Monday, December 2, 2013


It's the season of giving, right?  Just had Thanksgingkkah, and around the corner is Christmas.  So here is my gift to females worldwide.

A long sleeve shirt with a built-in bra.  All the coverage with none of the discomfort.

...on a side note, I was going to put 'femdom worldwide' and googled 'femdom' to insure I was using/spelling it correctly, which is why I used 'female' instead, but because of what I found, I have to talk about it anyway... I have always used 'femdom' as a way of saying 'of the female'.  Now I have to change my expression, since I have been referencing female domination and BDSM for the past 15 years. wonder my co-worker's wife thought I was a dom.  Explains so much, yet doesn't bring me comfort.

But back to the shirt...

I have a bra repulsion. They are restrictively hellish garments that should only be necessary if said bosom puts the owner in danger whilst being active.  Otherwise, they should be like the dress socks that slouch down your calf and bunch up in your heal...that's to say, stuffed in a dark corner in the back of a drawer.  And I can't forget to mention the fact that many men have a bigger bosom than I, so now out pops my feminism.  I stopped shaving for November too, so take that!

 Unfortunately, the elusive long sleeve with a built-in have not been invented yet.  Or the owners are keeping them selfishly hidden.  Bastards.

Screw the 80's, I should have been a 60's child.

Wednesday, November 27, 2013

8+ Reasons Why Being A Stay At Home Parent Sucks The Life Out Of Everything

I love reading those posts that go viral about how you know you are a 90's girl, or fun topics like that.  In fact, since I was born straddling a decade, I never could figure out if I was an 80's or a 90's child, but since reading the how you know posts, I have come away with a solid answer.  It makes me quite happy to announce that I am, unequivocally, an 80's child.  Yeah!  The only decade better is the one that hasn't happened.  These lucky kiddos will be able to say they were a child of the roaring 20's!  Because the first two decades in this century are just awkward to talk about.  Really, how do you say 'I'm a zeros' child' without sounding dumb.  Or a 'teens' child?  Dumb again.  That's why they are sticking with 'millennial's', and so would I.

So recently I read a post about the 21 reasons being a stay at home mom sucks.  ...that wasn't the title, but it lead you to believe that the 21 reasons would be those that would cause a second thought when deciding to resign from your job.  And they fell flat.  Half of the reasons would make anyone want to be the stay at home parent.  I think that's doing a disservice to those that are considering the giant leap into stay at homes.  I firmly believe that when considering any occupation, you should learn about the parts that make people want to stab their nearest co-worker with a dull pencil.  Usually, when someone finally nails down what job they want, it usually comes with dreams of fine pay, nice promotions, great benefits, fun co-workers, and a feeling of accomplishment at the end of a busy work day.

Then they get the job.

And reality is mean.

Hopefully, you can find the good in your profession, because there is good in everything...even the guy that drives the truck looking for road kill to pick up.  Because he gets the digs on new land that is for sale, and he will one day own all of us.

But if you go into a job knowing the good and the bad, your heart won't be smashed into little bits that a toddler will choke on.  So with that in mind, here are my reasons that being a stay at home mom sucks.  I'm not sure I'll get to 21, but then again, I might just have to buy a website to finish the list, because I'm only allowed so much on this free site.  And because I don't want to sound like the horrible parent that only takes away the crappy parts of parenthood, know that I have enjoyed being a stay at home about 90% of the time.  My kids are awesome, and I'd do it all over again.  Next time, though, I'd go into it knowing what to expect.  So think of this as a public service for those considering a job change.

Parts of being a stay at home parent that suck:

1. Never again will you be called by your given name.  No one will remember it, or care to learn it.  You are now 'Joey's Mom'.  But you will not be able to learn the other mom's names, so no one feels bad about calling each other by the stand-by 'hey...'

2. You don't have a job, and you never did.  Did you leave an illustrious career in macro-biotics?  Did you cure toenail cancer?  And if people find out you actually were something before having kids, they look at you like it was a feat of daring and skill that could not have come from this now, slightly lumpy woman that has a baby attachment.

3. Are you going to be a stay at home dad?  Because what everyone really sees when there is a dad at the playground is you are giving your wife an afternoon off.  Or the more terrible reality that you are probably just a loser that got fired and refuses to look for work.  You lazy bum.  ...or you are a kidnapper, so hope to hell that your kid isn't crying when you have to drag them away from the toy store.  One of my girlfriend's was at the mall (hell) with her daughter.  The little girl was mad at her mom, and screamed 'YOU'RE NOT MY MOM!' as she was pulled toward the exit.  The security guard actually questioned her (good guy security guard).  Luckily, the girl is a spittin image of her mom, so there wasn't much to question.  ...Good luck dads.

4. Your fancy stuff gets put away for ten years, to be replaced by a series of ever changing plastic things.  And no matter how much you say the toys need to stay in their room, the plastic will always come back into the living room, like a steady flow of multi-colored lava.  ...or birthday cake vomit.

5. Do you remember wearing nice things?  Take a picture, because you won't have to dress up (and I mean wear eye liner and brush your hair) for at least five years.  

6. Do you enjoy exotic meals?  Well you have exactly 2.75 years to eat what you want.  Once that two year old realizes that you are trying to poison him with the punjab eggplant, your taste buds are shut down.  You have one of three options.  Cook two meals.  Cook boring meals that you know the kids will eat.  Or cook what you want to eat and wait for the fight that will end with you being angry, and the kids being hungry.

7. Nothing is sacred anymore.  NOTHING.

8. This is the last one, and I'm piling all the stuff in the same one because they aren't exactly surprises, but they need to be said.  Kind of like having terms and conditions on parenthood.  No money, no benefits, no vacation, no breaks, never pooing alone, never having a peaceful meal out, never going to the bar, uno, go- fish, checkers, tying shoes in double knots then having to get the pliers to untie them only to tie them in double knots 10 minutes later, messy car, messy house, finding melted butter in your twirly lightbulb, the fire it will become, never sleeping peacefully because the kids might be dead, and never having a quiet moment...ever.

So, after all that, if you still want to take the plunge and become a stay at home parent, you will be fine.  You have been forewarned, and I have the utmost faith that you will be a success.  Because really, if your kid lives, you did it right.

Sunday, November 17, 2013

'Oh, are you getting a new puppy?' NO! Shut Up..Go Away!

My house is full of animals, two of which are dogs.  The rest of the animals are we people, and I think that most of the time, the dogs are more civilized.

Here's one of them...
Momma, I cold.
This is Grizwald.  He is a Chinese Crested Hairless, or more precisely, the naked rat squirrel, and this is about as cute as he ever looks.  The poor boy hates winter, and rain, and wet grass, and toads. 

Let it be clear that Griz came to us as a rescue.  And not even a proper rescue.  I did not search out to adopt a naked animal.  He came to us via a serendipitous chat on a website.  A woman posted that someone dumped the ugliest dog in the world in her yard, and asked if anyone wanted him.  Well, ugly+unwanted=me jumping up and down waving both hands in the air screaming 'pick me, pick me!'  

And so came Grizwald.  I'm not sure he was dumped in the manner she described, and I did put feelers out in the area where she lived to see if anyone was missing a $2000. dog.  No one claimed the poor dear, so he became ours.  Really, I became his.  And by chance anyone reads this and says 'hey! I lost my $2000. dog a few years ago!', ...he has a tattoo, so if he really is yours, contact me.  But if someone does claim him, I might just pack up and move to another place and never blog again, and change my name, because I am his....not you.

Our other dog is the reason behind this post.

This is Wile E. Coyote.  She's my girl.  My first baby.  If you look at the picture and think she looks a tad like a zombie, that's because she is...sort of.  She has a retinal disease which makes the fluid build up in her eye, kind of like glaucoma.  It leads to blindness and weird bulgy zombie eyes.  We had a procedure done on her right eye to take the fluid out and prevent more pressure build up, and thankfully it worked.  The vet wanted us to have her eye removed, which would have been super cool at Halloween, but the pain and expense would have been too much.  So we opted on the 'suck out the problem' solution.  So far, so good.  And her other eye hasn't started the zombie bulge yet, so cheers to being regular blind instead of Marty Feldman blind.

Wile is 13.  She'll be 14 in April.  And she's a pure bred lab.  So just doing regular math, she's enjoying her sunset.

In order to keep my head from exploding with grief that I shouldn't feel yet, I've started looking at the puppies on SPCA websites.  It's kind of like reading the last page of a book to find out what's going to happen before it actually happens.  When you know the future, the present is a bit easier to handle.  

But I also feel like a cheat.  An adulterer, if you could use the word to describe puppy love instead of indecent people, cheat love.  

I also have a blubber problem.  I can come into watching a tv program that is half over, be introduced to a character on minute, any cry hopelessly when they get killed 20 seconds later.  No joke.  All I have to do is think about the story line of 'My Girl', and I well up.  The jokes about pregnant women crying at commercials?   I do that.  And I'm not pregnant.

So I'm relying on adorable puppy ideas racing around in my head to keep me level.  I can't wait to get one, but dread the reason why we will get one.  I'm bipolar without the meds.  It's fun and tragic all in one bubble.  
Stupid life.

Sunday, November 10, 2013

Is That a Rhetorical Question?

I have a slight addiction to Facebook.  With the help of friends and the lack of a job, I spend a wee bit too much time on the ridiculous site.  Most of the time, I just pop on to see if anyone put anything funny up.

I tend to unfriend people that aren't funny, so let that be a lesson to you.

Family is safe, but only because they are family, and there is a requirement written into the terms and services that if you unfriend a family member, you will go to hell.  Which I don't believe in, but you never can be too careful.

I have become pretty familiar with the 'hide' button though. I use it with wild abandon.  I don't care to read all of the updates you put about hating one political party or another.  Do that, and you're either gone, or forgotten.

Another one I hide are the religious freaks.

Those are the ones that perplex me the most.

Do you really want to know if I think Jesus is the reason for the season?

...cus he's not.  He wasn't even born on Christmas day.  Want to know why they picked Dec. 25th for Jesus' fake birthday? It's because of the 8th day and circumcision.  The Bris ceremony is performed on the 8th day of life, a welcome to the world ceremony.  The day when the slate is clean and real life can begin.  The 8th day after being born on the 25, if you count the 25th as day 1, is........ Jan 1st.  And then the world got a fresh start.  HAPPY NEW YEAR!  Convenient and brilliant.  I think the person that picked the 25th was a genius.  They should write a book.

oh, wait...


I like you believers, I really do.  I even love some of you.  A lot.

But if you keep asking me what I think, one day I might answer you.  I think a few knickers would get all twisted up if I answered all of the 'do you believe' questions y'all post on your fb pages.  So I keep my mouth shut, out of respect mostly.  I don't like getting in arguments when ethically, everyone is right.  And I really do like you kids, and respect your opinion.  I wonder though, would you respect mine?

So let's go back to the tried and true... only ask the question if you really want to know the answer.

Thursday, October 31, 2013

Curiosity Killed the Computer

Um, so apparently, if you put words like 'gold' with words like 'toilet' in a blog post, some very ...fetishy... websites come and take a gander at your blog.

Glad I got curious about the address when the smalls were at school!

I swear I wasn't curious more than once...

And how appropriate that this is the 69th blog post...

Monday, October 28, 2013

McCrory's Gold Toilet

Family dinners at my mom's house are rarely peaceful occasions.  That's not saying they aren't fun, just very loud and usually have arguments about either religion, race or politics that punctuate themselves throughout the evening.

Last night we were happily arguing about politics and race, letting religion lie for the moment.

...that's funny in itself, religion...lie.... hmmmm

Because we are in North Carolina, a state that is quite an embarrassment right now, the 'conversation' was pretty much one sided.  Mostly, we all agree that McCrory, the douche Governor, is a moron.  Add to that the fact that my family produces teachers like retirement communities produce herpes, there is very little love for the conservative bone heads in the state legislature.  But because no conversation can become an enjoyable argument without the consenting view, we have a token republican.  We also have a slathering of normal conservatives, intelligent liberals and even a few that would be considered an ugly experiment child between a socialist and a libertarian.  Mix all of us together, and there is a tv show in the works.

So the argument got exciting when our token, concealed weapon toting, right winger defended the Governor and his right to spend over 200k to refurbish the bathrooms in the governors mansion.  ...when the state can't afford teacher assistants, or teacher raises.  Teachers didn't get a raise last year.  We are near the bottom of teacher pay in our 50 states. 45th.  So indeed, let's put in 9 new bathrooms, and don't forget the bidets or adding flecks of gold to the toilet seats.  ...turns out, the all mighty Governor decided it was not such a great idea (after we the people found out what he was going to do), so the bathroom renovations are not going to happen on taxpayer money.  But that didn't alter the probability of a nice and heated conversation.  In fact, it makes it that much more fun.  Since it is all in our imagination, we can add points to bolster our point of view that have no hooks in reality.  Like the fact that he only uses two bathrooms, and the others already have gold in the seats, so really it would only cost 2k per bathroom for mold removal and a bidet.  And he should have to pay for the refurbishment himself, because the mold in the bathroom is there because the Governor doesn't aim well.

If you go to his place for Halloween, don't ask to use the loo.

After we thoroughly ran his name through the poo, ahem, we moved on to this...

The relationship between the 'n' word and the 'g' word.

Now, I know you are all scratching your heads thinking 'g' word?'  And I know that not one person will question what 'n' word I am talking about.  There really are only a few words that are referred to by their first initial; the N word, the F word, and the C word.  So where does 'g' fit in?

My mom's side of the family has pretty deep ties to Ireland.  I think my grandmother was second generation American, which is to say, all American.  But there are those that cling to their family history.  I think that's because when you think of 'American', you picture either a fat white man in socks and sandals with a sunburn and a huge camera strapped around his neck.... or you think of pompous white men in curly white wigs.  Either way, uncool.  So we hold tight to anything in our past that is interesting.  So the women on my mom's side have held tight to being Irish.  They even have the red hair and light complexion to boot.  I was left out of the interesting trait group, with mousy brownish blondish hair, so I guess my knickers don't get in as much of a twist when I hear the term 'ginger.'  Yup, the 'g' word.

Well, the conversation came up when one of the family related a story in which she was asked by a customer if being a ginger was natural.  In a not so nice way, I should add.  I thought that the insult was more because it was sexually derogative in nature, she felt that the word ginger was the insulting piece, and compared it to being called an 'n' word if you were black.

This is when my white guilt kicked in.  I argued that it did not have the same connotation, at least in America.  I also argued that there are probably more Americans that don't know what 'ginger' would be referring to than do know.  That's when I learned that South Park, the hilariously rude cartoon that I haven't watched for 15+ years, throws ginger insults daily.  But really, I have no place to talk, or argue.  I'm about the least minoritish person on the planet.  I'm average in about any test there is for figuring minority status.  Sometimes I wish I were black, mostly for the hair, or gay, hair again.  Because there isn't much out there for a white, blondish brownish, blueish eyed American girl to get angry about.  I missed the womens lib movement, war protests, and being able to be one of the white roadies with the Black Panthers.  Maybe that's why I get so emotional when my kids won't eat the Indian dinner I cooked.  'There are starving babies in India that would eat our dog food, so be happy with this dinner!!!!' I yell, steam screaming out of my ears.  Because I have nothing holding me back.  The world is my oyster, and I'm pissed that I know that.

I envy the women in Saudi Arabia that get to throw caution to the wind, possibly doing damage to their ovaries, and drive a car.  Women in Afghanistan that have to fight for rights to be educated.  Women in India that have to unite with each other for the safety to walk down the street.  I often wonder why the conscious that is me ended up in this body, in America, part of this wonderfully crazy family.  I have to be reminded, more than should be normal, that I am not actually a black girl, that I am just another white girl with white privilege, so what exactly do I have to be angry about.


But maybe that's ok.  Because I know how stinking lucky I am.  I have a house, a car, an education, a family that loves me and won't ever think about selling me, no matter how much my crazy comes out.

Tuesday, October 15, 2013

Coercion Isn't All Bad

You know what's hard to do?  It's hard to get people to do what YOU want them to do, rather than what THEY want to do.

I'm trying to recruit people to volunteer at a super duper fun race next weekend.  The only people that have said yes, so far, are those that I bribed with the ability to kiss some strategically placed butts that could lead to a possible job opportunity.  Pie in the sky, but they don't know that....

I need to take some lessons from others that know how to get people to do unsavory things.

I'm breaking down the skill set needed for this ability and so far I've realized that the most important attribute to have when getting people to do things they don't want to do is FEAR.  Or being fearsome, but 'fearsome' didn't sound right in the first sentence, even though fearsome is an attribute and fear is what happens when you are fearsome, but you get the point.

Seriously.  Think about the reasons you have done things that you don't want to do... Stay up late to get the paper done = you will get a decent grade, thus avoiding a butt chewing by the parents.  Stop smoking = fear of your lungs looking like the specimen that the scientist brought to your class in 10th grade. ...on a side note, they should have brought the blackened lungs to my class in 5th grade, might have made a difference.  And the best example of persuasion via fear tactics is the military.  Really.  A big guy send an order and a bigger guy tells you to go into a battle where there is a good chance you will return missing a part of your body and you do it without question! = the bigger guy won't stomp you into bits and feed you to your brothers and sisters in the unit, who will in turn eat your bits in fear of the bigger guy doing the same to them.  All of these accomplishments brought to us by the word FEAR.  I have to get a handle on being scary.

I looked up 'the art of persuasion', and there were a lot of points about how to be persuasive without being scary, but I think that's bogus.  I get it if you can schmooze your way into getting your coworker to make the copies for you, but that's in a face to face situation.  I'm doing this as a call for help to the people of my little world.  The facebook people really.  And I am one of those facebookers that delete contacts at a whim, so my contact list has dwindled.  For my part, those that I have deleted would never help at a race anyway, so maybe I should clear out the rest.  But then I'd have two friends left, and that would hurt my self esteem, and I don't like being pouty.

So I started looking up other ways to get people to do things that I want them to do.  Then I checked craigslist, because that is filled with things that others want you to do, namely, buy their leftover crap.  And I got sucked into the vortex that is Craigslist.  Now I still have no idea how to get people to help out at this race, and it appears that I may have bought a boat.  It's a nice boat, with a cabin in the front end that is like the little closet you make into forts when you are kids.  The engine on the back runs good, or so the add says.  I was taken aback slightly at the mention of it running 'good' because my mom and all the other women in that side of the family were English teachers, and it runs WELL.  Batman does good, we do well. (I stole that batman line from somewhere else,not sure where the else is, but it's brilliant, so there)  I let the language slide, because the boat is beautiful.  Now I have to think of a name for him.  I say Him, because everyone always thinks a boat is a girl, and that's dumb.  The ocean is the girl.  It creates life, and it is always warm and wet.  The boat is the hard piece of wood that split the calm water in two and pushes through. Is your mind blown?

Now, if I can only get Craig to ask people to volunteer for the race.

Maybe he can make another list.

Thursday, October 10, 2013

Camp Chair - Bike Trailer Transformer

This blog post is more on the serious side, and it is actually about a certain thing instead of just a jumble of crap that fell out of my brain.

Sorry.  But on the plus side, you might learn something. 

Suddenly, wonderfully, and hopefully temporarily, I have found myself out of a job, free of school, and eager to drive less.  ...I'm actually not hoping the need to drive less is temporary, but who's trying to kid who?  If the next step lasts even a month, I will be impressed.  

In between the chaos that is mornings before school, and the slogging away the afternoon after school, I have 8, EIGHT hours of empty space in my day.  Ever since I decided to stay home to raise my kids, I've done things.  I've had part time jobs, volunteer jobs, classes toward future endeavors, classes for fun, and one or two children to care for on top of caring for my own.

This is the first time, thanks to my youngest in kindergarten, that I have found the empty.  I'm looking for a full time job, but in the mean time, I have freed myself.

And this is what I have done in my free time this week... I made a bike trailer out of a camp chair.  And you can too!  As long as you are super comfortable with dumpster diving, you can create anything for free!!  I even knicked all the information for the trailer from this site.  I changed some of the hitch bits to fit my fancy, but many thanks to Gene Williams for the tutorial.

I found a rotten camp chair that was left near the trash bins at the soccer fields.  

 Then I took the ripped fabric off and drilled out the rivets holding all of the conduit bars together.  I tried to pry them apart with a pocket knife while watching my daughter play soccer, but apparently, knives being pulled out during soccer games are not looked upon with favor.  So just wait until you get home.



After I figured out the shape I wanted, I drilled holes in the bars and screwed them together.

 I then butchered my sons old rust bucket of a bike.  The wheels are 12" tall and keeps the trailer's center of gravity low.  Unfortunately, I drilled holes and screwed the bars together before I measured the wheel axles.  Some smarty pants decided to make the rear axle just a smidge larger than the front.  So when you *accidentally* run over your kid's bike that has been left in the will undoubtedly have to pay more to replace that bent wheel, because it is either specifically the front or rear wheel.  


So just remember that before you drill.  What's the saying?  Measure twice, cut once.  My grandmother is rolling her eyes.... or not, because she's been dead for almost two decades and probably doesn't have eyes anymore.  But she would have if she was alive.  

 The wheels were attached 'go-cart style', with a cable hanger drilled with the axle bolt in the middle.  

I never knew there was such a thing as 'go-cart style' until my husband said it.  Now I want to learn more.  Perhaps I'll build one next, with a lawn mower engine, because that just sounds right.


I added the bar to attach to the bike.  I was limited on length, because a camp chair is only so big, but I think the distance between the rear wheel and the trailer will be fine.  A regular bin fit nicely between the wheels of the trailer.  I'm just going to lash it down with a bungee cord instead of attaching it permanently.  That way I can change the load as needed.  I've got dreams, you know!

So far the biggest mistake I have made is the lack of bend in the bit attached to the bike.  If I ride my bike straight, I'll be fine. Turning right, my tire runs up against the bar after about a 25 degree turn.  Don't mind me if I end up crashing into your porch, it's just that I couldn't turn.  Please feed me a sandwich, and call an ambulance.
 These next pictures are how the hitch attaches to the bar and the bike.  The metal is 1/8th" thick and 1" wide steel.  I bent it with a vise and a hammer.  Just wait until you want to toss the kids out of the second story window before you do this bit.  It sure helps with the anger.

There's not much more to say... I've yet to actually try it out.  The rain has been persnickety round here.

I am going to fix the mistake of the lack of a bend in the bar connecting to the bike with a conduit bender.  I might have to use a piece of new conduit if the chair bit ends up too short.  That remains to be seen.  I think I did well with the recycled bits though.

The total cost so far is only about $15 for hardware and the piece of metal for the hitch.  Getting a conduit bender is a bit pricey, but fortunately my husband needs one, so I'm defraying that cost onto him.  Any piece of conduit I'll need to use will be left over from his job, so that's magically and imaginatively free too!



Enjoy dumpster diving!

Thursday, September 26, 2013

Call Me Pope Fivebucks

I have experienced my first miracle.  It is on par with other miracles that have big holidays carved out of our busy calendars.  And it all started at Fivebucks.  You know, the coffee place that sells a coffee cup large enough to hold the contents of an entire bottle of wine.  That one.  You also can't get a coffee for less that five bucks...hence the name.

I guess it started there, but the miracle happened on the ride home.  I had ordered a 'tall' coffee, which is really the smallest.  I think there was such a surplus of small cups from other fast food places from when they actually served drinks in small cups, that Fivebucks collected them all to sell us expensive, little coffees.  Seriously.  Do you remember the 'small' frosty?  It was the size of a cone cup.  I think you would get approximately 3.4 spoonfuls of aerated chocolate iced spread before it was a weird puddle of congealed candy skin.  Now the small frosty is at least a 40 oz.  I think that Fivebucks saw this surplus as a way to save the world.  Kind of like the Army/Navy surplus stores.  One day the empty artillery shell that decorates my candelabra will save my life, I know it.

Some mail clerk at Fivebucks was probably high as a kite one day when she had an epiphany.  I bet we could get these hosers to buy anything with the Fivebucks logo on it, she said to herself.  So she wrote up a proposal.  Because they are in the North West, and being a stoned hippie love child is part of their birth rite, she added a touching, save the world, addition.  Here it is, taken out of context...

...and to that, we need to prepare our customers.  As consumers, they will realize that by donating to the good cause of health and prosperity, which is the Fivebucks way, they become stewards of this great company.  Donations, as defined by the cost of the coffee, and the cost of sacrifice by the consumer that knowingly has purchased less than the share that they are entitled to, can be used as a tax deductible benefit to this benefactor.  Namely, Fivebucks...

So she was able to make the case for the small cup being business friendly at the same time as being consumer and environmentally unfriendly, without looking unfriendly.  But it was eloquent, so they loved it. And since the North West was built from recycled gum and broken marbles (it does twinkle a lot up there), the thought of recycling all of the now homeless 'small' cups from decades ago was perfect.  Now we have a small, tall coffee cup that holds enough coffee to get you out the door before you need to return for a refill. 

And as it happens with small tall cups of coffee, my apprehension set in immediately that I would not have enough to get me through the drive home, and in turn, what little I did have left would get cold before I got to the first traffic light.  

But as I drove on, the cup remained full enough to keep my anxiety at bay.  And the warmth tickled my tongue with each lovely sip.  It seemed that the cup held more than enough.  I began to gulp with wild abandon.  I dared to peer into the tiny hole that slushed out my life blood.  Brown splashes twinkled back at me.  I never saw the dreaded bottom of the cup!

I started to realize that I was experiencing something out of this world.  Like the people that say the hairs on the back of their neck stood at attention right before they were hit by lightning, I felt that something extraordinary was happening.  I had a bottomless cup of coffee that never got cold!  Is this what the Maccabees experienced?  

Halfway home now!  And still, I had coffee!  And Hot!

I was getting giddy... like those butterflies that twiddle in your belly before the first day of a new job.  This was the start of something wonderful!  Maybe I'll win the lottery today?!  Maybe I'll get that job I've been wondering about?!  Today, the kids will not fight!  It was a sign...the planets were aligning and they were doing it right before my eyes!!!  It was about this time when I started thinking of all the implications associated with what was turning out to be a real live miracle.  First and foremost, I'm only in need of two more in my lifetime in order to become a Saint.  I know that most of the Saints were canonized after they died, but can I preemptively pick my Saint name? The next most pressing issue would be the holiday.  What should it be named?  Should it be world wide, or national?  How many days off of school should it warrant?  The enormity of what was happening began to pulse through me.

Turning into the driveway now, and still!  I can feel the weight in the cup, it is not empty!  Gathering my things, I stepped out of the car like I was the victor coming out of the Trojan Horse.  The world was my oyster!  Tipping up the cup to revel in this miracle, to feel one with the universe.  A feeling that only something so sublime like coffee can bring.  Confidence washed over me!  Tasting my future!!!

... it was cold.

Tuesday, September 24, 2013

Who's Holding Up The Other End?

It goes without saying that I write much more that I actually publish.  ...I guess it doesn't go without saying, otherwise I wouldn't have said anything...  If you can call this blog 'publishing.'  I made the rule for myself that I would only write about mostly funny things and keep snottiness to a minimum.  So far, I have kept up the part of the bargain that I should... I'm just wondering now who is the other person that holds up the other part of the bargain.  Weird.

I actually delete many more blogs.  Some of them have actually gotten really long, and it pains me a smidge to erase them, but mostly they were written when I was grumpy, and there are plenty of bad blogs written by grumpy white women.  No one needs another.

So this brings me to the here and now.  Because I've just deleted another very long blog about the inner grumpiness of yet another stay at home white lady.

You are very welcome.

In my most recent state of grumpiness, which lasted for a foggy week, I went shopping.  I can only explain away my purchases a little by blaming the meds.  I was taking some meds, but they were steroids for a wicked cough, which made me angry instead of silly.  I much prefer the silly meds.  When I'm angry, apparently I complain a lot, and buy strange collections of wall hooks.  I also bought stuff with skulls on them.  Not the boring skulls though, the Dia de Muertos skulls.  Because I like flowers in the eye sockets and I wish I were Mexican.   If I were Mexican, I would have probably published all of the blogs that I have erased, but really I wouldn't have had to erase any because have you ever met a grumpy Mexican?  Me neither.  It's the food.  You cannot be grumpy after eating mole sauce.  Seriously, cocoa and chiles?  Together?  What part of that does not make your whole face happy?

Friday, September 13, 2013

Short Due to Sickness, Not a Short Sickness

When I first moved into North Carolina for college, I realized that I had to learn a new language to fit in.

Kind of like living in S. Florida, if you don't speak Spanish, you won't get service in some stores.  I never did get to buy a Fedora.

But this language is my own, in another form.  I know I have prattled on about the south and how I have come to love living here, but the language is what it's all about. when I was first here, I was walking with a friend to class and I said to her, 'I'm ill.'

'As a hornet?'


And that's where I am today.  Ill, but not as a hornet.  I have had a bad cold for moving on ten days now.  I can't sleep.  I have coughed up approximately 1/16th of my lower lungs.  My stomach muscles are shredded.  My nose is being remodeled into a slightly pointier schnoz due to the constant blowing of said schnoz.  I mean, I have gone through seven boxes of tissues.  Seriously.  And now my ear is clogged.

Ten days.  And no sign it is abating.

Now I'm ill as a hornet.

Thursday, September 5, 2013

Healthcare? I Don't Smell Any Healthcare.

This is an informational blog post based on a gruesome experience I just had.  Hopefully, some that are in the medical profession will read this and internalize it.  I'm trying to save people this needless suffering.

It's about the little lookiloo thing that the nurse pulls out to look in your ear.  It's an amazing little device that has these little ice cream cones that they stick on the flashlight part that funnel the beam right in your ear.  Nice.  So helpful.  And the best part?  The cones that go into the ear are disposable!  That's right, they come in long stacks like the cone cups they make the kids drink from at tennis practice.  No cross contamination of ear juice!

Unless you are the nurse that I saw yesterday.

See, I popped into the minute clinic to check tho make sure I only have a scratchy throat from allergies, not strep.  She did the normal up and down of questions.  She was very thorough.  (no strep by the way)

Then she pulled out the lookiloo and peeped in my ear.
Then she peeped in the other ear.

Stop here...  I have not a problem with this.  Ear goop to ear goop.  We are all friends here in these canals.  But then she did the unthinkable.

'Tilt your head back so I can look up your schnoz.'
And without warning, or changing the cone piece, she shoved that juicy ear cone right up my nose!  And then into the other nostril!!

I was smelling ear juice all day.

I thought about cleaning my ears with a q-tip and writing weird words on her windshield with the diy grease marker, but then I thought that would be creeper creepy, so instead I wrote a blog about it.

So for those of you that are or may one day be in the health care field...
Please, do not cross contaminate one bodily juice with another.  Especially when the patient will be smelling the foreign juice for hours.  It is very unkind.  I'll buy you extra cones.

Wednesday, August 28, 2013

That Is NOT How I Meant For You To Use It!

A while back I attempted to make infused vodka.  I sliced up cucumbers into a mason jar and filled it with vodka.  I did the same with peaches.  Then I made a fatal error.

A dramatically delicious fatal error.

I left the fruit in the vodka too long.  Or the vodka in the fruit too long...

The peaches turned the weird brown that they do when you buy the peaches in the plastic cups for snacks, but you had to go to the discount food store to buy them because the checks wouldn't be deposited for another three days.  That brown.

Well, the error was a fatal one...for the peaches.  I was looking forward to chomping a healthy vodka snack one afternoon when the kids were both in school.  I couldn't get over the Aldi color though.

 ...Aldi is actually a pretty cool grocery, but you have to rent the carts for a quarter, and wonderfully, they don't give out bags.  So bonus for being weird.

So I filtered the vodka through a coffee filter, but since I left the fruit in for too long, it was very syrupy, so I just squeezed the vodka fruit like a sponge, and filled the mason jar with vodka syrup.  Then to the freezer it went.

You know when you were in college, and you tried to make jello shots, but because you were in college, you put way too much 151 in and it ended up being a jello slushie that caused regrets?

Well I ended up with a peach vodka slushie that causes orgasms.   ...If used properly.

I added some to orange and mango juice.

 Now I'm just having to wait until my husband gets home.

Thursday, August 22, 2013

Fugie, Ocean Queen, ...but Not in NC

I'm crowning myself Queen.  I'm struggling with the 'of' part.  Queen of Dreams? of Smelly Feet? of Contradictions?

But in the event that I never find my 'of', I'll be happy with plain ole Queen.

It's all because I crossed into my 37th year yesterday, and I thought I deserved a new name.

I really like how some cultures give temporary names to kids, then when they discover more about themselves, they choose a proper name.  When I was a kid, I heard about George Foreman naming all his kids George.  George Jr, III, IV V, VI...and poor Georgeta and Freeda George.  I'm going to pretend he did it so they have to find their own name.  So, good call, George!

I'm pretty happy with the number 37, even though when you ask me how old I am, the number that quickly and easily slips past my lips is 26.  Maybe now I'll own up to being at least 27.

As a wiser 27 year old, I have some disturbing knowledge to impart to you.  I learned this from my wonderful parents last night.  And it has to do with this...

Fudgie the Whale.

You see, last year all I wanted for my birthday was a Fudgie the Whale cake.  Unfortunately, I waited until after my birthday to let anyone know.  Even though each person in my family has at one time or another claimed that they have the power of telepathy, not one of them picked up on my yearning for Fudgie.  ..liars, every last one of 'em!

Fortunately, my parents' power of memory is a million times better than the claimed telepathy skills.  And this year, they went on a mission to find Fudgie.  

Three, then four stores didn't have Fudgie.  I'd actually be surprised if the clerks knew who Fudgie was...Carvel isn't very big here in NC.  After the failed attempts, they actually called the Carvel people.

Have I said I love my parents yet?  Because who does that?  My awesome parents, that's who.

And now for the bad news....

Fudgie isn't shipped to NC.

I am heart broken.  Until yesterday, I have found little to not love about living in this diamond in the rough. (did you hear about the ACT scores? Out of our great country of 50 states, NC came in DEAD LAST.  But that's another blogday)  

The Fudgie realization made my faith in NC falter.  I got over it though... now I have a new mission!  I will bring Fudgie to the NC masses!  I am going to start a petition, and I am going to send it to Carvel.  Hopefully with a little faith and trust, and a little bit of Fudgie dust, I will succeed.  WE will succeed!

Friend Fudgie on Facebook for future information about the petition! Bring Fudgie to NC!

On the dawn of my 37th year, I have a purpose! 

Friday, August 9, 2013

You Can't Make Me Smoke....but do you have an extra one?

As a reformed smoker, I was happy when the world had its little paradigm shift away from indoor smoking.  It was extremely difficult to go to a bar, have a beer, and NOT smoke.  Dare I say, impossible?  At least it was for me.  I could have avoided the bar scene.  But then there was the smoking in restaurants, on patios, at the ice cream shop, at the mall, it was everywhere.  ...and who am I kidding? Avoid the bar scene?!

 That bit has gotten easier since I have had kids.  Turns out, having two small people at the bar with you that can unexpectedly leak out of an orifice, isn't particularly sexy.

It's still difficult for me to not smoke when I'm around smokers, even though it has been more than a decade since I quit.

I love Japanese signs!

I enjoyed smoking.  More importantly, I looked cool doing it.  I had a friend, and this is way back in high school mind you, that I would do smoking tricks with.  I would inhale from my cigarette, then we would lock lips and I would exhale as he inhaled what I was blowing out.  Then he would blow out my smoke.  ...what isn't cool about that? (I know, pretty much everything...)  I could also 'French inhale', which I'm not sure is a real thing, but in high school, it was an art. (consequently, I looked it up, and it is a real thing.  I was going to post a picture of it, but they all look horribly disgusting, which makes me think perhaps I wasn't so cool in high school.  Depression is setting in.)

So here's my point in all this drivel... we ex smokers need the equivalent of AA.  And since I'm the one creating this group, it's going to be named something like Anonymous Smoking Secession.  And our meetings will be in a hospital room filled with oxygen tanks and trachea stomas.

But seriously, when I meet someone that trusts me enough to let me know that they once were an alcoholic, and have been in AA for x number of years, I am in awe.  That's more impressive than figuring out how to stay married.  It's more impressive than climbing Mt. Everest.  More impressive that becoming a CEO at 20.  I could go on and on.  I look at the person with a little more respect.  I think that's most people's reaction.  Mostly because we all know how hard it would be for us to quit anything.  And I could never imagine hearing someone say 'oh c'mon, quitting was silly, here, have a shot on me..'  What I expect to hear is 'wow, that's awesome!'

But smoker's, we are a heartless breed.  We thrive on each other's weaknesses, because it makes us feel less horrible for being the last holdouts.  I say 'we' because I have been that person.  I have been the one that leaves classroom during break and makes the long trek to the smoker's section that is out in the sticks.  I have been the person that holds out my pack with a twinkle in my eye and says to the ex smoker, 'oh, come out with don't have to smoke, just keep me company.' The entire time knowing that I have hooked another one to do the deed with me.  Because what is the harm of having just one smoke?  And just so that I am confident in my portrayal of the black hole that smokers use to suck in our victims, I was attacked in such a way JUST last evening!

I stayed strong.  I said I can't come out to the smokers area because I would want a smoke.  And she said 'that's ok, you can have one of mine.'

It was very sweet.  In a 'I'll wait until tomorrow morning to murder you' kind of a way.

Sunday, August 4, 2013

On The Other Hand...

There is a new standard.

A goal to achieve.

The bar is set incredibly high, so women everywhere, we need to focus.

This might be myth.  I may have been told a yarn that has been passed down from generation to generation, only to be the talk of legends but never to be actualized.  My hope, my dream, is that it is obtainable.  

Deafness by orgasm.

Yes, you read that correctly.  Not permanent deafness.  The deafness in this situation is the gold medal.  It is the notarized document, the proof that the mark has been met, possibly exceeded.  It's the pinnacle.

 ...and now for the story as told to me.

A query was made to a friend, who went to school for audiology.  When she was talking about her degree, a co-worker pulled her aside, and told her of the myth.  Apparently it happened to her.  Here is my version of this goddess' tale of pleasure...

'Hey, can I ask you something that has been bugging me for decades?' She whispers in a conspiratorial way, and motions my friend into a dark hallway.  'Sure, what's up?'

'When I was thirteen....I, um, I was masturbating...   You know when you hit that age, and discover that there are sensations that, well, you know.  So, I was holed up in my room, pretending to do homework.  I locked my door, stuffed some clothes into the crack under the door, and tucked myself under my duvet.  My parents were downstairs so I had to be quiet. The duvet was thick and warm, and I started sweating a little.  I'm not sure if it was because of the warmth, being nervous about being caught, or excited for what I was about to do....  but anyway, I got down to it.  And Brooke, (the names have been changed blah blah...) I orgasmed so hard that I went deaf.  I went downstairs later, and my dad started talking to me but all I saw were his lips moving.  I couldn't hear a thing!  For thirty minutes!  I thought I broke myself!  Could that have happened from my orgasm?'

This is when Brooke, with a slight grin on her lips and head in the clouds, told her friend that she had achieved the holy grail of orgasms.

Now for a bit of anatomy.

Apparently, there are little muscles that attach to our eardrums.  When they spasm, they pull on the eardrum.  This is a protective mechanism to shield the inner ear from loud noise bursts.  It happens when you shoot a gun, you loose hearing for a moment because the muscle spasm has made our eardrum less like a drum.

This girl rocked it so hard that the spasm continued for half an hour.

So, now I leave it to you.  I have regaled you this tale of gratification.  Now it is up to you to let the myth become not only legend, but reality.  

Friday, August 2, 2013

Mauled By Satan

You know what's scary?  Going out onto your deck at two in the morning to see why the quail are bouncing around their pen like teenagers hopped up on speed at a trampoline gym.  

The going out part is the easy bit.  Now you have to remember it is two in the morning.  No moon, and armed with a pretty, yellow flashlight whose beam reaches almost to my toes.  But I'm tough, so without waking my husband, I slink outside in bare feet and skivvies to see what was the clatter.  And speaking of clatter, I will always spell Satan correctly because it is an anagram of Santa.

Then, as I shine the beam of the flashlight down the stairs, which illuminated them slightly more than if I were to have thrown down a week old glow stick, the bowels of hell let loose the most evil being you could imagine.  With spitting foam and blood dripping from its inch long fangs, I was stalked by this devil spawn predator.  Thanks to this blogger, I'm able to show you the approximate image of the beast.  Just picture pointy horns and drippy blood.

Kind of weird that this devil was on a blog that is very religious... but I bet it
would've scared the virginity out of Mary
Then, after I stopped crying and changed my shorts, I watched as the baby raccoon looked at me from the stairs, turned around and waddled across the lawn and up a tree.  We made peace with each other from across the divide.  

Now I want a baby raccoon.

Thursday, August 1, 2013

Icarus, Schmicarus.

My mom's car killed itself yestermorning.  I had a feeling that it was depressed, but I had no idea it had the mashugana to pull this off.  I bet it felt itself a pissed off Buddhist monk that had to take a stand against all that is automotive.  My respect, little bug.  

Saturday, July 27, 2013

You Will Be Put On a Gifter Pedestal

I've been doing it all wrong.

I have come to this realization quite unexpectedly and happily.  Mostly, happily for others that will relish in my change of ways from this day forth.

This happiness all comes down to a very simple action.
A gift for a child.

Kids birthdays are always difficult for me.  Not because I don't enjoy that plasticy frosting that dyes your poo blue and green, who doesn't love that little experiment?  And not because I dislike being invited to the fancy trampoline gym that costs a bit too much to do on a rainy afternoon.  That was one of the most fun birthday parties ever!  On a side note, if you ever open a trampoline gym, please supply a 'mommy kit' for those of us who have had our bladder partially eviscerated by the child that has been invited to the birthday party.  We don't often carry around adult diapers.

The parties are difficult because I'm an anti-materialistic hippie.  When I throw a birthday party for my kids, it is a no gifts party.  ....and just so you know, I don't deprive my lovies, I feel that the gifts they get from us, the grands, the aunts and uncles, cousins and super close friends are more than enough for a 6yo brain to absorb.

So the gifts....What to get?  A lego set? Oh, but wait, the good ones are all $28. A book? Which one?  Will it look cheap? What kid really wants a book?  Soccer ball? do they even play?  Art set?  AAAHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!

And this is where I have gone wrong.  I don't have to be anti-materialistic with your child.  I don't even have to bring the best and most expensive gift.  All I, and you, have to do to make everyone happy.... is buy the gift for the parents.

I'm not saying bring a six pack for little Johnny.  Close though.

It has to be something that when the gift is unwrapped, the child says 'cool!', while the parents make eye contact with each other, and sharing a wink they telepathically say to each other 'we're stealing that.'

This-----------------------------------> is the gift my kids both got from three Chinese ladies that came over for dinner.  Definitely thoughtful and appropriate, the kids loved them.

They are two sided, magnetic, and the best part?

It opens my bottles.

So let's do this, let's create a list of items that our children can appreciate, but won't necessarily miss when we abscond with it after the party...

1. Cool bottle opener. (China 1, America 0)
2. Stormtrooper helmet ice chest.  I couldn't find one of these on the interwebs, but some cool cat needs to make this happen, because I want one.
3. A nice flashlight, with the batteries, because how pissed are you when the gift doesn't work and you have to drive over to the store for the dumb batteries.
4. Hampster.  Just kidding.  Don't EVER get someone else something that is alive, unless you want to sever all ties to this family....then go for a noisy bird.
5. Super hero school folders.  ...ok, this is boring and kind of a crappy gift, but these are the folders that are seventeen times the cost of the plain ones.  The folders that every kid wants, but you don't want to get because you know how silly it is to spend that much on a paper product.  (or maybe that's just me being anti-consumerist.... you make the choice)
6. A book, but stick a movie theater gift card in the card.  The kid will never see the movie gift card, but possibly not really see the book too.  This gift will be put aside as soon as it is opened, possibly even before it is opened if the kids feels that a book is wrapped.  You loose cool points with the kid though.  At least the parents will get a date night...
8. Fun chip clips. We always need them, but refuse to spend the cash on the cool ones.  The kids will think they are rockin, and you get fun clips for your chip bags. (or organic veggie straw bags, because that's how I roll)

...that's what I have been able to come up with on just a few cups of coffee.  Just wait until the chocolate cake hits...

Tuesday, July 23, 2013

I Wish I Was a Little Bit Taller, I Wish I Was a Baller

My 7yo daughter and I just started reading a Nancy Drew book, we're one chapter in.  She had already read the entire book, but I got frustrated with her because she could barely tell me one thing about the book. I know reading comprehension takes practice, so I wasn't looking for a major plot line.  How about just a character name???


She said there was something about twisted candles.  I didn't get a mensa feeling from that comment, because the title of the book is 'Something, something, and the twisted candles something.'

...I guess you know where her lack of analytic powers comes from.

But after I read this chapter, I realized why.  I also realized that if I had read the Nancy Drew books instead of Stephen King, I would be smarter.  Or at least have gotten a higher score on the verbal SAT.  These books are actually intelligent.  If they were computers, Terminator would be a history lesson, and we would be living under ground.  I know they are considered adolescent literature, but compared to the drivel that I read, and even more to the simple minded adolescent stories that are out today, these books are high brow lit.

So my poor girl, after devouring the simple stories that are today's chapter books, was blown away and left slightly mushy when she read Nancy Drew.  Luckily, kids are pretty squishy, and she regained shape in record time.  I on the other hand, have not been so lucky.  I'm pretty rigid, at least where the brain is concerned.   I wish I could redo the chance I had at growing one of those brainiac kind of brains.  I'm convinced Nancy Drew is the main ingredient of smarty pants kids.

Alas, it was never to be, at least not for me.
Mostly because the second chapter was terrible.

But Nancy did use the expression 'pshaw.'  So I'll give it another chance.  We need to say 'pshaw' more often.  And 'whilst'.  I don't think Stephen King has ever uttered either of those two words, let alone put them in one of his books, but they need to be more mainstream.

Maybe if I use them more often, my brain will grow two sizes.  I think three sizes is a little much, and Dr. Seuss was reaching a little.

So here's my new experiment....

I will finish the Nancy Drew book, and see if I feel smarter.

If I don't, I'll go back to my drivel and leave the brain growing to my daughter.

Friday, July 19, 2013

The Crappiest Day

Do you know what would be the worst?  Calling 911 (not accidentally, thank you old school flip phone) and waiting in the road for your rescuers, to be run over by them.

That is one hell of a bad day.

If I were China, I'd go to war over it.  ...because she was Chinese, if you have been living under a rock.

But if you have been living under a rock, and still have no idea what I'm referencing, you have to get out more.

We all learn from other peoples' mistakes though, so if I am ever to be allowed to drive an emergency vehicle, I'll be sure to not run over the person that I am rushing to help.  Teaching moments.

Monday, July 15, 2013

A Dehydrated Caterpillar Takes 8 Months to Become a Dehydrated Moth

My conscious is clear.  I am finally going to be able to sleep at night without dreaming about cops breaking down my door because they have discovered the body.

I am not a murderer.

Sort of.

Maybe I'm a fraction of a murderer.  Like saying that you are 1/4th Cherokee.  ...It's fine if you are 1/4th Cherokee, in fact, it's a much more brilliant world if you are.  The 1/4 murderer is much less cool.  I'm probably only 1/16th murderer though.  And that's why I can be relatively sure that I'm not going to be prosecuted.

The accusation?  That I dehydrated a caterpillar.

If you remember, that is where all this began.  A caterpillar disturbed my slumber, so I nabbed him and put him in a container.  Shortly thereafter, he spun a cocoon.  Then winter hit, and we began the slow process of sucking all of the water out of our house by way of a wood fired stove.  It's how we heat our little house, and give the neighborhood cancer.... but that's from another story.  One murder rap at a time.

So this little cocoon began looking emaciated. The heat was wonderful, but it dries everything out.  I kept checking on the cocoon.  Refusing to throw it away and accept that I killed this little metamorphic being, I let it stay on my mantel.  I even added water to the container, thinking it might act like one of those kid experiments that has a rubber dinosaur in an egg.  If you put the egg in water, the dino expands and breaks free of the egg.  It comes alive! ...dehydrated caterpillars don't do that.

So the months slipped away.  Winter became spring, spring became summer.  The cocoon had just become a part of the family.

Then today I spied this in the container.  
(the moth, not my son's hand)

I valiantly protected this little creature.  I kept him safe from the cruel winter and wet spring.  

Unfortunately for moths, they are very quiet.

If he had buzzed, peeped, popped, scratched... anything, I would have found him.  He would still be alive.
Instead, he quietly zipped out of the cocoon, and slowly withered away to a crunchy grey rice crispy with wings.

It may have been suicide.  Actually, yes.  Suicide.  I'm sure of it.

I am not at fault.

Tuesday, July 9, 2013

Read This In The Voice Of Jack Handy from 'Deep Thoughts'

Prayer brings comfort.  At least that's what I have always felt.  Whether it be that you are asking for help, saying thank you for joys bestowed, or just meditating on what is or is not right, the purpose of prayer is to bring comfort.

That is, unless you are one of those people that prays whilst whipping yourself.  But for most of us, we kind of like the comfort aspect.

I don't pray.  At least, not in the conventional sense.  I don't go to a place of worship.  I don't ascribe to a religion.  I don't kiss the feet of statues or drink water that might be wine.  My form of prayer, what brings me comfort, is more primeval.  Thoreau knew, and prayed much like I do.

  "I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately..." 

In these simple yet sublime words are my church, my god, and my passion.  From the action, I find comfort. A full year of happiness, sadness, joys, and disappointments are vanquished when I go to the woods.  I live deliberately.

Each summer, a small group of friends and I section hike the Appalachian Trail.  This year, we hiked through Maryland.  We hiked about 43 miles.  We gave the mountain our sweat and a tiny bit of blood, and in return, we received fresh cold water and peace.  Trail magic came to us in many forms when it seemed we needed it most, from a 4th of July celebration to a cooler full of ice cubes on a sweltering 14 mile day.  I prayed hard and drank the wine.  

...I may get an ear infection and conjunctivitis from the 'wine', because it was a swim in the Potomac River, but I don't mind.  I've reached homeostasis.   

Friday, June 21, 2013

Don't Look At The Guy In The Trench Coat, Because He Has No Pants On

It's 3:30 in the morning, and I feel like those hamsters that run and run on a wheel and get nowhere.  At least my mind feels like one.  If I was really running to nowhere, I'd be at a place called 'fit'.  I've seen the real human version of hamsters.  Usually they are spied through the bottom of my empty frappachino cup as I'm struggling to slurp out the last drips of sin.

It would be nice if we could burn calories by thinking too much...  You've heard of exercise bulimia, right?  If not, just hang out in Carrboro for a few days.  At some point, you will see a woman that runs to escape her shadow.  She must be mightily afraid of that thing, because she's as fast as the wind, and she never stops.  And she appears to be made of sticks and plastic wrap. She could live on burgerwhops and milkshakes, and still be skinny as a rail. It's scary.

But thinking bulimia, now I could get behind that!  Seriously, I have solved all of my problems, and many of the world's problems in these hours of fidgety wakefulness, by just letting my brain run in circles.  If I could voice these thoughts, you know, in daylight hours, maybe I could hush my brain at night, AND fix some major discrepancies in my life.  Unfortunately, the things that would solve my first world problems always seem to rely heavily on how other people live.  Now attach a calorie burn count to all of that thinking, and I'm a rail too!, but that would be icky.  Never mind.

The rail body would up my chances of actually hiking in the buff though.  Which is happening today.  Not my buff, butt other buffs.  It's Hike Naked Day!  And the Summer Solstice!  Wrapped up into one warm body of love :)  Might not be the best day to take the kids for a scavenger hunt in the woods.  ...butt then again, what's the big deal seeing a penis?  After all, it's just a lump of flesh, like an ear lobe.  One that moves around sometimes, but not very scary.  And being naked isn't scary, unless of course you are naked to be scary, in that case, you need to be put away.  Butt you probably aren't all the way naked, your are probably wearing a trench coat with your scary nakedness under cover so that you can freak out an unsuspecting innocent.

 I'll not end on Mr. Creepsalot.  Mostly, naked things are nice and friendly.  Like my dog.  I think because he has no hair, he might be a little nicer. My dog, not Mr. Creepsalot...  I guess there's no in-between when you look odd.  You either have to be really friendly, or a miserable cuss.  And friendly is better.

Which brings up another question...I wonder why it isn't called a drench coat?  It was made for keeping dry in a drenching rain, right?  I bet it was, but like the game 'telephone', he told someone, the word was misunderstood, and the brilliant chap that made the world's first 'drench coat' is in emotional shambles because the wrong name for his creation stuck.  Poor dude.  

Tuesday, June 18, 2013

Beware of Bares!

My favorite day in the entire world is almost here!

...well, maybe not my all time, spin the world on my finger, favorite day, but it comes close.

Hike Naked Day
I really wish I was comfortable enough in my own skin to really have a trek in the woods, sans clothes, but I have to live vicariously.

In quite a few of my sections on the Appalachian Trail, I have passed a fellow hiker that was letting it all hang out.  No one really seems to mind.  I guess if you are in the woods, walking around with a house on your back, the last thing that you are really going to have a problem with is a bit of skin.  Sometimes a little bit ;)

Each year, on June 21, the summer solstice, the bares come out to play.

So avert your eyes, but if you want to do a bit of 'free hiking', be sure to wear comfy shoes.

I think I am going to hike naked when the full moon coincides with the summer solstice.  That's in 2062.  I'll be a beautiful old lady at the young age of 86.  I think that's a perfect time to hike naked!  Maybe I'll try to thru-hike that year.  Sounds perfect to me :)  I'll have to slack pack a lot though.  I bet my 86 year old self won't give a rats ass.  I'll have the trail name Rumpledstilskin!

Getting old is gonna rock!

Saturday, June 8, 2013

No Ma'am, It's Still Not an Emergency.

I think I'm in big trouble.

I've heard that the people that attempt suicide by diving over Niagara Falls and have to be rescued, are sent a bill for the rescue.  That little operation to rescue a plunger costs about $10,000.  And that number is from Wikipedia, so I'm going to say it probably costs about $55,000.  Nice thing to get as you are wrestled into the padded room by the white coats.

Now don't go getting my info from Google in order to send the booby hatch orderlies my way, I'm not talking about anything as drastic as that.  Besides, that water is freakin cold, y'all already know that I'm not a fan.  I won't be getting into my swimming skivvies to ride that ride.

I might be in trouble because my ass keeps calling 911.  How many times will they let a butt dial slide before they send me a bill?

The first time I called 911, I did it on purpose.  A semi truck was weaving back and forth going between 35 and 60 mph on an interstate.  I really thought he would kill someone as he fell asleep at the wheel.  ...and just so you know, I followed that truck from NC to Va, and no cops ever appeared on the scene.  And I really wanted to witness an exciting slow speed chase and take down!

The second time I called, it was on purpose too.  Just so you know, I'm not one of those crazy people that call the emergency number because the neighbor put some ugly yard art that he made from broken plastic (hangers and kitchen drying rack) in his front yard.  It has to be something that will cause grave danger to someone.  So this second time, I called because there was a mattress in the median of the interstate, and a guy standing next to his car on the outside shoulder of the highway.  This dillweed was going to run across 4 lanes of traffic to retrieve the mattress that launched off his roof.  I think I called him a knucklehead when I spoke to the 911 operator.  I mean, what the hell!  ...I didn't backtrack to see if the cops showed up at that one.  You can't fix stupid.
I have no idea what this says,
but I bet it's 'NO, YOU TAKE

But that's it.  Those are the only times I meant to call 911.

And I'm sure they get a lot of accidental butt dials.  My first was actually my son playing with the phone.  I found out that even if the keyboard is locked, you can still dial the 9-1-1, and it goes through.  Whoops.  I apologized sincerely and I think I was forgiven.  Then it happened again.  And again.  Three times is the charm, right?  Nope.

I did it again yesterday.  4.

They just left a message this time...  I think when they recognize my number, the call is handed to the newest member of the operator crew.  I'm who they cut their teeth on.

So that's six.  SIX times I have called 911 from the same phone number.  God, I really hope I don't ever have a real emergency.

Oh!  And I have called poison control!  When she was 2, my daughter bit into a glow stick while we were camping.  Her mouth and throat were this glowey weird yellow, much the same color of what I imagine alien blood to look like.  (for reference, the goop inside glow sticks, even though it looks like the waste that the Toxic Avenger sprang forth from, is strangely non toxic)

So let's put that call to poison control into the growing pile of  'it's that damn woman's ass again, you get it.'

I wonder if I'm on the opposite of a 'watch list'?

Tuesday, June 4, 2013

You Have a Spot of Ketchup on Your Nose...

So the summer season is right around the corner.  I've been looking forward to it for about 8 months now, and I can feel it vibrating on my fingertips.  It's like I have a new twitch.

Now the monster question is what the heck do I do now?

As a busy stay at home mom, I have grand plans.  I even went so far as to think about alliterating our schedules, like 'museum Monday' and 'tv Tuesday'.  But that's as far as I got.  And I wouldn't even let them watch tv all day, it would be the matinee at the local movie place, in which case it should be 'matinee Monday', but then where would the museum fit in?  So I've scratched that.  Except maybe the prized 'french fry Friday', because everyone needs a hit now and then.

And french fries are like crack.

So much so that I had to stop at a grocery to buy a box of cereal to munch on while I drive the 30 minutes to a class I'm taking.  I know, that doesn't make a whole lot of sense, until you find that the class starts at 6pm and goes until 10, and I drive right by a Burgerwhop.  Popping crunchy bits of cereal keeps me satisfied enough to resist that urge to consume what I know is poisonous nasty.  You know, crack.

I've got to watch this movie again! 
I wonder, if I snorted a french fry, would that release me from this horrible desire?  Would it break my nasty habit?  Like the time that I was caught smoking, and my dad made me chain smoke an entire pack.  ...I have to say that doing that is one of the dumbest things you can do to try to teach your child to stay away from cigarettes.  All it did for me was teach me that I prefer Marlboro 100's instead of the Reds I usually smoked.  After all, the 100's are longer.  What he should have done was shove a cigarette up my nose and smack the crap out of me.  ...see how I did that, brought it right back to the possible benefit of snorting a french fry?  circle of life, baby.

I still have a few days to decide if I will or will not actually get anything done this summer, in terms of fun, that is.  I'd like to go to the beach, and the mountains, then back to the beach, with a few trips to the zoo and many days spent lounging at the pool.  And if I stay on top of things, some of that might really happen.  As I said, I have grand plans, and I usually succeed in accomplishing the plans for about two weeks, then I drop the ball.  But those two weeks are gonna be slammin!  So french fry up, kids, cuz this momma's gonna be trippin fun!