12 Reasons Why I'm Awesome: 2011 In Review

Tomorrow is the last day of 2011 and frankly, I cannot wait for this shitty year to be over. Let's just say it's been a rough one and I'm looking forward to a hopefully better, more prosperous and happy 2012.

And now we move on to my annual year end tradition of listing my favorite posts from each month because yes, I am just that self-involved. I didn't write as much this year (see the above paragraph for my reason), so the pickings were a bit thin. BUT STILL AWESOME.


JANUARY

• The one with the dead body

FEBRUARY

• The one where I continue to stalk Harry Connick Jr.

MARCH

• The one with the frozen grapes

APRIL

• The one with the shoe song

MAY

• The one with the broken motel toilet

JUNE

• The one with my crazy coupon face

JULY

• The one with my Boo Boo

AUGUST

• The one with all the dicks

SEPTEMBER

• The one with the deleted talk show

OCTOBER

• The one with the Snatch Attack

NOVEMBER

• The one with the crab legs

DECEMBER

• The one with mother fucking ravioli night

Well, that's it for this year. Happy New Year to all you bad asses. Here's to a better year to come and me finally meeting Harry Connick Jr. It's like the man is purposely avoiding me or something, for Christ's sake.

I'm Pretty Sure I Had This Doll. Which Explains A Lot About Me.

I found this 1970's commercial on YouTube today. I'm almost positive someone gave me this doll for Christmas one year because I vaguely remember being terrified of it and refusing to sleep in my room until my mom got rid of it.



I don't know what scares me more...the doll or the creepy Exorcist head turns those kids are making. The only way this toy could have been worse is if they painted a clown face on it.



Oh shit.

Mother F’ing Ravioli Night

Since I haven’t been in much of a festive mood this year, I decided to force myself into holiday joviality by drinking. A lot. A real lot. Basically, I’ve been bombed two weekends in a row, with plans to make it a trifecta of drunkenness this weekend.

Two weekends ago, Captain Carl decided to have a ravioli dinner party at the house. His cool aunt was here along with her son, his girlfriend, my brother-in-law, Mailman Mike, and his girlfriend. If you knew this family, then you would know this was a recipe for insane amounts of alcoholic beverages and amazing food.

The Captain began preparations Saturday morning by MAKING HIS OWN RAVIOLI DOUGH. Oh yes…homemade pasta. It is as fantastic as it sounds, but let me tell you the downside of homemade pasta. The mess. Ohmygod the mess. See the Captain doesn’t just cook. He explodes. The kitchen is torn apart for even a simple meal for just the two of us. It puts me on edge to watch him. He says I’m too obsessive about things being neat and tidy. He is probably right. But still…gah.

Imagine the kind of mess making your own dough creates. Now multiple that by 50 and you’ll get the state of my kitchen that Saturday. Luckily for everyone involved, I had an appointment to get my hair cut that morning. So the Captain made his dough while I was gone. His aunt tried to keep up with the clean up so that I wouldn’t have a coronary when I got home. Have I mentioned how much I love her? So it wasn’t too bad when I got back. A little messy, but nothing I couldn’t handle.

Since I know my husband, I knew the mess was going to get worse before it got better. I decided to start drinking. It was 2:30 in the afternoon.

Best. Idea. Ever.

His aunt made us pomegranate martinis. Have I mentioned how much I love her? By this time, Mailman Mike and his girlfriend had arrived and they joined in on the drinking.

I forgot to mention that I had agreed to judge Christmas lights in our neighborhood for our HOA contest that night. For some reason, the Captain decided he should not drink because something something the only sober person in the house blah blah blah a bunch of drunk asses.

Flash forward to 5:30 and I’ve had six martinis, aka 9.5 shots of vodka, and I’m completed smashed. Mailman Mike has drank who the hell knows how many glasses of wine/rum/whiskey. The Captain's aunt and Mike's girlfriend look to be quite tipsy. It was a loud, obnoxious get-together. Every 10 minutes, one of us would get mad at someone for whatever drunk people get mad about and I would yell “Mother fucking ravioli night!!” for some reason. I have no idea why.

But because I was so sloshed, I had not been paying any attention to what was going on in the kitchen. The Captain had been busy working in there all afternoon making sauce, rolling out the little ravioli’s, etc. By about 6:00, I wandered into the kitchen and saw through my drunken haze what appeared to be every single mixing bowl, pot and pan strewn around the counters. This would normally give me a mild panic attack and I would have to get in there and start cleaning. But instead I just yelled “OMG I have to take a picture of this! Mother fucking ravioli night!”.

So we ate and it was amazing and totally worth the mess. Then we cleaned up the kitchen and headed out to judge Christmas lights. All 7 of us in one SUV. This meant the Captain's cousin and his girlfriend had to half sit, half lay down in the back cargo area of the vehicle. I sat in the backseat with Mailman Mike and his girlfriend. Mailman Mike and I were still completely drunk.

So. Imagine how awesome the Christmas light judging went. Especially for everyone else in the car who had to listen to the two drunk asses yelling out their windows “Not good enough!” and “Seriously, a giant snow globe? How unoriginal!” and “It’s like you’re not even TRYING!” at the houses that were lit up.

I had a fucking great time. The Captain, however, did not. He was tired from cooking all day and completely sober. So I guess he didn’t find it as funny as I did when Mailman Mike started singing Carol of the Bells in a falsetto with his own lyrics.

Here come the bells
Gay silver bells
See all the bells
Gay silver bells

And I guess he especially didn’t find it funny when Mailman Mike suggested that he could play the baby Jesus in the nativity scene on one person’s lawn and I yelled “Do it! Get out! Take off your clothes!”. Captain Carl was all “Knock it off, Marcy” and I was all “What? We’re having fun.” and he was all “Just STOP.”

Party pooper.

I found out later that he drove around the rest of the neighborhood with his finger on the door lock button.

Needless to say, I had a hangover the next morning. But hot damn did I have a good time.

Mother fucking ravioli night!

p.s. Merry Christmas, y'all. I won't be writing again before the 25th on account of celebrating with the Captain's family and most likely getting drunk again. A lot. A whole lot.

Here's To Less Zingers And More Birthdays

I don't write much here about my family, except for my husband and my kid. I like this blog to mainly be about stupid stuff. Things to hopefully make you laugh and probably to make you think I'm super weird. *cough* the frozen grapes post *cough* I like it that way. I don't like being all serious about shit. But lately I've been feeling pretty down in the dumps and serious faced.

But I've been thinking a lot about my Grandma this month. She loved Christmas. Every year when I was a kid, we would go to her house to celebrate. When I was little, I loved it. I had cousins to play with and presents to open and Hy-Vee brand grape soda to drink. When I was a teenager, I dreaded it. Because I was an asshole, just like every other teenager. I wanted to stay home and have sex with my boyfriend in the rumpus room. I did not want to hang out with all my old relatives and my stupid cousins that I had nothing in common with and drink stupid off-brand soda.

I wasted too many years with that attitude. Because now my Grandma is gone and I would do anything to get another Christmas with her. Granted, I lost the attitude long before she passed away and I had a very close relationship with her. In fact, I was probably closer to her than any of her other grandchildren (In your face, Mitchell).

But it still hurts when I pull out her recipe for Christmas cookies, or remember how she always sent me a Christmas card with $20 in it and signed it "Love you, honey". I miss her so much.

My Grandma had breast cancer. Twice. The first time, she beat it into remission with sheer willpower and faith in God. She had a mastectomy and then had radiation. She called her radiation treatments her "zingers". She would tell me not to worry because if it was her time, she was ready. She had an amazing attitude.

And then a couple years later, the cancer came back. But this time she was older and other problems with her aging body made it more difficult for her to fight. But she did fight. She fought for her husband, my Grandpa, who was terrified to be without her. She fought for her sons, who cried like little boys when they had to put her back in the hospital.

But in the end, breast cancer was just too much for a 92 year old woman to fight. And even though I was grateful for her long, beautiful life and her precious spirit and the gift of faith she gave all of us, I was angry. Angry that she had to spend so many years fighting a disease that ravaged her body. Her cancer was not a tragedy in the way that it is for the young men and women who have lost their own fights with the disease. She was able to see her children, her grandchildren and even some great-grandchildren grow up. But she did suffer. And that is reason enough for me to hope for a cure.

So Merry Christmas to my Grandma, who I absolutely know is an angel up there somewhere. And here's to less "zingers" and more birthdays for everyone.



This post is sponsored by American Cancer Society.

Wendy's Be Bawlin', Yo

You know how when you're having a really shitty week and feeling like life just general sucks and then your friend emails you something completely random and totally awesome and it makes you laugh so hard that a little pee comes out?

Yeah, that was me yesterday. After reading some of the comments on my last post that a lot of you need a little pick me up too.

I present to you...the best restaurant review of all time.


You're welcome.

‘Tis The Season To Be Those Relatives

If you’ve followed my blog for any length of time, you know that Captain Carl and I are pretty strapped for cash these days. I don’t care what the politicians and polls say, the economy in our world is not recovering yet. I have a good job and the Captain is doing okay with his business, but we are just barely making ends meet. So he continues to job search and I continue to kick ass at work in the hopes of getting another pay raise and a promotion. And of course we still have Huey, who basically pays the Kiddo’s allowance with his rent each month.

I’m not going to complain about having less than other people. Mainly because we used to be the “other people” and we completely fucked it up by being arrogant and dumb about jobs and money. We’ve learned our lesson and now we’re just trying to hang on until we can pad the savings account again.

But in the meantime, the Christmas season has arrived. And damn, but it came faster this year than other years for some reason. I wasn’t prepared for it like I was last year. Last year I set aside a fair amount of cash for presents early on. I had most of my shopping done by the end of October. But not this year. This year, I completely put it off and now I’m paying for it. Well, our families are paying for it actually.

See, we just don’t have enough money to buy everyone nice presents. It’s just not possible. We now live credit card free, so we must have the money up front for everything we need. It’s a hard lifestyle when you are on a budget, especially after using credit for everything under the sun like we used to do. Sometimes we have to get creative, but so far we’ve made it work and I’m pretty proud of that.

Except it leaves very little for gifts. So we had to tell our families that gifts will be small. They understood, of course, but we still feel bad. I’ve shopped sales, something I’m really good at anyway, and have managed to find something for everyone. And we are making homemade candy to supplement our paltry offerings.

It’s not about how much you spend. It’s the thought that counts. Remember the real reason for the season.

That’s what I keep telling myself. And I’ve been quite proud of us, actually. Everyone will get something nice and it will be a heartfelt gift.

But then I talk to other people and hear about all the things they’ve bought over the weekend for their relatives. A laptop, a wool coat, a flat screen tv, an iPad 2...

And I start to feel like an asshole.

My stupid little gifts…a scarf, some lotion, a book…are now super lame and sad. They scream “Merry Christmas. We can’t afford to buy you anything awesome.” And now I want to call everyone and beg them to please please please not buy us anything expensive. Not because I don’t think they can afford it, but because it will make me feel bad when I open their gifts. I don’t want anyone to spend $100 on me when I can only spend $10 on them.

But it’s hard to tell your family that. Especially when you know they’ll just say “Oh, don’t worry! It makes me feel good to buy you things!”. And there’s just no Christmas-y way to say “Well it makes me feel like shit when you do.”

We’re tired of being “those relatives”. The ones that everyone knows are broke and can’t go on trips and can’t go out to eat every weekend and can’t buy the things they really want to give their family at Christmas. Not that it really matters. Because what’s most important is that our family is healthy and happy and blah blah blah.

Whatever. Maybe next year we will get rich and buy everyone an iPad3 and a 3D tv and then we can be all “Jesus is the reason for the season, but who cares because I’m totally wearing 3D glasses!”.

Nothing Says "Happy Holidays" Like A Dead Deer Singing Low Rider

There are many reasons why I love Captain Carl's family.

They are an open, warm and loving group. I've felt welcome from the very first day I met his parents. I could not love his brother, Mailman Mike, anymore than if he was my own blood. And his extended family is awesome too.

Also, I can always count on them for shit like this.



Yep.

That right there is a dead deer strapped to the roof of a jeep while singing Low Rider toy.

Exactly what I needed to get into the holiday spirit. I fucking love Texas.

Probably The Best Version Of "Sister Christian" You'll Ever Hear. Which Isn't Saying Much.

Fact #1: I love to sing in the car.

Fact #2: I have the I Am T-Pain auto-tune app on my phone.

Enough said.

Click here to listen and have your mind blown by my musical stylings.

Consider it my contribution to your Thanksgiving holiday. Kind of like turkey, except with less falling asleep and more eardrum bursting. You're welcome.

Eat your heart out, boys.

Pass The Crab Legs And Irresponsibility, Please

So my company sent out the annual medical and life insurance benefits enrollment email today. Which means I spent exactly 30 seconds reading it before I broke out in a sweat and wailed “Too hard!”.

that’s what she said.

I suck at being an adult. Anything involving bills, paperwork, taxes or medical issues gets handed directly to my husband. I’m all “Here.” and he’s all “What is it?” and I’m all “I don’t know, something from the insurance company.” and he’s all “What does it say?” and I’m all “Something about a deductable and limits and percentages.” and he’s all “This is dated three weeks ago.” and I’m all *blank stare* and he’s all “You’re just now opening it?” and I’m all “Well, I thought you would open it so I left it there for you.” and he’s all “You left it under a bag of Skittles?” and I’m all “What? You love Skittles.” and he’s all “Why didn’t you just open it right away?” and I’m all “Why doesn’t your mom just open it right away?”. Because I’m awesome at grown-up conversations.

I can’t stand thinking about adult stuff. Or talking about it. Or being anywhere near it. I just want to know how much money is in my free checking account every month so I know if I can afford to buy new boots or not. Yes, my checking account is one of the free ones that doesn’t earn any interest, mom. I shouldn’t be given control of any important financial decisions, is what I’m saying here. Not because I’ll do stupid things. Because I won’t do anything at all. I’ll set the matter aside because ohmygodscary and then promptly forget about it until it’s almost too late.

I’m pretty sure I have a 401k left over from my last job somewhere. I can’t remember the name of the place where it’s at. I don’t know how much is in it. The Captain keeps asking me about it and my response every time is “Oh yeah, we need to figure out what to do with that…maybe, ummm, roll it over?”. I have no idea what “roll it over” means. I think I heard my sister say it once when she was talking about my IRA that I haven't looked at in 7 years.

I refuse to go into my bank and talk to a real person because they always ask me why I haven’t switched to an interest earning checking account and I get tired of explaining how I tried to do it online but I got super confused by the options and my husband is a big meany so he won’t help me because “you need to learn how to do these things for yourself, Marcy”.

The only time I’ve looked at our mortgage paperwork was when we went in to sign everything and they were all “sign here” 50 billion times. The Captain, who is totally awesome at this kind of shit (thank God), took care of everything. I probably set back women’s rights about 80 years when I told him “whatever you think is best, I don’t understand it”. All I know is that I have to click on the little “pay now” button on the bank website every month when the mortgage payment is due.

I’m barely qualified to program our DVR, people. No way should I be in charge of anything as important as my financial future. You should have seen me on the night my husband decided to sit me down and work on a 5 year financial plan. He was all “Let’s make a list of goals” and I was all “Great idea. I think we should have sex on a beach some day, don’t you?” and he was all “I mean financial goals.” and I was all “Oh, right. Hey, who wants a soda? I know I do! Boy am I thirsty!” and he was all “Okay, so I was thinking for next year we should…” and I’m all “OMG you know what would be soooo good right now? Crab legs!” and he’s all “Come on, focus.” and I’m all “I could totally run a train on some crab legs.” and he was all “So basically if we transpond these numbers from your paycheck into the logistical payroll calculationer …” and I’m all *eyes rolling back into head* “I’m dead…I’m dying…it’s too boring…I’m dead from boredom.”

The thing is, I was better at all this when I was single. Granted, my life was much less complicated and I had absolutely no assets so that’s probably why. But still. I managed to have both a checking and a savings account, along with a good understanding of my medical and life insurance benefits. Then I got married and inherited two children. Things got complicated and harder. How much life insurance is enough for teenagers? Should we max out our dental insurance this year? Maybe we need to re-evaluate where our 401k investments are going? Should we enroll in the flex account? What the fuck is a flex account???

Jesus, just writing about all that makes my armpits sweaty. I hate this shit. I just want someone else to do it for me so I can go play with my new kittens.

Did I mention that my old lady cat is probably dying, which is totally not fair because I just put my other old cat to sleep in July, but the Captain got me two kittens to make me feel better? I didn’t? Oh...well he totally did and they are cute and adorable and fluffy and boom! I just totally distracted you from all that adult shit up there.

I’m a genius at being irresponsible.

p.s. the kitten story is true. I’ll have more on that later….
p.p.s. Do I know how to keep people coming back for more or what? I'm like the Walt Disney of blogging.

Hungry Like The Middle Aged Couple Two Rows In Front Of Us Making Out Inappropriately

This just in: I suck at blogging. Every day I have plans to blog something super awesome and hilarious and then I get to work and I’m all type type type blech. I think my job is sucking my will to live. And then I go home and I’m all “I am totally writing 3 blog posts tonight” and then I look at my cat and she’s all “We both know you aren’t blogging tonight” all judgy-like and so I just give up and sit on the couch for 4 hours and then go to bed.

But today. Today! I. Am. Blogging.

You’re welcome.

All that up there was me trying to explain to you why I’m about to tell you a story about going to a Duran Duran concert three weeks ago.

So I went to a Duran Duran concert three weeks ago. Courtesy of my new best friend in the whole wide world, Kristine at Wait In The Van. Are you reading Kristine’s blog? Ohmygod, what a stupid question because OF COURSE YOU ARE.

Kristine invited me to go with her to the concert, despite all the creepy stalker comments I’ve left on her blog. So of course I said yes. And then left her a comment about shovels and burying bodies or something. I can't remember exactly, but you know...just trying to show her how funny and totally not murder-y I'm going to be when we meet up in person finally.

We decided to meet in front of the venue (how fancy am I? Venue. Ooo la la) and I got there a little early so I spent my extra time checking out everyone walking into the building. Y'all. So many cougars. Mostly my age and older. Many inexplicably wearing halter tops with back fat hanging out of them.

Then Kristine texted me that she was there and I got all nervous because ohmygodwhatifshe’scoolerthanmeandthinksI’msuperlame? But of course, that didn’t happen. We were immediately bff’s despite my first sentence being “OMG when did you graduate from high school?”. I don’t know. I do things like that sometimes.

So the concert starts and Duran Duran comes out and they look surprisingly well preserved. Simon is wearing tennis shoes, which was weird but whatever. The music was pretty good (the old stuff, not the new stuff. I have no interest in anything this band produced after 1993) and Kristine and I are dancing around and sweating like crazy and having a grand old time.

See? She's totally not scared of me and that is totally not a fake smile.

So there we are…jamming out to The Reflex, when we see them. They are two rows in front of us and we have a clear view of them. A couple, maybe in their late 40’s…hard to tell from where we were, but definitely older than us. And definitely too old to be aggressively making out at a Duran Duran concert. But yet there they were, all over each other. She in her one-shouldered tank top and khaki capri pants. He with his balding gray hair and air guitar moves. Groping and slipping each other the tongue in between yelling out lyrics and gyrating against each other.

It was horrifying.

We could not stop watching.

And it only got worse as the concert wore on. He’s kissing her neck. He’s grinding his hips into her butt. He’s grabbing her boobs from behind.

Dear Duran Duran Gods….please for the love of the 80’s, make it stop.

And then the concert was over…except it wasn’t. Because of course there was an encore. And it was one of their old ones and it was so great. And Simon had whipped the crowd into a frenzy of old memories and sad regrets. And the couple were all over each other. I think Kristine threw up in her mouth a little.

And then the concert was really over. The drummer threw his sticks into the crowd and 40 year old women fought over them like they probably did when they were 18. The gropey couple disappeared and Kristine and I left. It was 11 pm and we were both exhausted. What? It was a Thursday night. We’re old. Shut up.

Luckily, I took the next day off from work so I was able to sleep in until 9am. Unfortunately for Kristine, young children never take a day off. So when I got out of bed Friday morning, I knew she had probably already been up several hours. And being the new caring best friend that I am, I sent her a text.

Me: Hey remember that one time that we went to a concert together and then I took the next day off and slept in but you still had to get up early to take care of your kids? Yeah, that was great.
Her: Am. So. Fucking. Tired. And I hate you.



p.s. I wrote about Rick Perry being super excited about maple syrup and totally not drunk over at Sprocket Ink today. Click here to check it out.

Snatch Attack 13 – This Time The Mattresses Are Dirty

My sister is moving to Chicago (sob!) and gave Captain Carl and me a couple of her nice mattresses to replace the crappy ones we had left over from some of our previous renters. We decided to give the old mattresses away for free on Craigslist. Below is our text conversation regarding the issue of old mattresses…

Me: I couldn’t help but notice you forgot to put the mattresses on Craigslist this morning.
Him: I’m working on it right now. Lay off.
Me: You forgot, didn’t you.
Him: *sigh* Yes.

15 minutes later

Him: The ad is up. Go look at it. It’s the one that comes with a free cat.
Me: Nice try. I would kill you dead if you gave away my cat.
Me: Looks good…I can’t believe you put your cell number on Craigslist. You’re gonna get creepy sex offenders calling you all day.
Him: Why?
Me: Because they call numbers they find on Craigslist and talk nasty to the people while they whack off.
Him: And you know this how?
Me: I saw it on Dateline once. Or in a dream. One of the those.

10 minutes later

Him: Mattresses are gone. Picking up @ 8:30 tonight.
Me: For real? That was fast.
Him: 15 phone calls and 9 emails in 10 minutes. People are really hurting. It makes my heart sad.
Me: I know. It is so sad. We should count our blessings.

3 minutes later

Me: I bet if you had put “Free Mattress. Formerly belonged to morbidly obese crazy cat hoarder lady.” you wouldn’t have gotten as many calls.
Him: Why would I do that? Who would want a crazy cat lady’s mattress?
Me: Not many people, maybe no one. Which is exactly my point. This is a situation where truth in advertising would be a bad thing.

2 minutes later

Me: Maybe the people that are taking them aren’t actually poor and are just going to use them to film a porno.
Him: ???
Me: And then someday we’ll be watching Snatch Attack 13 and we’ll be all “OMG, that’s our mattress!”
Him: How would we know it was our mattress?
Me: By the stain on the bottom corner from that time Marian left that sub sandwich on the bed for 4 days straight.
Him: I gotta go. I need to get caught up on the first 12 Snatch Attacks.
Me: Let me know how they turn out. I’m guessing Snatch Attacks 1-5 are pretty interesting.
Him: Just 1-5?
Me: Probably after 5 there isn’t much creativity left. There are only so many holes in the human body.

10 minutes later

Him: Just googled it. There is an actual Snatch Attack porno. Have you seen it?
Me: No. I just made it up in my head. Go ahead and act surprised.

That Dog Is Running With Purpose

While driving home from the movies last weekend...

Me: Look at that dog!
Him: I see him.
Me: Awww, he’s all white and cute and fluffy.
Him: *pretending his wife doesn't desperately want to adopt a dog* Looks dirty.
Me: Stop! He has a collar, we need to stop and catch him!
Him: Why?
Me: Because he’s obviously lost and maybe his owner’s number is on his collar.
Him: Doesn't look lost to me. He looks like he knows where he’s going.
Me: *stare* What?
Him: He’s running with purpose. He obviously knows his destination, so we don’t need to stop.
Me: He looks like he knows where he’s going? How is that even possible? He’s a dog. They all look like that when they run.
Him: He didn’t look confused at all.
Me: You mean if he were really lost, he’d look confused?
Him: Yeah. You know, he’d be stopping every five seconds to look around. Maybe he’d be looking up at the sky thoughtfully. Maybe he'd pretend to talk on his cell phone while he wandered aimlessly.
Me: That’s what you do when you can’t find our car in the parking lot.
Him: Exactly. That right there was a dog with a good sense of direction.
Me: *looking out back window* Oh great, I can’t see him anymore. I’m gonna be so mad at you if I see him dead on the side of the road tomorrow.

And then this morning I totally got this email from our subdivision HOA communications lady:

Subject: Oso loose again

Has anyone seen this dog?

Forwarded message:
Our 2 year old opened our back door around 6pm last night and let out our white Siberian husky again. If anyone has seen him, please call.

Me: *dialing phone* Great...just great.
Him: Hello?
Me: Yeah hi. Remember that dog that was running with purpose on Saturday night?
Him: Yep.
Me: Yeah, he was lost. Totally lost. I got an email about him this morning.
Him: Huh, no kidding.
Me: His name is Oso and he’s a white Siberian husky and his house is in the exact opposite direction from where he was running.
Him: That’s weird.
Me: Because you totally thought he knew where he was going.
Him: No, I meant that’s a weird name for a dog. Oso. No wonder he was running away. I’d run away too if that was my name.
Me: Now I have to call and tell them we saw their dog but we didn’t stop because my husband thought it looked like he knew where he was going.
Him: You should suggest they think of a better name for their next dog.
Me: You’re so helpful.
Him: It’s a gift.


p.s. The Captain and I are back on the wagon. We started the Couch to 5K program again this week. Someone help...my thighs are burning with so much purpose right now.

My Name Is Miss Yvonne. You Deleted My Talk Show. Prepare To Die.

Sometimes it really sucks having renters in your house. Sometimes they do really annoying and fucking stupid things. Things that 99.9% of the human population would not do. Like if you heard about someone doing those things you would be all “No way is anyone that stupid/rude/inconsiderate". And then? Your fucking renter does them and you feel the sudden urge to gouge their eyeball out with one of those tiny relish forks because it is the exact perfect size for eyeballs and that bastard totally deserves it.

Like maybe your renters buy scooters and ride them through the mud and then track the mud through the house and then leave their muddy shoes by the door and then fucking lie when you ask if they walked through your house with muddy shoes on.

Or maybe your renters decide to use your pasta strainer to clean their fish tank rocks but don’t plan on telling you they did it and thank you baby Jesus that you noticed it was missing before they returned it and you used it to strain your pasta and now you’re totally eating spaghetti ala fish poop for dinner. And then they giggle like three year olds when you ask them why they did it.

Perhaps your renter decides while you are out of town for the weekend to go out and get completely wasted and bring an equally wasted couple home from the bar with him that he has never met before in his life, then passes out in his bed while this drunk couple hang out in your house all night totally unsupervised and then your other renter gets up at 3am to pee and sees this strange couple fucking on your couch. Then you have to call your renter and yell at him and when you get home, all of your booze is missing and he “has no idea who took it”.

Oh! Here’s a good one. Your renter goes out and gets wasted AGAIN, only this time it’s during a weird Texas snowstorm, and he gets arrested for drunk driving and doesn’t come home for 3 days, so you think he must be dead in a ditch somewhere, and then he shows up and is all “Hey, I got arrested and have to go to court and can you please drive me there because they took my license away? Also, my kids are gonna come live here with me for like, 2 or 3 weeks and maybe they will stay forever. That’s cool, right?”.

Could be that your renter turns out to be a reclusive hoarder who packs the bedroom she is living in to the ceiling with junk, but you don’t really notice how much she has in there until it’s too late. Also she has a cat. Also she’s morbidly obese and orders a pizza and three sub sandwiches and keeps them in her room to eat on for two days. Also she decides to move to another country and doesn’t start packing until the night before her flight. Also after she’s gone, you realize she’s left 50 (I am not exaggerating, y’all) bags of trash, a bed, a table, an office chair and a dirty litter box in her room for you to dispose of. Also she emails you a week later to ask when you will be sending her deposit back. Also you totally flip out and write back that it will be a cold day in hell when she gets her deposit back and then spend two weeks obsessively cleaning the room while whispering “unclean…unclean…”.

And then maybe after all of those morons, you somehow get lucky and your next renter is great. He’s your son’s friend, so you worry at first that maybe this was a bad idea. But he is respectful and sweet and is sad when we are not home because “I miss you guys when you aren’t here”. He pays his rent on time. He is a little scared of making you mad, thanks to some well placed looks and comments about not pissing you off because you’re a fucking genius when it comes to intimidation. But he still says “bye family” when he leaves for work and sits down to tell us all about his day when he gets home. You know, like your own child would do if they weren’t going through a completely selfish and asshole-y phase right now. You have no complaints, things are going wonderfully.

And then?

The fucker has to go and ruin it by DELETING YOUR DVR RECORDING OF THE DR. PHIL CASEY ANTHONY PARENTS’ INTERVIEW.

Yeah.

He’s fucking terrified. He knows what he did and now he’s hiding from me. I haven’t seen him since Monday. I hope he’s prepared for when we meet again, because shit is about to go down, yo. You don’t fuck with a woman’s talk show recordings. Never. Never ever. I haven’t decided what I’m going to do yet. But retribution will be swift and terrible.

I Can Turn Anything Into A Conversation About Dicks

Captain Carl: Hello?
Me: Hey.
Captain Carl: Yes?
Me: What?
Captain Carl: You called me.
Me: I know I called you. I mean, I dialed the phone. Obviously I know that I called you.
Captain Carl: Did you need something?
Me: Not really.
Captain Carl: *silence*
Me: *yawn*
Captain Carl: So…
Me: Ohmygod, Islands In The Stream just came on Pandora!
Captain Carl: *sigh*
Me: *singing* Islands in the stream. That is what we are. Hmmm hmmm hmm between. How can we be wrong?
Captain Carl: Okay so, I’m gonna go.
Me: Wait! Did you remember to water the trees like I asked this morning?
Captain Carl: Yes. I’m still watering them.
Me: Still? It’s like 2:30 now!
Captain Carl: I know. I’m watering them slowly.
Me: How slowly?
Captain Carl: Slowly. Like I said.
Me: Do you have any idea how water bills work? You can’t run the hose all day.
Captain Carl: Calm down. There’s barely any water coming out.
Me: How much?
Captain Carl: Like just a bit.
Me: How am I supposed to know what a bit means to you?
Captain Carl: Okay, a trickle then. More like a pre-trickle. Not much at all.
Me: A pre-trickle? That is not a unit of measurement I’m familiar with.
Captain Carl: Fine, it’s barely more than what a soaker hose puts out. Jesus.
Me: Wasn’t there a race car driver named Trickle?
Co-worker listening to my conversation: Yes. His name is Dick Trickle.
Me: No way.
Co-worker: Yep, I just googled it.
Me: Heh heh, I made you google Dick Trickle on your work computer.
Other co-worker listening in: Whatever you do, don’t google dicktrickle.com.
Me: OMG, do it!!
Captain Carl: Hello?
Me: Hey babe, quit Dick Trickling my trees. *laughs hysterically* *bangs fist on desk*
Captain Carl: I’m hanging up now.
Me: Okay. Dick Trickle you later!
Captain Carl: Really?
Me: I’ll be Dick Trickling you!
Captain Carl: *mumbling swear words*
Me: You’re like the Dick Trickle of landscape irrigation. I can do this all day, honey.
Captain Carl: I know. Which is why I’m doing this. *click*



He’s totally jealous of my dick joke skills.

My Feet Have Been Sticky For Two Straight Months

So yeah. It's hot outside. I know just about everyone is having a rough summer. But it's particularly bad in the Dallas area because a) we've had more than a month straight of over 100 degree days and b) I live here so therefore it's worse than anywhere else.

I spend all my time running from my house, to my car, to my office, back to my car and back to my house. I only go outside in the early morning or late evening, and only for like 10 minutes at a time. And then I spend an hour bitching about how fucking sweaty I am. My grass is brown and my skin is white.

The good news is that I am going home to Minnesota in less than three weeks, where I will promptly begin working on my tan. Nobody believes that I live in Texas when I go up there because I'm so pale. It's just too hot to be outside here. I mean, the fucking train tracks are warping, people.

Okay, so the Kiddo came home for the summer after his first year in college. I haven't been blogging about him lately on account of some issues he's been having that I don't really want to discuss here. Let's just say it involves a bong in the shape of a skull and mandatory drug testing.

Turns out it's hard when your kid comes home from college. Because he's been gone for 9 months doing stupid shit and feeling all adult and totally the boss of himself and then he comes home in June and doesn't get why his parents make him follow rules. Rules like, "hey, how about you don't treat your bedroom like a trash dump?" and "just because you're 19 doesn't mean you don't have to empty the dishwasher anymore." and my favorite, "maybe don't forget to take your house key with you when you go out on a Tuesday night and then when you come home drunk at 1:30am, don't climb on my roof trying to break into your bedroom and then yell at me when I hear you and call your cell to ask why in the hell you're up there. ASSHOLE."

Please God, don't let him get suspended from college. Or quit. Or whatever. Because I don't think I can handle him living here all year.

And to make things even more special, the Kiddo asked us in June if his buddy could rent one of our bedrooms for the summer. His friend...let's call him Huey...had decided he didn't want to live at home anymore because...guess why? His mom had too many rules. Hot damn, I hope I wasn't this ridiculous when I was 19. I probably was, right? I need to call my mom and apologize.

Me: I don't know about this.
Captain Carl: Oh, it won't be so bad.
Me: Yes it will.
Captain Carl: Nah, it'll be fine.
Me: It'll be a never ending cycle of bad decisions, dirty socks and weird smells.
Captain Carl: He's a nice boy, I feel bad for him.
Me: I feel bad too. For his mother.
Captain Carl: It's only for a couple of months. And we could use the extra cash.

And so I let the Captain talk me into it. I agreed to let Huey rent a room with us on a weekly basis. I was pretty sure it was a bad idea that I would live to regret.

But surprisingly, I've really enjoyed having Huey around. He's a big, dumb, sweet kid. And he's not my kid, so it's easier to deal with his stupidity somehow. And he just might be staying after the summer is over. Which makes me a little nervous, since this means he will be alone in our house while we're in another state for a week. I'm envisioning wild parties...Huey filling my house with slutty girls and booze and my cat cowering in the laundry room behind her litter box.

This is the part where the Captain rolls his eyes and tells me I'm being overly dramatic.

And this is the part where I tell him to shut his face.

At the very least, my floors are gonna be soooo dirty when we get home. Because not one single day goes by where I don't walk through the house and step into something sticky. Seriously, what is it about boys and spilling shit? Yesterday there was a trail from the kitchen table to the other side of the house. And they both stood there staring blankly at me and saying "It wasn't me." No shit. It wasn't me. If I had squinted my eyes, I would have sworn I was talking to 3 year olds.

*sigh*

I should never have let them bring that giant can of Country Time Lemonade mix into the house.

Goodbye To My Boo Boo

So last week was really rough. Not to get all frowny and poor me on you guys, but here’s what happened.

My dad wound up in the emergency room with a very painful colon problem.
The brakes went out in my car and I was almost killed running a red light.
We had to put my sweet old Boo kitty to sleep.

That right there is a trifecta of fucked up.

So not fair that all that happened in a 5 day period. It was so bad that on Friday at work, I laid my head down on my desk and yelled out “Jesus take the wheel!” in desperation. It got a good laugh in the office, but I kind of meant it. I mean, how much can one girl take? Way to be an asshole, universe.

It seems like animal death has been hovering near me for a year now. My in-laws lost their beloved dog last year. Then a close friend lost their dog. Then a month ago, two friends from work had to put down their pets. And every time someone lost an animal, I would get scared. Because both of my cats are old. It won’t be long before it’s your turn, my mind would say.

And then? It was my turn. Boo got sick this spring, diagnosed with diabetes and maybe cancer. He went downhill fast and we knew he wasn’t going to make it through the summer. But I don’t care how prepared you think you are…when you love someone or something, you are never ready for the end.

When it became clear that the best thing for Boo was to give him peace from his illness, I told Captain Carl that I couldn’t take him to the vet. I just couldn’t do it. He understood and told me not to worry, he could handle it just fine. He is not as attached to our pets as I am and he had been much more logical about Boo’s condition than I had been. Meaning he didn’t wail and cry and hug the cat super tight and whisper in his ear that “you are the best cat on the face of the earth and you WILL NOT DIE on me, okay?”. Like I did.

So it was a complete shock to both of us when Boo’s Friday afternoon appointment with kitty heaven arrived and the Captain completely fell apart. Luckily, my sister went with him so he wouldn’t have to be alone. Unluckily, she also fell apart. The two most solid people in my life were reduced to blubbering messes in the exam room when the moment of truth arrived. They told me that night over double vodka sours how it was better I wasn’t there. How they both wanted to tell the vet it was a mistake and take Boo back home. How Boo was sweet right up to the end. How he seemed to understand what was happening and was okay with it. How he went quickly and peacefully. And how after Boo was gone, the Captain stayed with him for 10 minutes, talking to him and rubbing his belly because he was afraid the poison hadn’t really worked and Boo would wake up and be scared.

It killed me. It killed me that I wasn’t strong enough to be there. That I instead had the luxury of saying goodbye to Boo at home, where he was comfortable and not being injected with something to make his heart stop. That because of my weakness, the Captain had to do it without me.

I lost my little buddy and I am heartbroken. But my dad is recovering slowly from a bacterial infection and the Captain is doing just fine and fixing the brakes on my car and life goes on. There are good things happening in my life. The sadness will eventually become a dull ache instead of a sharp one. And someday I’ll be able to look at Boo’s picture and not cry, but instead smile and remember how much he loved boxes and catnip, how he could catch flies in mid-air, how his back leg would scratch at the air when I rubbed his ears, how pink his nose got when he was excited, how good natured he was…how much we loved him.

And just to end all this sad stuff in a nice way, I decided to link to some old blog posts about my old Boo.

National Cat Puke Day
Captain Carl's World Of Fur
Happy Cat Dingleberry Day
Adventures In Pet Photography
Boo Sounds Like Antonio Banderas

And here's the last video I took of Boo from the night before he went to kitty heaven. Ignore my giant man hands...

Bye Bye To My Boo Boo

Love you, buddy.

Patriotism Fail. Now Updated With More Possum.

We didn't see any fireworks this weekend.

I know.

I feel pretty bad about it. When the kids were young, we used to take them every 4th of July. We brought a cooler and lawn chairs and junk food and we sat in the back of our pick up truck to watch.

And before I moved to Texas, it was watching fireworks on my parent's boat on the lake. Every summer since I was 16.

But this year? Nothing. As I type this, I can hear fireworks popping outside. And not just from the trailer park across the street. It's a big show going on somewhere. I can even see them from our backyard, just over the tops of the trees. Close enough for us to get to and be all American and shit.

But instead of doing that, we are sitting inside watching Hoarders and Pawn Stars.

Patriotism fail.

It's just so blasted hot outside, y'all. No, not hot. SWELTERING. I mean, it was 101 degrees right before the sun went down. It's a mind melting inferno here.

Fuck, I hate summer in Texas.

I hope Lady Liberty can forgive me for not sitting outside, sweating in the dark and asking Captain Carl how anyone can possibly like living here because ohmygodseriouslythisisridiculous.

Holy shit. I just realized I have only had one drink all weekend. ONE DRINK. That's a crime, right there. I'm gonna get deported out of this state if the authorities find out because I'm pretty sure it's a felony if you don't wake up with at least one hangover during the 4th of July weekend.

I promise to do better next year, y'all.



UPDATE: Captain Carl just told me he ate possum once. This has nothing to do with the 4th of July. I just wanted to tell you because seriously, who am I married to?

I Call It Thrifty. My Husband Calls It Cheap.

This coupon thing I have might be getting a tad bit out of control.

I love to save money. I love a good sale. I love getting a discount.

Most women I know would probably say the same thing. I mean, does any of us really prefer to pay full price for things? I doubt it.

In the past, I’ve been known to clip a coupon or two. I would browse through the Sunday paper and if something caught my eye, I might take the time to grab a pair of scissors and cut one out. But it wasn’t something I did on a regular basis. Then Captain Carl got laid off from his job unexpectedly. And after some very thorough job searching, we realized how long it might be before he would find another one. And the panic set in.


We could lose the house!
We won’t be able to make our car payments!
How will we send the Kiddo to college?
Gahh! Ahhhhh!!!!!

Then we took a big breath, sat down and figured out a way to survive. And that is what we are doing now, two years later.

Surviving.

We took renters into our home. Not fun. Not fun at all, my friends. But we’ve managed to hang on to our home so far because of it.

We cut back on everything. And I mean, everything. We stopped eating out, we changed our phone provider to something much cheaper, we sold some things we really didn’t need, we turned up the thermostat in the summer and down in the winter. Our “fun fund” went from several hundred a month to, well…nothing. For awhile at least. Captain Carl eventually started his own business when it became clear that he would not be able to find the type of work he was doing before the economy collapsed. I changed jobs last year in order to make a couple thousand more a year. The Kiddo has taken it upon himself to earn scholarships and work his way through college.

But this post isn’t really about all that. It’s about my addiction to coupons.

Oh coupons, how I love you so! Lovely lovely, money saving scraps of paper!

When the financial bottom fell out of our world, I began to take those Sunday paper coupons seriously. I clipped each and every one and put them into my little coupon book. I started to save a few bucks at the grocery store. I decided I was an idiot for not doing this sooner.

And then I discovered online coupons.

*happy dance*

A virtual plethora of unending websites, filled to the brim with pages and pages of coupons. And all you have to do is check the box, click “print” and bam! You are drowning in a sea of $0.55 off Honey Nut Cheerios and $1.50 off two jars of salsa!

And ohmygod did you know that some grocery stores double and triple your coupons? Say what???

And! And! Some of them have their own store card that gives you additional savings. Additional, y’all!

I’m starting to sweat with the excitement of it all!

And just when I thought my coupon mania had gotten as crazy as it ever could, I discovered coupon blogs.

Holy hell.

And now? I spend my lunch hours reading coupon blogs while clipping this week’s savings from the paper and determining which ones have matching coupons online that I can print and combine for extra savings. And my desk looks like this:



This is for real, y’all. I look like a crazy person in my little cubicle with all my scraps of paper strewn around me, muttering to myself “Were the frozen peas on sale at Target or Kroger this week?”.

But I am saving money. Once week I took $125 off my $250 grocery bill. So I’m having a hard time deciding if I’m going too far with this. Am I obsessing too much? Is an extra $30in my pocket this week worth spending this much of my free time planning? I’m not sure. All I know is that this is not the face of a sane human being:




No sir, it is not.

I'd Love To Write An Awesome Blog Post But I'm Too Busy Watching Court TV

Y'all. I'm addicted to the Casey Anthony murder trial. I listen to it every day at work. All day. Then I go home and tell Captain Carl everything that happened. Then he stares blankly at me. Then I go back to work the next day and run to my desk to get the video coverage started because ohmygod they are showing the jailhouse videos again today I cannot miss this!

And! They are having court tomorrow on a Saturday, which means I'll have to tell the Captain that "I can't do yard work with you today like I promised because the trial is on and what if I missed the testimony of the crime scene investigator? Huh?? Helloooo, CSI?".

So since I'm super busy with all this trial stuff, I haven't had time to blog much this week. However, I did manage to write not one, but TWO posts over at Sprocket Ink.

I know. I'm amazing. Tell your friends about me.

Lindsay Lohan Stars As Lindsay Lohan In Next Film

I Blame Apple For This

Turns Out The Best Motel Room Forty Bucks Can Buy Doesn't Include A Working Toilet

Today's post was inspired by this week's writing prompt, hotel stories, over at Studio30+. Not a member? Well get your ass over there and join. Go ahead, I'll wait here...

_____________________

*phone rings*

Me: Hello?
Mom: Hi honey, just calling to let you know your dad and I got home from Arizona safely.
Me: Oh good! How was your drive?
Mom: It was fine. We were going to drive straight through, but decided to stop just over the Iowa border because we were tired.
Me: Mom, did you let dad pick the hotel this time?
Mom: Well, I would have but you know I can get a better deal than he can.
Me: Uh huh...
Mom: I spotted this motel from the highway...
Me: A motel mom? Not a hotel. A motel?
Mom: They had a sign that said rooms were $29.99!
Me: And?
Mom: Well, I went in and asked about a room and there was this Middle Eastern couple running it and you know how they talk. I could barely understand them. And the woman told me it would be $50, so I asked her what about the sign and she said that was for one person and it went up from there and I said, well how did you get from $29.99 to $50 for two people?
Me: Highway robbery!
Mom: Exactly! She said it was because of extra fees and what not. Well, I just waved my hand at her and said forget it and started walking out but then she said she could give it to us for $40. So I took it.
Me: How was the room?
Mom: It looked very clean.
Me: But?
Mom: Well, it's my own fault really. I should have listened to your dad and gone to the Super 8 instead. But I just don't see a reason to pay $75 for something I can get for $40.
Me: Mom, what was wrong with the room?
Mom: Well, the heater didn't work so we called the front desk and they sent their daughter up and thank goodness she spoke better English. She got it working, but it quit again so she brought us a space heater.
Me: A space heater.
Mom: Yes, and the shower didn't have any hot water. But the water in the sink was burning hot. So I took a whore's bath and you know how much I like my evening showers, so you know I'm not lying about the cold water.
Me: Well that sucks.
Mom: Oh, and the toilet didn't flush.
Me: At all?
Mom: No.
Me: Ohmygod mom, why didn't you ask for a different room?
Mom: Well, it did flush, but only if your dad reached into the tank and fiddled with it. Your dad said if he had a nickel for every motel room toilet he's had to fix, he'd be a millionaire.
Me: So you didn't switch rooms?
Mom: Well no, it was after 10pm and I wasn't going to bother with it.
Me: Wow.
Mom: But the next morning I was so mad about it, I marched right in that office and gave the man a piece of my mind.
Me: Was he sorry?
Mom: No! He kept yelling "We give you good room! We give you good room!" and finally I yelled back "Yeah, you give me good room! In Iraq!"
Me: You didn't.
Mom: Well, I was angry. He had it coming.
Me: Did you get a refund then?
Mom: No, he wouldn't give me one. So I told him I was going to contact their local chamber of commerce and let them know what kind of business they were running there.
Me: That'll teach him.
Mom: I've been working on my letter all day.
Me: Make sure you include the part about Iraq. That's good stuff right there.
Mom: I forgot to tell you the hangers in the closet were dusty.
Me: Well, at least you saved $10.
Mom: That's exactly what I told your dad! That man thinks money grows on trees. Honestly.

Is Laundry Coma A Real Thing? Quick, Somebody Google It Before I Blackout.

The Kiddo came home from college for the summer last week. At first I was all jumpy and clappy because I have missed that boy so much during the last nine months. Then right in the middle of all that excitement, I was all “oh shit, the boy is coming home.” Because I’ve kind of enjoyed him not being there.

I know. Great mother’s of the world unite and beat me with a stick! How dare I enjoy my baby leaving the nest.

Meh.

I met Captain Carl when the Kiddo was 8 years old. It took him a long time to warm up to me. He was convinced I would try to replace his mother and he felt guilty for liking me. He was an adorable little boy, all buck teeth and freckles. He insisted that his hair be cut in Pee Wee Herman fashion, so obviously I fell in love with him immediately. Oh man, just thinking about him at that age makes me want to squeeze his little face off.

It might have taken him awhile to warm up to me, but we had (and continue to have) a great relationship once he did. He called me his “buffer”…the voice of reason between his dad and himself when things got heated. He would climb into my lap for no reason at all, except to grind his bony butt into my thigh and laugh when I tickled his back. He still does that, actually.

He never called me mom. Right before I married his dad, he asked me what he was supposed to call me.

Me: What do you want to call me?
Kiddo: Not mom. That would be weird, since I already have one.
Me: Okay.
Kiddo: Can I just keep calling you Marcy?
Me: Absolutely.

And so, I’m just Marcy to him. I took it as a compliment that he felt comfortable enough to tell me he didn’t want to call me mom. Although he has called me that when introducing me to people. To keep things simple, probably. But I still get a little thrill when he does it. Because as far as I’m concerned, he is my son. Not my stepson. I’ve raised him as my own. He has lived in my care for almost double the amount of time he lived in his mother’s.

Anyway, my point was going to be that even though I was all sad face about him going away to college and I did miss him a lot, I actually enjoyed the time the Captain and I have had alone. We’ve never been just “us”. He came with a ready-made family, so we didn’t get a honeymoon period. Since the Kiddo has been away at school, we’ve had more date nights and we actually socialize with grown ups sometimes. Listening to the Kiddo practice his trumpet was replaced with listening to, well, nothing. I found that I didn’t worry as much about what the boy was up to all the time. My evenings were freed up from obsessing over where he might be and the illegal/dangerous/stupid things he could be doing right at that moment. I still worried, but it was in a more abstract way. My mind had more room for other thoughts.

But still, I could not wait for the Kiddo to come home. So now he is and immediately my mind went back to that place where I worried more. Would he be able to find a summer job? He really needs a haircut, I wonder if I could get him in for one today? I hope he doesn’t go out tonight with that kid I hate…he’s nothing but trouble. He better not try to hook up with Bunny while he’s home.

Etc, etc, etc.

And of course, I wondered if he had any clean underwear. I don’t why it’s this way with mothers, but we seem to be in a constant state of underwear concern for our children. When I asked the Kiddo if he needed any laundry done, he laughed. And then he brought me all of this.



Hells bells.

For those of you with untrained laundry eyes, that right there? That’s seven loads of laundry on my floor. SEVEN. For one person.

Me: Son, when was the last time you did your laundry?
Kiddo: Not that long ago. I was going to do it before I came home but I was out of detergent.
Me: What is that? Is that mud?
Kiddo: Yep.
Me: On all of your jeans?
Kiddo: I went fishing a lot.
Me: Where were you fishing?
Kiddo: In the river.
Me: I think we’ll just throw all these socks away and get you new ones.
Kiddo: Why?
Me: Because they’re black and they should be white. And most of them have holes.
Kiddo: Hey, did I tell you that I killed a water moccasin when I went fishing?
Me: *look of horror face* No.
Kiddo: Yeah!
Me: Why?
Kiddo: Because it tried to take my lure, but it got caught on it.
Me: So you killed it?
Kiddo: I had to. I cut it’s head off.
Me: Ohmygod. Aren’t water moccasins poisonous?
Kiddo: *laughs* Yeah. It was awesome.
Me: Ummmm…you still have your health insurance card in your wallet, right?
Kiddo: Yeah. Why?
Me: Oh, just…making sure.

*sigh*

Worry worry worry.

Purging Until It Hurts

A little over a month ago, I was watching an episode of “Hoarders” with Captain Carl and I started to get all itchy. It made me think about how cluttered my house was. Those of you that have ever watched this show probably know what I’m talking about. That little pile of mail on the kitchen counter? Suddenly I envisioned it morphing into a huge pile of mail. And then I added newspapers and magazines to the pile in my mind. Then, because this is how my mind works, I threw an old banana peel and a couple pairs of underwear into the pile. And then my mind slapped myself in the face and was all “calm the fuck down!”. And I did.

But I couldn’t stop thinking about all the closets in my house, filled to the brim with…stuff. And the spare bedroom jammed full of all the projects we were going to get to “someday”. And our three car garage that we can only get one car into.

Me: I have an idea.
Captain: Uh oh.
Me: No! It’s a good idea.
Captain: *eyeing me warily* Oh-kay…
Me: Let’s do a whole house purge.
Captain: *stare*
Me: Seriously. We just have too much, you know? Let’s go room by room and clear out what we don’t need or have an attachment to and then have a garage sale.

And to my amazement, he agreed.

I decided May 14 would be our garage sale day. We started in the garage, because that was where we would need to put all the purged items from inside the house. It took us two days to sort and clean it, but by the end of the 2nd day we had a huge pile of garage sale items and enough garbage on the curb that I had to call for a special bulk pick up. We could now also park two cars in the garage. We were shocked by how much crap there was out there. It felt great to get rid of it all. Freeing.

The next weekend, we tackled the kitchen. I found a mouse pad stuck behind the crock pot. Address labels inside a vase that was behind a giant container of protein powder. When we finished, we knew where every pot and pan was located. Mixing bowls were easily accessible. The mouse pad, along with a huge amount of other things, went into the garage sale pile in the garage. And on it went from there…

Fast forward to 6am on May 14. Every single closet in my home is organized and tidy. The spare bedrooms are clean and ready for guests. I know where all the extra sheets and comforters are located. The old treadmill we used as a coat hanger is now sitting in the driveway, ready to be sold along with hundreds of other items. And by 11am that same day? Every single item was gone. Every. Single. One. And we were $257 richer.

I’m sharing this story with y’all not because it was particularly funny or entertaining. I know that is the type of stuff I usually write about here. I’m sharing it because this process has really made an impact on my life. I was really surprised at how amazing the experience has been.

Because it was hard. It was sooooo hard. I had made up my mind at the beginning that I would let go of anything we had not used in the last year or did not hold significant sentimental value or worth in some way. I knew this would be a tough rule to stick to, but I was determined. And I did it. It helped that Captain Carl jumped on my bandwagon. I watched him purge things that I knew were hard for him to see go. He had so many old computer parts that he had been hanging on to “just in case”. I found a place we could recycle them and he let everything go. Everything. How could I not do the same?

So I got rid of the cute little baskets that my sister had bought me years ago and I never used for anything. And the eight flower pots that were filled with geraniums at our wedding but were currently collecting dust in the garage. And the old piano lamp my parents bought with my piano when I was 12 years old but is really ugly so I bought a new one and stuck it in the closet.

We priced it all to sell, and boy did it. We were swarmed with buyers before we could even get everything out on the driveway. You meet interesting people when you have a garage sale. I met the grandson of the man who used to farm the land our home is now sitting on. He told me that their house used to sit in the big field behind us. I chatted with a lady who bought all three boxes of my Christmas decorations and found out she gives them to her kids, who can’t afford to buy their own. Captain Carl gave a little girl one of my beanie babies for free and I watched him smile as she hugged it. An old lady bought my Uncle Sam yard sign and told me she was going to put it on her husband’s grave. Then she asked me how much a stripper pole would cost because she wanted to buy one for her daughter. For reals. And the guy who came at the end and took whatever we had left? We gave it all to him for free because he told us he was “just trying to make ends meet” and if anyone knows how that feels, it would be us.

So now we’re purged and both the Captain and I agree that the house feels lighter and the energy is just…well, more positive. Which is something we’ve needed badly. The last two years have been rough, what with all the renters in and out and the financial struggles and stress that goes along with those things. And some of that is still there. We’re still broke as hell and we may have to take in yet another renter this summer. But now when I go into my bedroom closet, I feel like twirling because look how pretty and organized!

I don’t even miss that piano lamp. Much.

Plus, I found this during our purge.



One of four gnomes my mom painted in her ceramics class in the late 70’s. I kept them, even though they creep Captain Carl out. Because they were my mom’s and she wanted me to have them and they should be displayed in a nice place and not stuck in a box in the garage. And also I really want to creep out the Captain since he keeps hiding his lizard fishing lures in my bathroom towels. The asshole.

I’m Either The Nicest Person On The Planet, Or The Dumbest. My Vote Is For The Second One.

I don’t know what it is about me this week, but I’ve been bombarded with requests for favors. I don’t know what the hell is going on. Do I have the word “helpful” or “sucker” tattooed on my forehead? Am I too nice? Did I borrow a pen from you two years ago and now it’s payback time?

Shit!

First, I offered to pass along a friend’s resume to a department in my office. That was me just being awesome…she didn’t ask me to do it. But she got an interview the next day and got offered the job. I felt great. I did a good deed! Hooray me! Apparently my friend told everyone what I had done for her, because my email has now been flooded with resumes from not one, not two, but five other people. Five! All of them with greetings like “Hi, Natalie told me your work was hiring. Can you please get me an interview? Signed, person you have never met.”

Then it was a vendor that I used to work with at an old job. He asked me to get him a lunch meeting with my boss. He wants to get his foot in the door, which is a hard thing to do unless you know someone. I like the guy. I sympathize with him. I want him to succeed. So I said yes and got my boss to agree to lunch that day. The next day, he texts me and asks if I could maybe possibly kind of tell him what our current vendor is bidding for jobs? You know, so he could be competitive? Because he really really wants to work for us?

Umm. No. I’m not losing my job for you, dude. Except I don’t know how to say no to awkward, inappropriate requests. So instead I told him I would “try to find out”. And then never told him anything. And now he keeps texting asking me and I’m all “sorry, I’m swamped right now” and “I don’t know where to find the bids” and still he keeps texting and now I have to get up the nerve to tell him no. Because yeah, I’m not doing that.

Then it was a guy I work with. He asked me if I could please “call this number and ask for Sherry and then if she is there, ask her when the next tax assessment class is”. To which I was all “Huh?” and he was all “It’s my ex-wife and she’s psycho and I need to find out if she’s actually working where she says she is so I can get my child support.” and I was all “I don’t want to do that.” and he was all “Why not?” and I was all because I don’t want to get involved in your crazy life. But I only said that last part in my head. What came out of my mouth was “Ummm, okay.” So I called, and thank you baby Jesus, no one answered. So I told him and he was all “Try again!” and I was all “No!” and he was all “Why not?” and I was all “Because it’s weird, okay?”. And then he left me alone. For two hours. Since then, he asks every time he walks by my desk, giving me wounded puppy faces when I say no.

Then! This morning another co-worker told me about how she got so wasted last night and didn’t get home until 4am and omg she might still be a little drunk and she doesn’t remember where she parked her car. So now she has no car, no wallet and no cell phone. She followed that up by asking if she could borrow my car to run to the store “real quick”. And I said yes, because we go to lunch every Friday and we’ve sang karaoke together and how do you say no to a kind of sort of friend when she asks to borrow your car? You don't. If you are me, anyway.

So now I’m sitting at my desk, about to call and ask Shelly about tax assessment classes while texting “I still can’t find the vendor bid files, but I’ll keep looking!” and thinking about where my car might be right now and how I can’t even call to make sure everything is okay because she doesn’t have a cell phone on account of it being in her lost car somewhere in downtown Dallas.

Fuck, I’m an idiot.



Don’t forget, I’m posting today over at Sprocket Ink, the most super cool and totally awesome snarky news website ever! This afternoon I’m writing about how Mariah Carey loves her living room so much that she named one of her babies after it. If I’m lyin’ then I’m dyin’.

Nobody's Feet Are As Awesome As Mine Today

You guys.

Remember when I was the recipient of my very own shoe song? Two weeks ago my shoes were delivered to that same store. I went in to pick them up and was all "Is the shoe song lady working today?" and the girl behind the counter was all "I'm sorry?" and I was all "Yeah, the shoe song lady. You know, the one with the accent who sings and snaps her fingers?" and the girl was all "Huh?". And then she called another person up to the front so I could ask her, but she didn't know either so I spent 5 minutes saying things like "Dis ees your shoe dance" and "Try dem on" to help them remember the employee I was asking about but they still acted like they didn't know. So I did the shoe dance for them and the girl was all "Ma'am, just take your shoes and go please."

I suppose they work different shifts. Or she was a complete figment of my imagination. But probably it was the different shifts thing because the imagination thing almost never happens anymore since I stopped snorting Smarties. Anyway, I was disappointed not to see her because I was looking forward to doing the New Shoe Dance around the store with her.

But who cares because look!

Hello gorgeous.

I shoe-gasmed all over my closet the first day I wore them.

My feet have never been so happy. Before the green shoes, my feet were completely underwhelmed with my footwear choices. But then I put on the green shoes and my feet were all kicky and jaunty and refused to stay under my desk at work, so I was forced to run from cubicle to cubicle yelling "Look! Look how pretty!" while pointing at my feet.

And then I went home and was all sad face because I had to take them off and put them away until the next week. Because as much as I want to, I just can't wear green canvas wedge sandals with little flowers on the toes every single day.

But what I can do is go back and buy them in purple and white and ohmygod they have them in red now!

My feet are soooo getting lucky.

p.s. Don't forget to check me out over at Sprocket Ink. Last week I wrote about foreskin. It's pretty much as awesome as it sounds.

On The Positive Side, I Now Have A Gay 19 Year Old Boyfriend

In the past 48 hours I have done all of the following:

1. Visited my in-laws for Easter weekend.
2. Ate approximately 53 mini chocolate eggs.
3. Drank two very large top shelf margaritas on my father-in-law’s dime.
4. Ate a lot of chips and salsa while drinking said margaritas.
5. Got drunk and flirted with my son’s 19 year old gay friend while Captain Carl laughed his ass off.
6. Was reminded by my son of the time I got drunk and flirted with his other, non-gay friend by singing Prince's "Sexy Motherfucker" to him.
7. Got called a cougar by Captain Carl. Made clawing motion and sounds vaguely resembling cat noises.
8. Puked my guts out at three in the morning.
9. Refused to speak to Captain Carl after he got a speeding ticket.
10.Drove through torrential rain and hail. Promised God I would never flirt with my son's friends or be hung over on Easter again if we got home safely.
11. Got home safely. So long, younger men and margaritas. Damn it.

And that was how I celebrated the resurrection of Christ this year.

My mother would be so disappointed. So would, you know...Jesus.

p.s. The gay kid loved it.
p.p.s. So did the non-gay one. Because I'm just that awesome. Rawr.

Seems Like My Serial Killer Could Have Picked A Better Weapon

Yesterday was our 8th anniversary, but Captain Carl has been in Oklahoma all week for stupid business stuff so I totally spent the day alone. Well, I did have dinner with my sister…but after that I was by myself. You can go ahead and start feeling sorry for me now.

So I get home after dinner and I’m all feeling sorry for myself and I call the Captain and he’s all “I’m watching Dancing with the Stars.” and I’m all “What? We are apart on our anniversary and you’re watching a show you won’t ever watch with me?” and he’s all “There’s nothing else on.” and I’m all “Then you should have drove home to be with me on our anniversary.” and he’s all “But we're four hours apart and I have to work tomorrow.” and I’m all “Still. Whatever. I don’t even care.”

Not the most romantic anniversary ever. But it’s okay because he’s coming home tonight and it’s totally going to be romantic and he is totally going to rub my back for me. What? That’s romantic. He loves to do that. Especially right after a four hour drive. *shifty eyes*

So I go to bed and I’m lying there on my back and I can’t get comfortable. I decide to try sleeping on my stomach. And that’s when it happened...

My biggest fear is home invasion. I’m terrified that someone is going to get into my house and murder me. This fear is magnified by a zillion when I’m alone. I’m completely rational throughout the evening. I eat dinner, watch tv, read a book. Whatever. I’m not scared at all. And then I go to bed and blam! Petrified. I’m convinced a psycho killer has snuck into my house while I was at work and has been hiding in my closet or under my bed or in my shower the whole time I’ve been there. And now he’s waiting for me to fall asleep so he can murder me with a knife from my very own kitchen. Or with the fireplace poker from my very own fireplace. Or with the hitachi magic wand vibrator from my very own sex toy drawer. The murder weapon is always something we own. Because serial killers love irony. Apparently.

But for some reason, none of the usual fears were running through my head last night. Everything was quiet and I was in a comfortable sleeping position. Lying on stomach, one arm under the pillow…so comfy. I was almost asleep when I felt a pinch on my arm.

Ouch.

I ignore it. Until I feel it again, only more painful this time.

Damn, what is that? OMG, maybe it’s a spider!

I jump up and turn on the light. I turn my pillow over several times and find nothing. Then I just stare at my bed for awhile, waiting for the spider to come out. Nothing. I reach over and grab my glasses and when I turn back to the bed, I see it.

A june bug. Crawling across my bed towards me. Much screaming and flailing of arms. I am completely grossed out. A june bug was under my pillow.

How the fuck did it get under there??? OMG, I bet the serial killer totally put it there to distract me and he is totally creeping up behind me right now to strangle me with a wire hanger from my very own closet!

It's a testament to my crazy brain that I was able to turn one june bug into a murder weapon. Of course there wasn’t a serial killer behind me. But the june bug was still there. So I had to kill it with my sex toy catalog and then I switched pillows just in case the other one was infested with june bugs because duh, of course it was and then I laid in bed wide awake for an hour because I was all itchy and convinced that the june bug had laid eggs in my arm and now I was a host for millions of baby june bugs and OMG it’s totally going to be like that one guy that had a headache and he went to the doctor and the doctor found hundreds of maggots in his ear!

Yeah.

The serial killer thing isn’t nearly as scary as june bug larvae growing in my body.

p.s. I texted Captain Carl this morning to tell him about what happened and I was all “a june bug was under my pillow last night and it bit me.” and he was all “june bugs don’t bite.” and I was all “Then it pinched me. Or laid eggs in my arm. Whatever it did, it was gross.” and he was all “heh heh” and I was all “It was traumatic, shut up!” and he was all “Was it right side only june bugs?’ and then I died from loving him so much. That man is sooo my soul mate.