:  "It's corn meal, usually sold in a tube."

Every single store person:  "?????"

Me:  "Like grits?  Only in a tube?  Already made?  Only thicker, and you slice it and fry it or grill it?"

Every single store person:  "?????"

Me:  "Okay, like, you know the stuff on the outside of a tamale?  Not the husk, but the yellow stuff inside that's stuffed with meat?"

Every single store person:  "A what?"

Me:  "A tamale?  You know, a tamale?  Tamale?"

By this time, I'd reached the point where I felt like I was speaking a foreign language so I started speaking slowly and loudly, like most Americans do when faced with people who don't habla Ingles, assuming that would help them understand.

In my quest for polenta, I'd become an Ugly American.


Every single store person:  "I don't know what that is..."

Fucking A, you guys.

Me:  "Ummm... it's like, corn bread only sticky and not dry."  (Because damned if I was going to use the word "moist."  You're welcome.)

Eventually, it was determined that the store carried no such thing, so I slowly cruised up and down every aisle anyway, hoping it would leap out and grab me.

And like I said, it finally did, mixed in with biscuits, cookies, and cinnamon rolls.

Shockingly, it hadn't expired, though I admit to being a tad leery about when it may have been put there.

And by whom.

I had to repeat my entire performance when I was checking out at the register.

Fuck me hard, y'all.

I was annoyed.

Stop eating goddamn poutine, you friggin' almost Canadians.  First of all, it's disgusting, and second of all, it's just wrong.  

Eat polenta.  It's glorious.

Poutine.  Don't even ask what this shit is... they serve it everywhere here.  It's like the National Dish of Canada and Northern New York.  

And then?

Today brought with it the weirdest exchange I've ever had with a complete stranger.

I'm still not sure if I was complimented or insulted.

Also?  I feel slightly violated, somehow.

Let's break it down, shall we?



I went down to the village market (because I live in a village, don'tcha know.  Not a town, not a city, a village.  Because "town" and "city" mean totally different things on the east coast than they do in the west.  And I still don't get it.  But whatever... when in Rome, live in a village.  Accept that poutine happens.  I won't pretend to understand, but I will speak in their native tongue whenever possible.)

Anyway, back to the village market.

I picked up a few necessities of life that I didn't feel like driving into the bigger village 15 miles away to purchase, like bottled water (because I'm a snob), diet Pepsi (because I was so involved in the friggin' polenta fiasco yesterday that I totally forgot I was out), and fresh cheese curd (because, you know... it's awesome).  As I was paying, the woman behind the register, who obviously hadn't looked at a magazine since 1979, said, "How many different colors of eye shadow do you have on there?"

I have literally never been asked that question.


Me:  *because I'm hella freaking polite*  "Three?"

Her:  "Well, you don't say.  I've never seen so many colors at one time!"  At which point she emitted a smokers laugh/cough combo that nearly blew my hair back.

Me:  *smiling stupidly because I'm not sure how to communicate with people in a parallel universe*  "Oh... heh heh..."

Her:  "So where'd you get that idea?"

Me:  "Ummmm... Cosmo?  Circa 1980?"

Her:  "What's that now?"

Me:  "Cosmo?  The magazine?  I've been doing this forever."

Her:  "You have?  I don't think I've ever seen that much eyeshadow at one time!"  *cue another smokey laugh that ended with one of her lungs lying on the counter*

(I feel the need to point out here that this woman was at least 50, her huge boobs were falling out of the neckline of her stretched out t-shirt, her hair was parted down the middle and pulled back on both sides in barrettes, and she was smoking at the register.  But yeah... I'm the one that looked like a whore because I was wearing three different shades of eye shadow.)

What she apparently thought I looked like:

I mean, granted:  I love make-up.  I wear make-up.  I put make-up on whether I'm leaving the house or not, because I like to.  Sometimes I do dramatic things with my eyes, but usually I just blend three colors, add eyeliner and mascara, and call it good.

Today was one of those days.

What I actually looked like:

Pardon the really bad angle.   And my bra strap.  Okay, and my arm and neck fat. 

Suffice it to say, I'm ready for the Mothership to return the humans to Earth and take all the Cyborgs back to Glom, or whever the hell they're from.


22 October 2012

When Being Awesome Nearly Killed Me

So three days ago, in a misguided decision to cut back on caffeine, I gave up coffee.

Because I'm stupid.

It all started when I decided to try eliminating gluten from my life to see if it would help with some health issues I've been ignoring for the past three years.  

(Something you may not know about me:  I'm a severe hypochondriac who refuses to go to the doctor because even though I know I'm dying of 57 different types of cancer and other terminal illnesses, I assume that if I don't have it confirmed by a medical professional, it will simply go away.  Everything is a tumor.  Everything.)

Being an all-or-nothing kind of girl, I de-glutened the entire house, informed Dan he was going on a gluten-free diet and his insidious Subway habit was officially over (take THAT, Jarrod) and began making polenta and gluten-free pasta like it was my freaking job.

Within 24 hours, I became a gluten-free rock star.

So did Dan, completely against his will.

After a few days, I started to feel a lot better.  

I also started to feel a little bit self-righteous.

Look how amazing I am, I thought to myself, all gluten-free and shit.

Then I had THIS thought:

You know what would be even awesomer?  To be caffeine AND gluten-free!!!  

I can be one of those self-righteous people who says, "Oh, I don't drink coffee... I'll just have a glass of hot water and a lemon to go with my mung bean soup."  And I'll carry my yoga mat everywhere just in case and say, "Namaste."  I'll wear hemp and get dreadlocks.  I'll be all peace-loving and shit.

It was such a great idea.

So I implemented it right away.

Because that's how I roll.

Saturday morning dawned bright and clear, and even though every cell in my body was screaming for coffee, I self-righteously drank a bottle of water.


I mean, MMMMM, water... refreshing!

My determination began waning by noon, when the headache set in and I had no discernible energy

I can do this.  Because I'm awesome.

Evening brought a severe migraine, tunnel vision, tinnitus, nausea, and near death.


My jaw popped 40,000 times because I couldn't stop yawning.

Take that,  nephew.

The only way I could continue being awesome was to go to bed.  Which I did.

And because Life is such an asshole, I spent the night tossing and turning and waiting for my head to explode because the migraine was that damn bad.

It's a tumah.

I dragged my sad and sorry decaffeinated ass out of bed at about 10:30 Sunday morning, which is like two hours later than what I normally consider "sleeping in."


I drank yet another  large bottle of water, with which I washed down four Advil and two Tylenol in hopes that I would either die of an overdose or my headache would go away, either of which would be fine.

Sadly, neither happened.


This is the part where I kicked Awesome to the curb and became a bitch.

Dan:  "How are you this morning, baby?"


Dan:  "Are you feeling okay?  You look a little tired."


Dan:  "Why don't you go outside and get some fresh air?  That should make you feel better."


I was so tired yesterday that I couldn't keep my eyes open.

Napping is unheard of for me.  I hate napping.  I always feel worse when I wake up than I did before I dozed off.  I feel hungover, ooky, fuzzy headed, and stupid.  I don't comprehend "power napping" anymore than I get the concept of "cat napping."

What I DO comprehend is "powering down caffeinated beverages."

So when I fell asleep sitting up on the couch at 3:30 in the afternoon, it was not a good sign.

My own snoring woke me up, which was even worse.

And I still had a freaking headache.  And my mood was even more foul.

And since my weekend seemed to be filled with bad decisions, I decided to make an even worse decision:

We ordered pizza for dinner.

And bread sticks.

*long pause*


Okay fine.

And chicken wings.

Basically, since I wasn't drinking caffeine, having a gluten-fest for dinner made perfect sense.

"We can start again tomorrow!" we chortled, as we shoved pizza and breadsticks and hot wings down our gluttonous throats.

"Since we're blowing it, we might as well blow it right!" we guffawed, as we reached for another slice of pizza.

"We've earned this!  We've been so good!!" we rationalized, as we opened containers of garlic butter dipping sauce and soaked it up with wheat products.

"Look at all the veggies on my pizza!"  I bellowed.  "This counts as being healthy, right?  Garlic helps lower cholesterol so it makes the butter cholesterol free!"

Oh, how we laughed as we got increasingly fatter!!


Oh, how we regretted it an hour after we ate...

By the time we went to bed, my migraine had reached massive proportions.  My skin itched, my stomach hurt, and don't even get me started on Dan's gas.

I spent a miserable night waiting for death.

Death, per usual, stood me up.  AGAIN.

Which  meant I had to get up this morning and make better choices.


As I stood in the kitchen holding the bottle of Advil that had become not only my breakfast, but also my best friend, my eyes lingered lovingly on my coffee pot.

As though propelled by forces beyond my control, I felt myself being pulled towards it.  Angels sang as I took the coffee out of the cupboard and inhaled the scent of the magic life-enhancing elixer of the Gods.

And then I Tebowed as the sounds of hot coffee filled the pot.

Because Tim Tebow totally invented gratitude and giving thanks.  If you don't believe me, ask his lawyers.

Within an hour after consuming my second cup of coffee, my headache was gone.  I had gluten-free granola for breakfast and a gluten-free lunch of beans, rice, vegetables, and 40 gallons of sriracha sauce.

What I learned:

Being awesome is way overrated.

Coffee is even better than being awesome.

It is.  It's that good.

18 October 2012

The one where a cow rolls down the hill

Whilst driving through the country side looking at the foliage a month or so ago, my 15 year old nephew suddenly exclaimed from the back seat, "OH MY GOD!!  A COW JUST ROLLED DOWN THE HILL!"

*long pause*


A few things you might need to know about my nephew before assuming that Dan and I are heartless cow haters are as follows:

He is not A drama queen, he is THE Drama Queen.

He prefaces 99.99% of every single thing he says with, "OH MY GOD!"  I'm not talking about the socially acceptable "Like, oh ma gawd..."  No, not him.  His is the "OH.  MY.  GOD!!" that implies blood, gore, death, disaster, and impending doom.

Because his life is that filled with danger and risk.  Every day that he survives is a miracle.  You have no idea.  None.  Because he is the first teenager ever.


(We've also heard, "OH MY GOD!  MAISY TRIED TO BITE ME!" after he gave her a treat and her puggy lips touched his finger.)

Vicious man-eating pug.

He has a gift for injury that is life threatening at best and fatal at worst.  He has nearly died just from sitting on the couch and feeling his back pop.  A splash in the face in the swimming pool has caused him to nearly drown.  A splinter in his finger has resulted in near amputation and a sore throat this summer was surely a sign of Scarlet Fever.  Or worse.

Wearing the wrong shirt outside to mow the lawn could cause complete social ostracism and no one, ever, EVER, has experienced more compelling teenage issues than he has.  No one.

He has lived, this young man.  He knows about struggle and deprivation:  He doesn't have a cellphone that can connect to the internet and give him unlimited texting and calling.  You don't know heartache until you've been unable to connect to Facebook with your mobile.

He actually said this to me after his grandparents told him he wasn't getting an iPhone:  "What kind of phone did YOU have when you were my age?"

When I was your age we used two tin cans and a string!

He doesn't just roll his eyes, he practically has a seizure.  And the wisdom he has shared with us over the past year?

I'm not sure how I lived without it before moving to New York.

Did you know, for example, that the reason I didn't get to use a calculator for Algebra my freshman year in high school and he does is because (prepare for shock and awe) Algebra has changed since then and has gotten more difficult??  After all, that was like 30 years ago.  

He also knows someone who raises black widow spiders and sells their webs to the FBI because (and this is the part that you will want to know) that's what they use to make Kevlar vests.   His "friend" was bitten nine times by a black widow so he was specifically chosen by the creator of Kevlar to breed the spiders to create the webbing because he is the only person in the world to ever survive nine black widow bites.

(I'll give you a moment to process that.)

And when asked who the first president of the United States was, he responded, "George Bush."

Now you know.

Which is why, of course, we took his announcement of seeing a cow rolling down the hill so seriously.

Because it totally could have happened.


The following conversation may or may not have taken place between my husband and I immediately following the dramatic announcement that a cow had just rolled down the hill, because we are kind and caring human beings:





Nephew in the back seat:  *morphing from Beavis into Butthurt*





Nephew in the back seat:  *staring moodily out the window plotting our imminent demise*

Me:  "At least it didn't wipe out all the other cows on the way down..."

Dan:  "The farmer would be all, 'I lost my herd in an incident of cow tipping gone bad.  Praise Jesus, I had insurance for that!'"

Me:  *laughing myself into a pants-wetting asthma attack*  "All the other cows are like warning their children of the dangers of cow tipping.  They're all, "Bossy, Matilda, Maybelle... what do you do if you see teenagers dressed in camo headed your way?  YOU RUN!!!  AND NO MATTER WHAT YOU HEAR, DON'T LOOK BACK!!!!"


Nephew:  *sulking in the back seat*

Me:  *for the next month and a half every time I drive past a field of cows*  "OH MY GOD!!!  DID A COW JUST ROLL DOWN THE HILL??"

 Sadly, the poor cow who may or may not have rolled down a hill has provided Dan and I with hours of entertainment.

The visual of a cow casually standing at the top of a hill eating grass and minding it's own business then suddenly tipping over and rolling to the bottom cracks us up.  Hard.

Especially when we combine it with, "OH MY GOD!!  MY JAW JUST POPPED!!  AND A COW ROLLED DOWN THE HILL!"

Meanwhile, the nephew doesn't find us funny.  At all.

Basically, our amusement at his exclamation of a rolling cow has ruined his life.

In short?

We are assholes.

Because we've told everybody.

The ramifications are that he is butthurt... a lot.

I'm assuming he'll either get glad in the same pants he got mad in, or else he'll experience another life altering event that will distract us all from cows rolling down hills.

And when it does, we will be there to support him.

Because we care.


16 October 2012

When squirrels go rogue...

I dreamed I was being attacked by squirrels again last night.

"Again," as in "I've been dreaming about being attacked by squirrels."

The first time it happened, I was perplexed.

So perplexed, in fact, that I googled "Dreaming about being attacked by squirrels" to see if my subconscious was trying to tell me something.

"To dream of seeing squirrels denotes that a pleasant friend will soon come to visit you.  You will see advancement in your business, also.  To kill a squirrel denotes that you will be unpleasant and disliked.  To pet one signifies family joy.  To see a dog chasing one foretells disagreements and unpleasantness among friends."

Uh huh... Uh huh...  

So what my subconscious is telling me is that no one else in the entire world has ever dreamed of being attacked by squirrels, ever, in the entire history of time.  

That leads me to one obvious conclusion:  

It's a message from God.

I'm channeling Joan of Arc... I need to save the world from squirrels...

Let me explain... 

I've seen more squirrels since moving to New York than I've ever seen before in my life.  If you took every squirrel that has crossed my line of vision between 1962 and 2011, it wouldn't even come close to the number of squirrels I've seen since.  Those little bastards are everywhere.  Running across the lawn, scampering up a tree, squished flat on the side of the road, playing on top of the roof...  This is a squirrel paradise.  Gray squirrels, red squirrels, black squirrels... (No lie... black squirrels.  So freaking cute.  They look like Javi, my black Pomeranian.)  Squirrels squirrels everywhere!!

It's like The Birds, only with squirrels.


And they're adorable!!!

And peaceful!

Totally non-violent!

Dude, we'd never attack you in your sleep!  Peace is Patriotic!

It all started over the summer.

We were sitting around a campfire (I hate campfires.  In fact, I'm not a giant fan of outside, period.) when I happened to glance over Dan's shoulder.

There was this creepy looking squirrel with enormous eyes hovering on the edge of the tree, watching us.

Because I'm an asshole, I pointed at the squirrel and announced, "Oh my GOD!  It's the chupacabra!!"

Dan,  because he's Dan, looked in the direction my finger was pointing and instantly freaked out.

"WHAT THE FUCK!!" he screamed.

After I was done laughing I said, "Seriously... what IS that?  Some freaky-ass east coast thing?"

As it turns out, it was a Flying Night Squirrel.


Flying Chupacabra.  Tell me THAT wouldn't freak your ass out.

Long story short, the Flying Night Squirrel spent the rest of the night watching me drunkenly point at it and squeal, "CHUPACABRA!" and then fall over laughing because Dan jumped every single time.  

Every.  Single.  Time.

That shit just never got old, y'all.

It was shortly after that when I had my first Attacked By Squirrels dream.

Coincidence?  I think not.

In the dream, I could actually feel the squirrel biting the crap out of my arms with it's sharp, pointed, demonic little teeth.  I was screaming and flailing and trying to bat it off of me, but it was so ferocious that I couldn't make it stop.

I vill keel you in your sleep.

When I woke up, I checked my arms for bite marks.  There were none.

Me:  "I dreamed I was being attacked by a squirrel."

Dan:  "That's fucked up."

It totally is.  

After that, I became a little leery of all the frolicking going on in my yard.  I was still charmed by the squirrels, but also viewed them with suspicion.  I mean, they're cute and all, but I'm pretty sure they have a dark side.  

Then I dreamed again of the squirrel attacks.  Same basic dream:  I was suddenly swarmed and viciously assaulted by a snarling fuzzy rodent with a fluffy tail.

I know, right??


Squirrels had suddenly lost their charm.

And then, one day last week Jessie and I were taking a walk.  At some point, she pointed and said, "Aunt Dani!  Look!"

I looked in the direction her finger was pointing and there, before my very eyes, was a small red squirrel chasing a much larger grey squirrel across a leaf-covered lawn and up a tree.

I grabbed Jessie's hand and dragged her down the sidewalk muttering under my breath, "Just keep walking! Go!  Don't look back!  Whatever you do, DON'T LOOK BACK!"

(On that same walk we also came across a tiny garter snake that literally chased us down the street, but that's neither here nor there.  I did, however, have a fabulous time regaling Dan, who is terrified of snakes to such a degree that I have seen him run screaming down the street after I pointed out a dead snake on the side of the road, with tales of Killer Garter Snakes.  He did everything but stick his fingers in his ears and sing the "La La" song when I told him how the snake tried to climb up my pant leg and grab me by the throat and strangle me.  Which may or may not have totally happened.  Meanwhile, Dan refuses to go on walks with me now.)

Last night, again, I dreamed of squirrels.

The universe is trying to communicate with me...

I need to warn the people...

There will be an uprising...

The squirrels are planning a Revolution...

I've done all I can.

Now it's up to you.

Don't say I didn't warn you.

Vive la Revolution!!

05 October 2012

Shark Week For Dummies

I'm having an Ugly day.

Basically, it's one of those days where it doesn't matter what I do to enhance my over-all appearance, I still look unattractive, unwashed, and slept in.

I've tossed my shirt in the dryer TWICE because every time I put it on, it immediately looks rumpled.

I've washed, dried, flat-ironed, re-wetted, re-dried, re-flat ironed, sprayed, gelled, waxed, flattened, and re-flat ironed my hair and I can't get rid of this weird clump sticking out of the side of my head.  

What.  The fuck.

My shirt keeps climbing up my midriff and getting stuck under my boobs, showing a becoming strip of muffin top above my pant-waist.

I have a motherfucking pimple.

I'm wearing fat pants and Uggs because really, anything else would be a complete waste of time.

Oh, and I think my right eye is drooping.  Suddenly, after 49 years of looking perfectly normal(ish), I have a wonky eye.

In other words, I'm a hot mess.  A smokin' hot ugly mess with zits and a wonky eye.

I'm ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille...

And then, because no Ugly day is complete without total public humiliation, this happened:

Life being what it is, I had to make a trip to the drug store this morning to purchase an alternate box of tampons.  I had purchased an emergency box yesterday ("emergency" because I needed them, like, right fucking then) and in my haste, I ran into the drug store, grabbed my usual brand and drove on home... only to discover that they were scented.



With Baby Fresh-ness.  And in case you were wondering, Baby Fresh-ness smells exactly like the hideous scent they put in deodorized cat litter.

Which is a tad ironic.

And smells like no baby, anywhere, except possibly one born in a brothel.

Meanwhile, my cervix suddenly smelled like a cheap whore.  

And every time I opened the box, I sneezed.

Which leads me to the moment where I had to drive the 15 freaking miles back to the drug store to buy alternate tampons.

If you're one of those people who doesn't feel slightly awkward running into the store and ONLY buying a box of tampons, then you remind me of my mother.  She did everything but balance the box on her head and then juggle it while standing in the check out line, which was nothing short of mortifying to teen-age me.  Also?  It makes me feel like I did that day my freshman year in high school when I started my period at school and no one told me.  I was wearing light blue Dittos (the jeans du jour in the late 70s, for those of you who are too young to remember the most important fashion decade, like, ever) and blissfully unaware of the life-long trauma awaiting me in the very near future, rocked a blood stain the size of a salad plate as I sashayed happily from class to class.  (I still remember my mother coldly but firmly refusing to allow me to quit school that day.  She didn't seem to think it was necessary.)

(Also?  If I went to high school with you and you're reading this and somehow remember this life altering moment, please don't say so.  It's very important to my mental health to believe that no one noticed.)

So even though I literally needed nothing else today, I still bought a package of make-up remover cloths  (I know, right?  WTF?) and a bottle of Smart Water along with my unscented tampons.  (Because I have mad ninja tampon-buying skillz, yo.  No one would suspect a thing.)

Which made what happened next even more awkward, considering I was being incognito:

Picture, if you will, a short, chubby, middle-aged woman mindlessly trotting across the parking lot rooting around in her (ridiculously enormous) purse for her keys and sunglasses.  She's not paying attention to anything or anyone and seemingly expects there to be no traffic, pot holes, random pebbles, or other people in her way.

And then, in slow-motion, she simultaneously drops the bag containing her purchases, steps on it with one foot then trips over it with the other, and then kicks the box of tampons three feet in front of her while the Smart Water and make-up removal cloths remain in the bag.

The tampons fly forward in a perfect arc, catching intermittent glints of sunlight through the cloudy skies, and land with great ceremony into a large puddle of water.

And because my life is one long adventure in pain, the 200 people wandering across the parking lot that I didn't notice before stopped to watch this all happen.

A car approaching the pharmacy drive through stopped just short of my tampons and waited for me to react.

This left me with the following dilemma:

1.  Do I casually pretend that none of this ever happened, get in my car and drive away while leaving my purchases behind littering the parking lot of Kinney Drugs?

2.  Do I laugh as if I meant to do that, pick the stuff up, high five the old guy standing three feet away from me gawking, give a thumbs-up to the driver of the car who stopped and waited for me, and leave with my head held high?

3.  Do I die right then and there?

4.  Do I go back into the store and buy yet another box of tampons, just in case anyone missed the fact that I'm on my period?

5.  Do I pick up the Smart Water and make-up cloths and leave the tampons?

Decisions, decisions...

After pondering for a few moments, I went with 6:

6.  Do not make eye-contact with anyone, as that will render you invisible.  Pick up your bag, pick up your wet and muddy box of tampons, drop your keys into the puddle at the same time, pick up keys, and walk briskly to car. Hit the lock button twice on your key fob (which causes your horn to honk) before finally hitting the unlock button. Notice, after you get in the car, that your shirt has climbed up your body and is now resting comfortably under your boobs and in your side rolls, while exposing at least 4 inches of bare skin and back fat.  Drive away and vow to start buying tampons from (they sell everything else, yes?).  Stop at stupid little village market which is only like a block from your house on the way home and pay ridiculously huge price for some weird off-brand of tampons and a Snickers bar.  Go home, eat candy bar, and pray for death.

Silver lining #1:  I didn't actually fall all the way down.

Silver lining #2:  When you google images of "Fat People of Walmart" my picture doesn't come up.

It's the little things, y'all.

03 October 2012


Mea Culpa.

It's that time of year again.  
The summer heat slowly turns to the cool breezes of autumn,  the vibrant leaves fall gently from the trees to the barren ground below, and my legs grow their plush winter coat in preparation for the first snow of the season.

I didn't used to be like this... I used to shave my legs and pits every time I climbed into the shower.  (Which is every day, in case you're wondering if there's a loophole in that sentence.  There isn't.)  My legs were ready for your viewing pleasure all day, every day, 365, y'all.

As it stands now, I'm pretty sure that if I were in a tragic accident, the emergency response crew would be so totally distracted by the luscious locks flowing from each leg that they would forget to save my life. They'd be all, "Holy SHIT!  Marcus, Bob, Ellen... grab your iPhones!  This shit needs to go on youtube!"  Then they'd play some funky rendition of Whip Your Hair and it would go viral.  

Meanwhile, I'd be dead.  And my family would be humiliated.  My children would change their names, my mother would insist she'd only had ONE daughter, who was still alive, well, and clean-shaven, and I would become an Urban Legend.  Move over, Chupacabra... it's all about me and my legendary leg hair now.

*Speaking of my mother, this totally happened about a month ago:  The fires burning in north eastern California were very close to her home, and I called her one evening to make sure she was okay.  The conversation went as follows:

Mother:  *answering the phone*  "Hello?"

Me:  "Hi!  I'm just calling to check on you!"  

Mother:  *long, long, longggggggggg pregnant pause*

Me:  "So is everything okay?"

Mother:  *using her "Why is this pervert calling me?" voice*  "I'm fine.  Who is this?"

Me:  *momentarily taken aback*  "Ummm... it's Danielle?"

Mother:  *sounding as if she'd never heard or spoken the name before*  "Danielle?"

Me:  "Your OTHER daughter??"

Mother:  *apparently needing a moment to recall giving birth a second time and then naming the child*  "OHHhhh... DANIELLE! I didn't recognize your voice!"

Or my name, it would seem.


So yeah, the leg hair is getting too long to ignore.  I'm actually at the point where I'm wondering if I should use conditioner and then blow-dry it after my shower.  (Because Lord knows I need another excuse to buy even more product.)

This has nothing to do with my blog topic but seeing it somehow makes me feel better about having really hairy legs.  

Meanwhile, the Growing Of The Leg Hair has triggered an unexpected chain reaction:

I recently have begun "forgetting" to shave my pits, also.

I know, I know.

My name is Dani and I'm disgusting.

Vive la hairy arm pits!!!

Here's how it happened:

Somehow, I managed to skip over the puddle in my gene pool that turned other members of my family into furry gnomes.  (I retained the gnome gene, but not the fur gene.)  My sister and I both burst, unscathed, from the genetic coding that ran rampant in our European heritage and managed to sail through our bikini wearing years before waxing became the norm without looking like we were smuggling small, fluffy animals in our bathing suits.  

One of us showed her gratitude by maintaining the foliage and keeping it trimmed.

The other one of us moved to northern NY and got lazy.

I noticed a week (or ten) ago that while my pit hair was growing, I only had about six hairs.  (I'm not kidding... six hairs.  On my entire arm pit.)  

It's very easy to ignore six hairs.  You can almost assume it's a shadow.  Which would occur naturally in your armpit, anyway, am I right?

They were thin and light (I'm sorry, does hearing about my pit hair offend you?) and barely visible to the naked eye.  

I pretended they weren't there.

I went about my life for the next few months weeks without worrying much about the sparse and random hairs sprouting in my arm pits.

Hairs?  What hairs?  Oh that?  It's a shadow.  

Every once in a while a little germ of a thought would enter my head, along the lines of, "Dude... seriously... shave your pits.  You're disgusting"  but I managed to quell the voices before they penetrated the portion of my brain that gives a shit about hygiene.   

Since I have fat arms and don't wander the streets with my pits showing, I figured it was no one's business but my own, right?  Many an ugly secret is hidden under clothing, yo.  Plus, if you want to know the truth, I get grossed out seeing GUY'S pit hair, so who are THEY to judge ME?

(Seriously, guys... there is nothing more disgusting than seeing your pit hair sticking out from under your arm pit when you're wearing a tank top or going shirtless.  I don't care how rock hard your abs are, I don't notice them under your pit hair.  Trim that shit.)

Hypocritical much, Danielle?

Then this morning, for the first time EVER, I put my contacts in before my shower.  I had to help Jessie with her homework, so unlike other mornings, I wasn't happily wandering around in a distorted fog.  I could see clearly.  QUITE clearly.  And it wasn't pretty.

When I climbed out of the shower, my leg hair and pit hair snapped sharply into focus.

Holy Mother of God... I have a freaking soul patch under each arm.

I look like I'm wearing those furry boots that I think are so stupid.  

Oh dear GOD.

Why would anyone want the lower half of their legs to look like they'd put stilettos on an Irish Wolfhound?  Pull your head out of your ass, Christian Louboutin.

Irish Wolfhound... in case you needed a visual.  

Long story short, I have a decision to make.

The way I see it, I have two choices:

1.  Shave all body parts sprouting unsightly hair.

2.  Never again wear contacts in the shower.

Decisions, decisions.

I'll keep you posted.

No really, I will.  It's no trouble.

You're welcome.