tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-83731097649941441892024-03-13T12:18:37.153-05:00Musings of a Sarcastic MindI have thoughts on things, and I want to share them. And as always, they are steeped in large amounts of sarcasm. And wit. And semi-genius.SarcasmInActionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12135151514208369436noreply@blogger.comBlogger183125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8373109764994144189.post-91146203441129372162013-08-12T21:15:00.000-05:002013-08-12T21:15:16.401-05:00I Left a Bit of Myself in Canada. Not an Important Part, Mind You. Like My Brain or Stomach. Or Vagina. Just a Piece of my Heart. A Bit of My Heart is Still There, Waiting for Dual Citizenship.I found this gem in my draft folder from November of 2012. <br />
Finally decided to finish it and hit publish. Enjoy! Or not. Whatevs.<br />
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So, I went to Canada last weekend.....<br />
To see my dear friend Marianna over at <a href="http://snappysurprise.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Snappy Surprise</a>. BE JEALOUS.<br />
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I had never been to Canada, other than a quick drive through over Niagara Falls, so I had to make an official landing and visit there for a few days. And boy am I glad that I did.<br />
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Spending time with your international BFF is fantastic. We explored the city and ate beaver tails and poutine and I learned a ton about Canada, for instance...<br />
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1. Don't assume that a statue of a tall dude must obviously be Abraham Lincoln. IN CANADA. It makes you look stupid. In my defense we don't learn about Canadian history here in the States. And that's a damn shame.<br />
2. The issues surrounding the aboriginal people of Canada are frightening similar to our own here in the US with the native population.<br />
3. Poutine must be HOT for the cheese to properly melt.<br />
4. Marianna is STILL a uterus <a href="http://musingsofasarcasticmind.blogspot.com/2012/06/we-cheesed-up-chicago-part-i.html" target="_blank">wizard</a>, as I got my period when I was there. (unlike her, who happened to be newly preggo and I didn't say a word to anyone!!! She's a momma now... SQUEEEE)<br />
5. Canada's Smarties candies are <strong>chocolate</strong> you guys.<br />
6. Canada has some hotties working in customs, eh?<br />
7. The people of Ottawa say, "yeah, yeah" after almost every sentence. I fucking LOVED it.<br />
8. They have roundabouts. And I still don't understand <a href="http://musingsofasarcasticmind.blogspot.com/2010/12/round-and-around-and-around-in.html" target="_blank">roundabouts</a>.<br />
9. Canada is beautiful and the people are lovely. I don't belong around such nice-ness.<br />
10. I don't understand the metric system. At. All.<br />
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After a fun long weekend I had to head home. Hurricane Sandy decided to act like a bitch and a ton of flights were cancelled. Thankfully mine was one of the few still running and I made it home smoothly. I've been plotting my next trip up there for months. I miss my witty, equally sarcastic girl and can't wait to meet the human she made in her body.SarcasmInActionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12135151514208369436noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8373109764994144189.post-58908832423321889422013-08-12T20:45:00.002-05:002013-08-12T20:45:23.384-05:00Apparently I'm So Shitty at Blogging Even *I* Didn't Realize I'd StoppedOh hi there. Long time no see.<br />
Or is it, no <em>write</em>. <br />
And no <em>read</em>.<br />
I can't actually <strong>see</strong> you.... OR CAN I?<br />
We all know the NSA can. In fact they're probably watching you through your computer RIGHT NOW.<br />
<em>(I feel that this is where I should take the time to say I personally love spying, I mean surveillance. Stalking is a hobby of mine. And my favorite letters just happen to be N... S... and A.... and the government is my favorite thing ever. I love ALL the government things, especially those surveillance related. Boo Snowden. And Russia. Do we not like Russia still?)</em><br />
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Anyway, it was brought to my attention today by my one and only reader that I haven't blogged in about a year. A YEAR. And none of you sonsabitches bothered to check on me or cry or commit mass random acts of depression like sobbing in the streets. But no really, it's fine. Carry on.<br />
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Nothing's been wrong or amazing, it's just been, well, LIFE. Busy. And not funny. I lost my funny. If I ever had any that is. I didn't lose my sarcasm, but it lost its humorous, random and kooky tone and took on a bitter, "meh" tone. <br />
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So I've stayed away, waiting for inspiration to strike. And just like the lottery, it NEVER FUCKING DID HAPPEN. <br />
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I wanted to check in though and say hey. And that I'm going to make an effort to be here more regularly. Cuz I like it here (and I'm talkin to YOU, NSA) And I like you guys. All ONE of you reading. <br />
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JK, there are apparently 164 of you. The smartest, best 164 people in all the land. <br />
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SarcasmInActionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12135151514208369436noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8373109764994144189.post-7752181896841080282012-08-02T13:12:00.000-05:002012-08-02T13:12:06.918-05:00This One's Not Funny But I Need to Write It. Deal With It.I started taking the little pill about 6 years ago. I wasn't "handling" my diagnosis well. (MS. Fuck you doctor. Let's see how you handle a diagnosis like multiple sclerosis when you're 28 years old and have a 2 year old at home.)<br />
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The pill was supposed to get me through. The diagnosis caused depression, anxiety, and PTSD. The illness can cause depression. The injections to treat the depressing fucking illness cause depression. Basically, I was going to be depressed as fuck, so take the magic pill to get through. To get out of bed. To live without thoughts of dying. <br />
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The antidepressant was prescribed and taken. No one discussed side effects. NOT ONE MENTION. It was like an emergency prescription, and I took it, no questions asked.<br />
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Fast forward 3 1/2 years. I was doing GREAT. What MS? No symptoms, clean MRIs. Let's have another baby. Wean off the meds.<br />
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NO ONE TOLD ME THE SIDE EFFECTS OF WEANING OFF ANTIDEPRESSANTS.<br />
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They are fucking brutal. Even with a slow wean, I had 9 days of horrid withdrawal symptoms. So bad I begged to go back on. But I did it. And Wee One was the magical result.<br />
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Fast forward a year. 6 weeks post partum. An MS relapse. Mild, but depressing. I'm tossed back on my meds again. NO ONE DISCUSSED SIDE EFFECTS YET AGAIN.<br />
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Over the past couple of years I noticed that I became a raging bitch. I was irritable ALL. THE. TIME. On edge. My temper was on the shortest fuse ever. I for sure had some serious anger issues, and I simply blamed it on being dissatisfied in life, stress, maybe an early "midlife crisis." Maybe it was changes in my brain from my illness. I figured everyone would just have to learn to life on egg shells around me and my hostility.<br />
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This summer, after our fabulous Cheesy Chicago weekend, I felt inspired by my Marianna to start weaning off my meds in an attempt to live my life without the help of antidepressants. I wanted to give it a shot with just me. I can always go back on if I need to. I started 2012 on 20 mg of my med, and am now on 5 mg. I've gone slow enough that I'm so far not experiencing the nasty side effects of withdrawal.<br />
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What I <b><i>have </i></b>noticed is weird. <br />
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I feel good. Calm. Strangely peaceful and level-headed..... not crazy irritable and aggressively angry.<br />
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I decided to really, REALLY read those inserts they give you with your prescription. The one with all the potential side effects.<br />
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You can probably guess what I'm going to say I discovered..........<br />
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Rare, serious side effects of the antidepressant I'm on? <i><b> Irritability, quick to anger, hostility, aggression. "Contact your doctor immediately if you notice these mood changes."</b></i><br />
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Oh, I noticed them already. As did everyone around me. I just never suspected that the pill I was taking to keep me out of bed, and involved in life was making me a raging bitch in the process.<br />
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I'm going to continue my weaning process and hopefully go off for good soon. If not, I know that 5 mg is a good, small dose. I'm not crazy angry, and I'm not crazy depressed. I feel AMAZING right now. <br />
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So, patient beware. Beware of the things they don't tell you about your meds. I'm all about doing what you need to do to get through something. I take prescription medications. I'm not a hippie/homeopath. Do what you've gotta do smartly and safely. BUT...Make sure you know EVERYTHING about your prescriptions. You are your only advocate.<br />
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It feels so good to feel good you guys. Fucking GOOD.<br />
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<br />SarcasmInActionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12135151514208369436noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8373109764994144189.post-3630271001455306532012-07-02T11:01:00.000-05:002012-07-02T11:01:19.648-05:00We Cheesed Up Chicago Part IIAfter a fun-filled, and calorie-filled day exploring Navy Pier, it was time to head back to the hotel and make dinner reservations. We wanted to go somewhere nice. We wanted nearby. The Palmer House concierge service is terrific, and we ended up being directed to the <a href="http://www.parkgrillchicago.com/">Park Grill</a> at Millennium Park.<br />
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This place was beautiful, friendly, and the food? DELISH. We of course had to start with wine and CHEESE.<br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">By this time I'd had enough Pinot Grigio to turn mysel</span><span style="background-color: white;">f into the long lost twin of </span><a href="http://www.ramonasinger.com/" style="background-color: white;">Ramona Singer</a><span style="background-color: white;">. And I even Tweeted her about it. AND SHE REPLIED YOU GUYS. We're kinda BFFs now. It's not a big deal or anything.</span></div>
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After sampling some yummy cheese, the food came. SO good.</div>
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We headed to the courtyard outside for a drink....</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I love this city. It was totally built on rock and roll. And awesome sauce.<br /><div style="text-align: center;">
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<span style="text-align: left;">Outside is where I realized I'd left my Visa card in the restaurant. OOPS.</span>
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And then we headed our buzzed, but fashionably dressed butts back to the hotel where a lovely yet mysterious staircase led us on a ghost hunt. Apparently after too much booze and food you become ghost busters. If you're us. And you're convinced you're suddenly in The Overlook hotel running from Jack Nicholson.</div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: small;">At one point we found ourselves in rooms and hallways we know we should not have been in. So we became super secret ninja ghost hunters. Shoes came off. Hushed giggles became the norm. We ran from custodial staff.....</span></span></div>
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This place is beautiful, no? <i>In a totally <b>non haunted </b>way.....</i></div>
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At one point, I was holding an investigation in a dark conference room. And by "investigation" I mean, I had my iPhone flashlight on and I was snooping.</div>
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I opened a closet-like door and saw this:</div>
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Kidding.</div>
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What I really saw was this:</div>
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I really had to pee. The men's room was handy. </div>
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I did NOT go in a urinal. </div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-RLvW10u3SAc/T_G_kCyVuPI/AAAAAAAAAxM/G_PmEfrRar8/s1600/shining460.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="120" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-RLvW10u3SAc/T_G_kCyVuPI/AAAAAAAAAxM/G_PmEfrRar8/s200/shining460.gif" width="200" /></a>Jack wouldn't have liked that....</div>
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Finally we found ourselves exhausted and went to bed.</div>
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Day three was our final day, which had us up and ready to have a good breakfast before Sarah had to catch the El to O'Hare for her flight back home. Goodbyes are sad. I'll skip that part.</div>
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Marianna had a super late flight, and since I drove, the two of us stored our luggage at the bell desk and did more exploring. We took the super crowded, yet super friendly El to hit a beach. Bonus on the subway that day? Vomit on the doors and being so cram packed with people I got a free breast exam and spooned with some dude behind me. And he didn't even ask for my number :(</div>
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We walked a bunch, enjoyed the beach, shopped at Hershey's Chicago, had some yummy cupcakes at <a href="http://sugarblisscakes.com/">Sugar Bliss</a>.... so many fun things to do in The Windy City!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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All too soon it was time for me to get my car and head home. This part makes me super duper sad so I won't give you details. Just that there were hugs. And tears. And friendship joy. (ok, and since it's me, there was about 30 miles of worrying I forgot a bag on the hotel sidewalk. I didn't.)</div>
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Cheesy Chicago was a weekend I'll never forget. I can not wait to meet up again. Maybe make this a yearly deal? A different city each time? Who knows. Join us next time, won't you?</div>
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</div>SarcasmInActionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12135151514208369436noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8373109764994144189.post-25218099850358340112012-06-27T18:09:00.000-05:002012-06-27T20:14:46.521-05:00We Cheesed up Chicago, Part IWe did it. We met up. We did a cheesy, fun-filled weekend in Chicago.<br />
And it was amazing. <br />
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Lucky me I'm a Midwest girl and was able to drive in. My first time making the 2 1/2-3 hour drive into the city ALONE. I felt like a big girl. A grown up. I only swore at construction zones and bad drivers maybe 10 times. I didn't get lost. I owe it all to GPS and an IPASS allowing me to breeze through the tolls........<br />
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I parked at O'Hare and walked in, waiting to spot my <a href="http://snappysurprise.blogspot.com/">Marianna</a>. My long lost Canadian soul sister. I'd waited for that moment for a couple years. I knew I'd spot her immediately. I was prepared to cry. But I didn't really cry. I smiled all over when she leaped up and ran at me full force into a tackle/hug. <b>She's small but mighty that girl</b>. And there may have been teenage girl squealing. That's to be expected.<br />
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Oh, and she's also a uterus wizard. Cuz I immediately went into the bathroom where I discovered I got my period. Welcome to Chicago.<br />
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I took her on the scenic route through the airport and out to the car (okay, I was fucking lost) and we drove into the city. The Loop. To the<a href="http://palmerhousehiltonhotel.com/"> Palmer House Hotel</a>. If you ever go to Chicago, I can't recommend the Palmer House enough. AMAZING place. Great rates. Wonderful staff. BEAUTIFUL. Every square inch is gorgeous and historical. And at night? Well, keep reading to see what comes out at night at the Palmer House...... (<i><b>spoiler alert</b>: semi drunk bloggers thinking they're ghost hunters come out at night at the Palmer House.) </i><br />
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<b>Click on all photos to enlarge for a better view. Trust me.</b><br />
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<i>This is their lobby? Really? I so don't belong in this kind of beautiful classiness.....</i></div>
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After a flawless (not. I'm a moron) valet ditch of my car and check in, as well as a look-see over our awesome room (which thankfully had big closets to hold ALL of the shit I packed. Plus? My closet had a tiny little gnome/goblin/fairy/Coraline door in it.), Marianna spoiled me with a huge gift bag from Canada, thereby bestowing upon me the privilege of being an honorary Canadian. I've just gotta work on my "accent" apparently, eh? Yeah, yeah.<br />
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We had lunch at<a href="http://www.flattopgrill.com/index.html"> Flat Top Grill</a> on Wabash. It was delish. There was enough edamame to feed a small village. Marianna likes her immature soy beans a LOT.<br />
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I fell in love with a cherry lime mojito and ate CARBS. It was fucking lovely. We took our first in real life pic together.<br />
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We wandered around bit, discovering just how freaking many Walgreens and CVS stores and Starbucks joints Chicago contains, I bought my first pair of super kickass boots at the paradise called DSW, grabbed a bag of delicious <a href="http://www.garrettpopcorn.com/">Chicago Mix at Garrett Popcorn </a>Shop, and then needed to get back to the hotel to meet <a href="http://www.myglasshouse.net/">Sarah (LACE)</a>. She's also from Canada, so thankfully we were here in the US or I would've been TOTALLY outnumbered by Canadian awesomeness.<br />
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The agenda for our first night in Chi Town was dinner at <a href="http://www.unos.com/">Pizzeria Due</a> where we were super psyched to have <a href="http://www.coffeelovinmom.com/">Amy (Coffeeluvinmom) </a>drive in to join us. How sweet is this girl? She knows the ins and outs of Chicago and was so fun....glad she could make it. We were late meeting her because <i>someone</i>, ahem, <i>Marianna</i>, happened to somehow make her glasses lens literally fly out of her glasses, causing a hands and knees, nonstop giggle search party in our hotel hallway......<br />
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We made it to the restaurant and what a fantastic place! T<span style="background-color: white;">he deep dish pizza was heaven in a pan, and the restaurant was super sweet to us...we were treated like we were important, even though we totally aren't. There was an abundance of food, wine, singing Jann Arden songs, and Hey Mickey verses in honor of the coolest waitress ever, Mickey. Just look at this food you guys:</span><br />
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I fully admit here in front of the Internets and the baby Jesus that I loved the big sausages in the first pizza. <br />
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Amy took us out on the town to a super fun piano bar called the RedHead.<br />
I love people watching, and drunk people watching is even better. Especially when people don't realize how ridiculous they look, all middle-aged and making out in a bar..... The piano guy stole my heart when he played Paradise by the Dashboard Light. CLASSIC.<br />
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What fun, sweaty, music and booze filled night! A fantastic foursome of bloggy girls :)<br />
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Saturday brought us sleeping in a bit, grabbing a light, late breakfast, and hitting the town tourist-style. Being Sarah's first time to Chicago, she wanted to do Millenium Park. GORGEOUS. I'll let the photos speak for me:<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The infamous "Bean." Or as I call it, Giant Shiny Clitoris. And yes, I flicked the bean.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's like some alien vaginal ultrasound, no?<br />
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We then hit Navy Pier for a ton of walking, food, exploring, and souvenir shopping. What an awesome place the Pier is! <br />
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We were even treated to a Snappy Surprise hat show.......<br />
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And apparently to some people (Mickey the wondrous waitress), Marianna looks a bit like Sarah Palin. I disagree. Marianna is too pretty and smart and educated for that. But we did take a moment to poke fun. "I can see Russia from my house!"</div>
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There were some fun cab rides with crazy cabbies and of course, some more shopping/browsing (<a href="http://www.charmingcharlie.com/">Charming Charlie</a>, what a GREAT store) and then we hit the river for Chicago's Architectural Boat Tour.<br />
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This city has got "IT" when it comes to architecture. WOWZA.<br />
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The <a href="http://shorelinesightseeing.com/">Shoreline Boat Tour</a> was awesome and educational and Jeff the tour guide was super cool. The only thing he didn't do was play the harmonica. That seemed to be a sore spot when another boat cruised by with a guide jamming it out blues style. It's okay tour guide Jeff. We aren't hating. I personally would've hated the harmonica. Although it *would* have drowned out the constant chatter of the bachelorette party girls in front of us. SHUT UP WOMEN GEEZ. Also Shoreline people? WAY TO GO ON THE DRINKS. That was a LOT of vodka in that vodka lemonade. For only $5.00. I freaking love you for that.<br />
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There's seemingly a crazy rumor going around that I did a random somersault in the middle of the city.<br />
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<b>OKAY OKAY I TOTALLY DID.</b></div>
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<b>It just felt right at the time you guys.</b></div>
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<b>Alright, alright kids. This has gotten WAY too long. I'll be back with the second and final installment of Cheesy Chicago.</b></div>
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<br /></div>SarcasmInActionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12135151514208369436noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8373109764994144189.post-33670209571781371272012-05-28T20:46:00.000-05:002012-05-28T20:50:02.000-05:00Operation Play MOREI had a realization a few days ago. An epiphany, if you will.<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> I don't play anymore. </span><br />
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When did I stop playing? When did I stop running through the rain and playing Ghost in the Graveyard and doing barefoot cartwheels in the neighbors' lawns? When did I go from playful and lively and young, to tired and boring and jaded?<br />
<br />
I may be 34 years old. I may be a momma and wife and full time employee. But I'm also a <b>girl</b>. A girl who used to grab life by the balls and run frantically whenever someone yelled, "it's the cops! Play it cool!" whilst jumping fences and hiding in closets. I miss that girl. I miss being carefree and de-stressed and vivacious.<br />
<br />
So I did what most normal people do and I took to the Twitter. #operationplaymore was born. I'm on day 3 of Operation Play More and I have accomplished the following so far:<br />
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1. Swinging as high as I can on a swing set. High enough to get that tickly tummy feeling that makes you laugh out loud. It was awesome!<br />
2. Playing on a playground going up and down slides.<br />
3. Swimming in a pool and floating in a pool for hours. <br />
4. Tree climbing. That's hard stuff there y'all. I'll have to keep practicing.<br />
5. Re-mastering the sommersault. So. Much. Fun. It seems scary at first, but trust me. Just fling yourself the fuck over and go for it. Protect your neck though. We're not getting any younger. Tuck and roll baby. <br />
6. Re-mastering the running man.<br />
7. Online karaoke. Sober too. <br />
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<br />
All this playing in just three days. And I've noticed something you guys. I feel....lighter. I'm smiling more. And I'm not even drunk or medicated. I'm just feeling more...dare I say it.... carefree and immature. <br />
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Feels effing good.<br />
<br />
Up next? Jumping in a lake fully clothed. Flying a kite. Pulling the bike out. Maybe some middle of the night trespassing and star-gazing....<br />
<br />
So join me, will you? Link up below and become a part of Operation Play More. Because life is hard. Life can suck. Being a grown up can be a HUGE fucking bummer. We need to play more y'all. Hard.<br />
<br />
Take pics, videos, write posts, tweet it up (#operationplaymore). <br />
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What are <b><span style="font-size: large;">you </span></b>doing to PLAY MORE??<br />
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</script>SarcasmInActionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12135151514208369436noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8373109764994144189.post-60846448730499235092012-05-16T12:47:00.002-05:002012-05-16T12:47:24.059-05:00Occupy Frito LayI'm here today with a quickie post to propose a new occupy movement. A rebellion, if you will. We must stand up and be heard. Here's what I'm proposing:<br />
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I'm so tired of walking into my local grocery store FULL OF HOPE and seeing that alas, cheeseburger-flavored Doritos are still gone. Absent from chip shelves. And I die a little more every time this happens. This is America. Land of the free. Land of the fatties who love snack foods. Land of the people who think going out in public in pajama pants is socially acceptable.... but that's for another time. Every day that goes by with no Cheeseburger Doritos is another win for the freedom-hating terrorists.<br />
<br />
So join me, will you? One woman can't do this alone. <br />
<br />
<b>What do we want??</b><br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>Burger with pickle-flavored deliciousness!!!!</b><br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>When do we want it??</b><br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>Fucking MONTHS AGO assholes!</b><br />
<b><br /></b><br />
Come on Frito Lay. Hear our rally cry. Bring back our cheeseburger Doritos. Because the Nazis would have hated them. <br />
<br />
I'll be waiting for news from the Occupy Frito Lay *headquarters.*<br />
<br />
<i>*my couch</i><br />
<br />
<br />SarcasmInActionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12135151514208369436noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8373109764994144189.post-63358566419625874802012-04-26T08:54:00.002-05:002012-04-26T08:54:45.878-05:00How Early Morning Texts Led to a Genius Book Idea. AKA, Don't Ever Give Me Your Cell Phone Number.Texting conversation between the amazing <a href="http://snappysurprise.blogspot.com/">Marianna at Snappy Surprise </a>and I starting at 5:30 this morning:<br />
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<b>Me: </b> Good morning! I refuse to get ready for work. I'm going to barricade myself in the bathroom. I'll hide here all day. There's plenty of water....I have my phone....My Bloggess Book (order <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Lets-Pretend-This-Never-Happened/dp/0399159010">here</a>. It's fucking worth it you guys. HILARIOUS.) But no snacks. Shit. Unless Xanax can be considered a snack??<br />
<br />
<b>Me again:</b> Toothpaste isn't lethal in large doses, is it? MINTY!<br />
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<b>Marianna:</b> Why are you even awake right now?! I like your thinking. I refuse to get ready for work every day. In fact, I usually refuse to leave bed at all. You're hilarious. Minty!<br />
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<b>Me:</b> A. I hope I didn't wake you up. B. I'm always up at 5:15 on work days. C. Did you know sugar scrubs taste like ass? Trust me. Don't stick your tongue in a sugar scrub for the body. You're welcome.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-IezF4kR-6cQ/T5lK44gg3vI/AAAAAAAAApI/lxtsbq1FheU/s1600/IMG_3076.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-IezF4kR-6cQ/T5lK44gg3vI/AAAAAAAAApI/lxtsbq1FheU/s200/IMG_3076.jpg" width="148" /></a><b>Me again:</b> Oooo...look at me! I lead you to believe I'm like a delicious tropical island cocktail! LIES.<br />
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<b>Marianna: </b>You did not wake me up. But even if you did I would love it. Because you make me laugh. (I may or may not have paid her to say such nice things.) 5:15 is the devil. I have a natural salt scrub. Would that be better? Also, you could eat cotton balls. Like Elf.<br />
<br />
<b>Me:</b> I'd totally try the salt scrub. Can't hurt. I don't think......<br />
COTTON BALLS! Yes!<br />
<br />
<i>Then she sent me a picture of her cat. </i><br />
<br />
<b>Me:</b> So cute! <br />
<br />
<b>Me again: </b> I'm still in my bathroom. I decided I have to leave quick for a few things. Namely snacks, more towels for my fort, the iPad, and the big screen tv. NECESSITIES.<br />
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<b>Marianna:</b> And the cats for company. Grab a laundry hamper so you can get everything in one trip. An urgent mission.<br />
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<b>Me:</b> OHMYGAWD you're a genius! All this bathrooms needs is YOU and four charming cats.<br />
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<b>Marianna:</b> I'm still in my bed. Only, Hubby's having an asshole morning too and is here with me.<br />
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<b>Me: </b> OH! Maybe I should leave you two lovebirds alone eh?? Wink, wink...<br />
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<b>Marianna:</b> EW. No. Maybe we could read to each other, make friendship bracelets, and braid each other's hair.<br />
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<b>Me: </b> Hubby's all, I need to use the bathroom and I'm all, there are two more in this house so BE GONE unholy demon! and he's all, What? And I'm all, you're SO offensive. This isn't EVEN CALLED a bathroom right now, it's a goddamn FORT so pee outside for all I care and he goes, Are you high, woman? YES. ON TOOTHPASTE AND SUGAR SCRUB APPARENTLY.<br />
Ugh. Marriage.<br />
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<b>Me again:</b> I love friendship bracelets, btw! Excellent bathroom fort idea.<br />
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<b>Marianna:</b> This is why we have separate forts. His fort is disgusting and mind is super fun. No hubbies allowed. Only cats and Steffies. (me. I'm "Steffie." Only Marianna can call me that though so shut up already.) I'll bring embroidery thread. I have a whole kit from when I was 10.<br />
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<b>Me:</b> You're my soulmate.<br />
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<b>Marianna:</b> Hubby: I just peanut buttered and jammed my bagel without toasting it. Bummer.<br />
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<b>Me: </b> Men! There's an order to things, HELLO?<br />
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<b>Marianna:</b> At least he has a snack that isn't originally intended to be a bathroom product. Although, a bagel would be a good body scrubber.<br />
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<b>Me:</b> If TOASTED first. And I think you meant "fort products." What is this "bathroom" nonsense?<br />
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<b>Marianna:</b> We're not supposed to have a toaster in our bathroom fort though. Seems like a health risk. We could use a curling iron to toast it.<br />
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<b>Me: </b> True dat. Excellent point regarding fort safety. My flat iron could toast bagels *and* make grilled cheese sandwiches! We're practically survivalists!<br />
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<b>Marianna: </b> We should write a fort survival kit book. For when the zombies come. Or for whenever we feel like it.<br />
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<b>Me:</b> YES! "Bathroom Forts: A Practically Impractical Guide to Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse. Or Just Mornings in General." <i> </i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
<i>(PS. This title has now been copyrighted, patented, and trademarked, so step the fuck off, you plagairizing asshats out there.)</i><br />
<br />
*******<br />
<br />
So basically there is a wealth of knowledge that can be gained from us and our texting exchanges:<br />
<br />
Husbands don't appreciate the value of bathroom forts.<br />
Best bloggy friends make life worth living.<br />
Bathroom forts are the perfect place for apocalypse survival, and bonding with your cats.SarcasmInActionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12135151514208369436noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8373109764994144189.post-26929666037572736242012-04-13T17:13:00.003-05:002012-04-13T17:13:48.810-05:0050 Shades of Sexually Frustrated. YES I'M READING THESE BOOKS.Ok bloggy friends, I totally caved in to the pressure and hype and downloaded the <i>50 Shades of Grey</i> books written by EL James. I've read through the first two quickly and figured since the books have encompassed ALL my free time and my dreams as of late, I'd better write about them here. Kind of like my very own sarcastic and profanity-laden book review. Here goes.<br />
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Why are people reading these books? Easy. GRAPHIC SEX. It's porn on paper, plain and simple. The main characters, Anastasia Steele and Christian Grey meet, experience instantaneous chemistry, go out, and discover that they live to screw each other. She's a virgin. He's into bondage and all sorts of naughty acts (as the book calls it repeatedly, "kinky fuckery.") So that's what they do. They fuck. Often. Every time they're together. Here's their routine:<br />
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Christian looks at her, eyes dark and blazing with passion.<br />
Ana is instantaneously turned on.<br />
They kiss with lots of tongue, moaning, and hair gripping.<br />
Ana's "inner goddess" is always going, <i>Oh my...Holy moly...Oh fuck....</i><br />
Christian bosses her around and makes her undress. Then tells her she's beautiful and presses his "erection" against her.<br />
Ana moans and her belly muscles "clench" down deep.<br />
They screw. She orgasms immediately when he tells her to. Then he does.<br />
They collapse in exhaustion.<br />
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Eventually they fall in love, even though initially he just wanted her to be his submissive. His childhood was super bad. She's crazy insecure and annoyingly jealous of everyone. He's loaded with money and spoils her. <br />
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That's pretty much the gist of the first two books without giving anything away.<br />
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My thoughts? The writing is terrible. Cliche. Redundant. Likely more unrealistic than even Twilight.<br />
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So why am I tearing through them like a kid with presents on his birthday?<br />
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THE GRAPHIC SEX.<br />
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Christian is hot. Ana is hot. Their sex is hot. Did you miss above when I wrote it's porn on paper?<br />
Boys, you don't own the market on enjoying porn. Many women do too. As is clearly evidenced by the popularity of these books. We don't necessarily need to <b>watch </b>people doing it, but reading about it and using our imaginations is just as fun for us. <br />
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If I were a doctor, I'd prescribe 50 Shades of Grey to all married women, especially those of us stuck in ruts and bored with our lives. They're fun, light, and full of dirty sex. <br />
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The downsides? There's only three books, and just reading them has left me 50 Shades of Sexually Frustrated.<br />
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<br />SarcasmInActionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12135151514208369436noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8373109764994144189.post-83808718299800383272012-03-24T18:13:00.000-05:002012-03-24T18:13:46.619-05:00Look out Chicago. Here We Come.<span style="font-size: large;">This isn't even a post today you guys. It's more of a super awesome announcement of amazing-ness and wonder.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Kids, some fellow fun girl bloggers and I are taking on Chicago for a weekend meet up this summer.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Care to join us? The fun will be immeasurable.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Check out the details here: <a href="http://cheesybloggers.blogspot.com/">Cheesy Bloggers</a>.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">It's going to be EPIC y'all.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">And Chicago? I apologize in advance.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Homeless guy I stole from last year? SEE YOU SOON.</span><br />
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</span>SarcasmInActionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12135151514208369436noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8373109764994144189.post-8791409062900970092012-03-17T11:47:00.000-05:002012-03-17T11:47:17.851-05:00The Time I Whored Myself for Cash. I MEAN....Helped Out the Scientific Community. It was All for Science. The Money Was Just a Bonus.As most freshmen in college can probably relate, cash is a necessity, and in limited supply. (unless you're a trust fund baby or your parents pay for all the things, then I fucking hate you, you spoiled brat.)<br />
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In 1997 I found myself in the cash-strapped college freshman boat, and I needed some money pronto. YES, I was working part-time. YES, my parents helped a little when they could. But going out drinking and then hitting the street food vendors multiple nights a week gets expensive. I needed some moo-la. <br />
<br />
One day as I waited for the dorm elevator, I noticed a flyer searching for volunteers for a study. The only requirements were:<b> you must be directly related to a family member with diagnosed depression and anxiety disorder but<u> you yourself must not be</u>. You must be willing to give some blood and take long surveys. You must be willing to come back for a follow up. Visit #1 determined eligibility and began the surveys and tests. Visit #2 was a simple follow up with more surveys and tests. Each visit paid $75. For a TOTAL of 2-3 hours. </b><br />
<br />
My thought process upon reading this? <i>HMM. Cash. Easy cash. I come from a long line of crazy, I mean, anxiety and depression (mom, sister, grandparents, etc.). I'm awesome and fine and happy. Cash. Easy. $150. Sign me the fuck up.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
So I signed up and showed up and after an interview and thorough medical history, they said I fit the study. Then they took some of my blood. They were wanting to see if there was a way to identify some sort of marker or gene or something in me that kept me "safe" from the family history of depression and anxiety. The made me fill out PAGES and PAGES of questions. Then I had to sit and breath carbon dioxide to see if they could induce a panic attack. They couldn't. I got my $75 and left. <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Pitchers of beer on me if my fake ID works tonight bitches!</i></b> </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div>Sidenote: I believe they even contacted some of my family members to see if they'd participate. I don't think anyone did. Clearly they don't love the money like I do. I mean, <b>clearly </b>they don't care about science and saving all of mankind like I do.<br />
<b><i><br />
</i></b><br />
I don't remember much of the follow up, just that I got more money. Score. <br />
<br />
A few years later I remember thinking for a brief moment, <i>those sonofabitches have my DNA somewhere. They'd better not do anything unethical with it. Unless they wanna clone me. Two of me would be goddamn AMAZING.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
THEN, an even MORE few years later, I started battling anxiety. Big time. Panic attacks and severe hypochondria. Which depressed me.<br />
<br />
THEN, I was diagnosed with an autoimmune disease, which made my depression and anxiety go off the charts. Surprisingly, it helped calm down my hypochondria for a bit. It was like all my worries of something being horribly wrong with me were true and here it was so I can finally relax a little now. Not that THAT lasted long.<br />
<br />
The story all comes full circle like this: <br />
A. I quickly blew through the $150. On inappropriate things like beer and birth control.<br />
B. Random scientists have my DNA in a search for a generalized anxiety disorder gene but it's WORTHLESS cuz 19 year old me was fine but 30 year old me is a fucking wreck so the study is practically invalid.<br />
C. There's still no clone of me.<br />
D. I'm a money whore and I'm not ashamed to admit it.<br />
E. I also love Cheetos. It has nothing to do with this post but my GAWD I can't stop thinking about them.<br />
<br />
<i><br />
</i>SarcasmInActionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12135151514208369436noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8373109764994144189.post-1882938258706358872012-03-13T22:41:00.001-05:002012-03-13T22:48:44.168-05:00My Simple-Minded, Not at All Researched, Non-Endorsed, Totally Biased Take on the 2012 Election Year.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Good grief you guys. The state of our politics in this country is blowing my mind. I can't even believe what I see and hear anymore about these guys vying for the presidency of the United States of America.<br />
Here's my thoughts on all of these clowns.<br />
<br />
Ron Paul, aka the CUTEST Keebler elf around:<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VqGOAH2UvLQ/T2AM_DaJb_I/AAAAAAAAAl8/fFPTFLO3ttY/s1600/219593-ron-paul-defended-south-carolina-debate-crowd-protests-cnn-censorship.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="215" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VqGOAH2UvLQ/T2AM_DaJb_I/AAAAAAAAAl8/fFPTFLO3ttY/s320/219593-ron-paul-defended-south-carolina-debate-crowd-protests-cnn-censorship.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">FREE COOKIES FOR ALL!</span></div>I've gotta admit, the guy sometimes makes the most logical, rational sense out of all of them. Which is why he'll never win. We Americans don't seem to like logic and reason.<br />
<br />
Mitt Romney<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-k87r7nIGpl0/T2ANSb6R13I/AAAAAAAAAmE/dEYeDgC2-tM/s1600/2-7-2012-Mitt-Romney-in-2008_full_600.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-k87r7nIGpl0/T2ANSb6R13I/AAAAAAAAAmE/dEYeDgC2-tM/s320/2-7-2012-Mitt-Romney-in-2008_full_600.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">MY GOD YOU PEOPLE SMELL SO.... POOR.<br />
</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>In my humble opinion, this is the only one who could beat President Obama. But what do I know? <br />
ACTUALLY.... Less hair gel Mitt, that's what I know.<br />
<div><br />
</div><div>Newt Gingrich</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-vZNwjincmCk/T2ANuzbpQrI/AAAAAAAAAmM/MaTSNQHy0vc/s1600/large.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="199" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-vZNwjincmCk/T2ANuzbpQrI/AAAAAAAAAmM/MaTSNQHy0vc/s320/large.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">EVEN I CAN'T BELIEVE THIS MANY WOMEN HAVE </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">MARRIED ME!</span><br />
<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">I have several problems with this one. A. He's named after a lizard. B. His neck jiggles too much. C. He's a loser. Plus? His wife scares the Botox outta me. See?</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-I2kOdlYk2Ls/T2AOzBfyP0I/AAAAAAAAAmU/FY4PmI7vQOU/s1600/newt-and-callista-gingrich.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="281" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-I2kOdlYk2Ls/T2AOzBfyP0I/AAAAAAAAAmU/FY4PmI7vQOU/s400/newt-and-callista-gingrich.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">Rick Santorum</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">If you guys follow me on the Twitter, you KNOW how I feel about this sexist, backwards-thinking jerk. I can't wrap my brain around the fact that so many people are voting for him. It's like voting to go back in time pre-Women's Suffrage, pre-Civil Rights Movement, pre-electricity and reading of books.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-g9BgR90Qkrw/T2APyZ1eRCI/AAAAAAAAAms/XsY9WqRiqL0/s1600/rick-santorum.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-g9BgR90Qkrw/T2APyZ1eRCI/AAAAAAAAAms/XsY9WqRiqL0/s400/rick-santorum.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">NOW HUSH THERE LITTLE LADY. NO ONE GAVE YOU PERMISSION TO SPEAK OR VOTE OR THINK FOR YOURSELF. SHHH.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">Who is voting for this guy?</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qPCMv9IHi0Q/T2AQBxgYWXI/AAAAAAAAAm0/Ea-GZVhyTlk/s1600/Duggars-Endorse-Rick-Santorum.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qPCMv9IHi0Q/T2AQBxgYWXI/AAAAAAAAAm0/Ea-GZVhyTlk/s400/Duggars-Endorse-Rick-Santorum.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>"<span style="font-size: small;">Duggars endorse Rick Santorum"</span></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">AH. That's where he's gotten all those numbers. All the Duggars have voted.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">They seem like very nice people, by the way. I like them. I really do.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">Last, the President.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-diXlWY5GShs/T2AQedDqcyI/AAAAAAAAAm8/8nakuGHXJwE/s1600/111206083023-president-barack-obama-before-after-hair-grey-story-top.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-diXlWY5GShs/T2AQedDqcyI/AAAAAAAAAm8/8nakuGHXJwE/s400/111206083023-president-barack-obama-before-after-hair-grey-story-top.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">THESE CLOWNS ARE GONNA GUARANTEE ME FOUR MORE YEARS. IMAGINE MY GRAY HAIR THEN! SHOULD I GET DYE IT? LEAVE IT? I CAN'T REALLY SEEM TO EVER FULLY MAKE UP MY MIND.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">I'm sure you all can see my point. Which is why I hereby nominate David Beckham for President of the United States. I could give a flying fuck that he's not even American. God bless America AND the Queen on this one.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-C5Jkk8DnqV8/T2ARgluFuqI/AAAAAAAAAnE/3LvGGOxBFRE/s1600/david_beckham1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-C5Jkk8DnqV8/T2ARgluFuqI/AAAAAAAAAnE/3LvGGOxBFRE/s320/david_beckham1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">CAN I GET A HELL YEAH? </span> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">This election would be signed, sealed, delivered, and fucking YUMMY. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Or, you know, maybe SHE'LL reappear. Good grief.....don't even get me started. </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Iu4J_pIVTG4/T2ASWDd-neI/AAAAAAAAAnM/EaXQXwxIFDc/s1600/sarah-palin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="229" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Iu4J_pIVTG4/T2ASWDd-neI/AAAAAAAAAnM/EaXQXwxIFDc/s320/sarah-palin.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">Disclaimer: The views in this post are mine and mine alone. You don't like them? I don't give a flying hot shit. I'm a HUMOR blogger. There's really zero substance to me at all. Actually, that's not true. You should see the DEPTH of my love for vodka and David Beckham. I've got some sonofabitchen <b>substance </b>all up in here for those. </span></div></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div><br />
<br />
</div>SarcasmInActionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12135151514208369436noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8373109764994144189.post-86394807142949112962012-03-13T09:13:00.000-05:002012-03-13T09:13:52.257-05:00I'm a Human Roller Coaster and You Probably Should Avoid This Ride.I'm not good with words lately unless they're profanity-ridden and bitter so I drew you a diagram of me and my brain lately. I should really wear a warning sign that says, "Tread carefully. If you get too close or blink incorrectly, the RAGE will commence." I know I need to get out of this funk, and pronto, but that's the thing with funks, you can't just turn them off with the snap of your fingers. Or, in my case, the flipping of the bird.<br />
<br />
I won't go into details, but know that I'm juggling some personal shit and half of it is just me mind-fucking myself with a tiny bit me being crazy selfish and a tiny bit of me wanting something more with a dose of wanderlust and a dash of early onset mid-life crisis. I should really go pour my heart out to my therapist but then it's like admitting my fucked-upness and I like to live in denial 95% of the time.<br />
<br />
Here's the diagram of the roller coaster ride that is me. And normally I'd say I'm a ride you TOTALLY want to get on (dirty dirty) but I'm thinking a ride on me would make you toss your cookies and run screaming to your mommy.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-p49Hcqjogyo/T19VOKCGP3I/AAAAAAAAAl0/lOscIWoTo2Y/s1600/rollercoaster.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="432" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-p49Hcqjogyo/T19VOKCGP3I/AAAAAAAAAl0/lOscIWoTo2Y/s640/rollercoaster.png" width="640" /></a></div>SarcasmInActionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12135151514208369436noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8373109764994144189.post-16121524717169413742012-03-07T08:29:00.001-06:002012-03-07T08:33:03.329-06:00In Case You Ever Wondered What it Would Be Like to Be Married to MeIn the wee hours of the morning, before the sun is up or alarm clocks have gone off....<br />
<br />
Me: Hubby. Wake up. Wake up. WAKE. UP.<br />
Hubby: Hmm?? *grunt, moan, roll over*<br />
Me: We need to have a serious talk. <b>Now</b>. Are you even listening? Cuz this is SERIOUS.<br />
Hubby: What?<br />
Me: I've lost 25 pounds and my boob are drooping. Like, National Geographic style. Like, would you like syrup with your pancakes? drooping.<br />
Hubby: Huh?<br />
Me: I'm serious. This is serious. It's pretty much emergency stuff here. I need a boob job. Buy me one. Here, feel. (make him feel)<br />
Hubby: Um, no. <br />
Me: Ok then. I'm getting one.<br />
Hubby: Just push them up.<br />
Me: I can't wear a bra FOREVER. I'm getting a boob job.<br />
Hubby: Um, no.<br />
Me: Ok so it's settled. I'm getting one. Good talk hubby.<br />
Hubby: ????<br />
<br />
And then I immediately texted <a href="http://snappysurprise.blogspot.com/">Marianna </a>about it because SHE LISTENS to me.SarcasmInActionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12135151514208369436noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8373109764994144189.post-88822291442622525502012-03-02T18:00:00.002-06:002012-03-02T18:16:48.933-06:00The Idiotic Half Birthday Phenomenon<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_aXSilfHK7NU/TUGdNiwGosI/AAAAAAAAAKA/K0W2AIWXeWg/s1600/249138364_cea2bab62d.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_aXSilfHK7NU/TUGdNiwGosI/AAAAAAAAAKA/K0W2AIWXeWg/s200/249138364_cea2bab62d.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>Today Bossy Girl made the comment that Sunday will be her "half birthday."<br />
HUH?<br />
Half birthday?<br />
WTF?<br />
This isn't the first time I've heard of this and the fact that people actually celebrate it. Bossy Girl was invited to a half birthday party last summer, and I'm sorts of confused about the purpose behind it. We did NOT go, by the way.<br />
<br />
I don't freaking get this half birthday trend plain and simple. You may disagree and think it's all wonderful and creative and you're all,<i> hey, we do it in my family!</i> Oh well. I think it's moronic.<br />
<br />
I will never hold a "half birthday" party for my kids, but I know she'll be invited to more in her lifetime. Do I let her go when I'm so morally against it?<br />
And more importantly, can I get the kid a half present? Like for half off?<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_aXSilfHK7NU/TUGdLwGM2zI/AAAAAAAAAJ8/Rx3wj8Ovolw/s1600/half+teddy+bear.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_aXSilfHK7NU/TUGdLwGM2zI/AAAAAAAAAJ8/Rx3wj8Ovolw/s320/half+teddy+bear.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_aXSilfHK7NU/TUGdOoaYhjI/AAAAAAAAAKE/xEpOzb4wv_0/s1600/barbie01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_aXSilfHK7NU/TUGdOoaYhjI/AAAAAAAAAKE/xEpOzb4wv_0/s320/barbie01.jpg" width="240" /></a>HAPPY HALF BIRTHDAY! Enjoy your half teddy bear! <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
OR YOUR HALF BARBIE!!!<br />
<br />
To me, it's just another way to spoil your kid rotten by adding a second "birthday" to their life.<br />
Like an annual birthday isn't enough. Like your kid is that damn special that an additional celebration of their sloppy painful birth is required.<br />
Probably with gifts and a big ole party cuz your kid is that friggin awesome that he/she requires more stuff and attention.<br />
<br />
Where the hell did this trend come from? What crazy ass, over the top, my kid is so perfect he/she needs TWO parties parent created this?<br />
<br />
<br />
What the hell people? Let's just celebrate the shit out of our kids. Why the hell not?<br />
<br />
Let's also starting having a "Conception Birthday." If you know the exact date you got your freak on and conceived your little prince/princess, have a party. The cake could be a little round circle cake with cream frosting and squiggly little sperm-looking candles all over it. Or these:<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_aXSilfHK7NU/TUGeeFUHefI/AAAAAAAAAKM/02h9hZmIDoQ/s1600/441008343RYbcZe_ph.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_aXSilfHK7NU/TUGeeFUHefI/AAAAAAAAAKM/02h9hZmIDoQ/s200/441008343RYbcZe_ph.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_aXSilfHK7NU/TUGefQ3xJHI/AAAAAAAAAKQ/Ib7if1V6XkU/s1600/2607827271_984123ae8a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="132" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_aXSilfHK7NU/TUGefQ3xJHI/AAAAAAAAAKQ/Ib7if1V6XkU/s200/2607827271_984123ae8a.jpg" width="200" /></a><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Let's also have a "Labor Has Begun Party" to celebrate when those bastard contractions started, or, when your water broke, beginning the process of pushing your "perfect" kid out into the world. That would be a fun party, by the way. Water balloon fights and sucker punches to the stomach for all kids invited to celebrate the anniversary of the magic labor event!<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_aXSilfHK7NU/TUGe9oGPveI/AAAAAAAAAKU/bQM2zQ4DwX0/s1600/36406-water_balloon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_aXSilfHK7NU/TUGe9oGPveI/AAAAAAAAAKU/bQM2zQ4DwX0/s320/36406-water_balloon.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Look! It's just like when mommy's water broke the day you were born!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>I'm hoping I can be the super proud mom to throw her kid a "First Detention" or "First Suspension from School" party. You'd all be invited to share in my proud moment of glory in parenting.<br />
<br />
Well, it's the weekend y'all. I'd better go plan a "YAY. YOU MADE IT THROUGH A <b>WHOLE </b>WEEK OF SCHOOL" party for my kid.<br />
Ugh.SarcasmInActionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12135151514208369436noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8373109764994144189.post-89748175252082436132012-02-14T08:41:00.000-06:002012-02-14T08:41:17.605-06:00Romance is Dead. Like, Beat with a Stick and Buried Dead, but then Reanimated in Zombie-like Fashion.The Hubby gave me my Valentine's Day "gift" last night.<br />
It was a Snoopy love card.<br />
Because he's nothing if not immaturely charming.<br />
Inside was a note. I'll rephrase what he wrote and intersperse my thoughts as I read it.<br />
<br />
You're really hard to buy for (<i>Diamonds dude. DIAMONDS. Not difficult at all.</i>) so this is an IOU for a night out.<br />
Let's get a babysitter (<i>which means I'LL have to do the work and find one</i>) and go out just the two of us.<br />
(<i>oh dear Lord. He wants to have sex</i>.)<br />
We can do dinner and a movie (<i>Yeah right, $10 a person to get into the damn theater these days) </i>or maybe even go zombie shooting at the range (<i>oh joy. Shooting guns.... wait. WHAT? ZOMBIE HUNTING? With a real gun? </i><b style="font-style: italic;">FUCK YEAH!!) </b><br />
Turns out the shooting range provides zombie-themed targets. So I get to shoot a real gun for the first time and play zombie apocalypse at the same time.<br />
Oh Hubby. You're so getting some after this. <br />
A perfect, anti-romantic, yet romantic gift for Valentine's Day.SarcasmInActionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12135151514208369436noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8373109764994144189.post-65396851827951242422012-02-09T15:33:00.000-06:002012-02-09T15:33:45.999-06:00A Kalahari-Sized Dry SpellI've been MIA for almost a month now on this crazy little blog. I'm sure by now you've all either given up on me, gone insane from a deep depression, or are all ,<i> meh, fuck it. She'll be back I'm sure....</i><br />
I'm checking in to let you know that I haven't been doing anything exciting or special or groundbreaking, just regular busy grown up life stuff. Rather stressful and crazy, but nothing funny or special enough that's worthy of blogging about. I'm also seemingly battling a "depressive episode" as evidenced by my sudden sobbing fits a dozen times a day plus wanting to sleep and snack all the time. Hopefully my new and improved med dose will kick in soon and I'll be my usual chipper-ass, snarky self.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Here's a photo essay of renderings containing the sole highlights of my past month:</span></div><br />
My cat rebelled against my authority by laying on the kitchen counter (where the food dwells) and I yelled at her. She wouldn't move. I yelled more to GET DOWN. But bitch wasn't havin it.<br />
I stormed and stomped and huffed and puffed up to her and...<br />
LO AND BEHOLD.....<br />
IT WASN'T EVEN THE FUCKING CAT.<br />
I'd reprimanded <b>my purse.</b><br />
In my defense, they're both black and lumpy, especially in 5:30 am lighting.<br />
I laughed so hard I cried.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-k2vuy3VJ49w/TzQe5jUbLPI/AAAAAAAAAlM/DIMinqRhf2M/s1600/cat+on+counter.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="476" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-k2vuy3VJ49w/TzQe5jUbLPI/AAAAAAAAAlM/DIMinqRhf2M/s640/cat+on+counter.png" width="640" /></a></div><br />
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Bath time was spiced up one night when Bossy Girl FLEW SCREAMING from the tub which made Wee One break out SCREAMING AND CLAWING TO GET OUT OF THE TUB because there was shit floating in the water. Literally. I'm not even joking. Turds. In. Bath water.<br />
I laughed so hard I cried.<br />
<b>After </b>I dry-heaved and made Hubby clean it up.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ayHVRbsu7qo/TzQfhWU-CzI/AAAAAAAAAlU/5UZNJhFt7bU/s1600/poop+tub.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="450" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ayHVRbsu7qo/TzQfhWU-CzI/AAAAAAAAAlU/5UZNJhFt7bU/s640/poop+tub.png" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">And last but not least, I excelled in the study of lazy with a double minor in Snuggie accessorizing and pathetically sad. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ITbhdMHrNRE/TzQ6jU6tCvI/AAAAAAAAAlc/eVU8L-3tXh0/s1600/bed+ridden.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="614" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ITbhdMHrNRE/TzQ6jU6tCvI/AAAAAAAAAlc/eVU8L-3tXh0/s640/bed+ridden.png" width="640" /></a><br />
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</a></div>SarcasmInActionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12135151514208369436noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8373109764994144189.post-4833451688281809922012-01-16T10:02:00.000-06:002012-01-16T10:02:47.465-06:00I'd Make a HORRIBLE God-Like Figure.I recently discovered the Sims Free Play app on my iPad, and since it's free, AND fulfills my love of being nosy and bossy by making people do what I want them to do, <b>plus </b>snoop through their houses <b><i>that I decorate</i>,</b> I figured I'd give it a try.<br />
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Ohmygawd am I enjoying this game, mainly for two big reasons.<br />
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A. I can make them have sex (or "woo hoo" as the game calls it) whenever, wherever, and with whomever I want. Let's face it. My Sims are woo-hooing day and night. I have one that I won't even let go to work because she's woo-hooing it up with all the boys in the neighborhood. Whore.<br />
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B. I can deny them food, baths, sleep, and toilet privileges til they get sick, depressed, and shit and pee themselves.<br />
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I'm pretty sure my therapist needs to hear this stuff about me, but I can't go to therapy because I'm too busy running a world of Sims. I'm pretty sure this is how God feels.<br />
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Gotta run, I think my whore Sim is done with her neighbor Owen and the fireman Michael is probably off work by now.....SarcasmInActionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12135151514208369436noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8373109764994144189.post-52938967472716323892012-01-12T09:12:00.000-06:002012-01-12T09:12:44.957-06:00This Post HAD a Point but Since You KNOW How My Mind Works it Got Lost. It's Mainly about Decorating Though. I Think.I received a large black cubby wall shelf for Christmas from my mother-in-law and I love it. <br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-HlQgkewM72Q/Tw70uyhgtNI/AAAAAAAAAks/w6Yo80qpFiU/s1600/41o4SZmTVhL._SL500_AA300_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-HlQgkewM72Q/Tw70uyhgtNI/AAAAAAAAAks/w6Yo80qpFiU/s200/41o4SZmTVhL._SL500_AA300_.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This shelf. $75 and free shipping on Amazon. And it's GORGEOUS. But you need to get your own baskets. Damn false advertising.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>My family room has a HUGE wall opposite of a large bay window, and after almost six years in my house I figured it was high time to start filling that giant, bare wall.<br />
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One thing I've been obsessed with lately is vintage. I attribute this to my new-found love of American Horror Story and Constance's kitchen on the show. I want a 1950s inspired kitchen. Like this one:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-osnKQlg22jo/Tw7x-D0fQpI/AAAAAAAAAkU/0JxbZkOFQAE/s1600/kitchen-turquoise-50s-gtl0406-de-40914331-86912762.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-osnKQlg22jo/Tw7x-D0fQpI/AAAAAAAAAkU/0JxbZkOFQAE/s400/kitchen-turquoise-50s-gtl0406-de-40914331-86912762.jpg" width="312" /></a></div><br />
Can't you just SEE yourself smoking a cig with Constance here?<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ujY60Sgt7QQ/Tw71pZb-wBI/AAAAAAAAAk0/3Y7t0jQECs8/s1600/constance.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ujY60Sgt7QQ/Tw71pZb-wBI/AAAAAAAAAk0/3Y7t0jQECs8/s320/constance.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
If you don't already watch American Horror Story, <i>what the hell is wrong with you?</i> It's like I don't even know you anymore.<br />
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So for my shelf, I wanted "vintage" pieces since my family room is open from my kitchen and I WILL have a Constance kitchen one day. By the way, my "definition" of "vintage" is "super duper old, like grandma old, but not smelly or moldy. Or too expensive."<br />
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I went on a hunt at my local thrift store for vintage books to stack on my shelf. I had some luck, and who can beat 20 cent hardcover books?<br />
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While I was browsing for old books, I discovered this little gem:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-FPGSgfZ3DTE/Tw7y4hj3CeI/AAAAAAAAAkc/gug-3iPXNOk/s1600/599831-L.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-FPGSgfZ3DTE/Tw7y4hj3CeI/AAAAAAAAAkc/gug-3iPXNOk/s320/599831-L.jpg" width="208" /></a></div><br />
Oh fuck yes, you read that right. The Paranoid's Pocket Guide. Even my 8 year old was all,<i> MOM. You MUST. BUY. THIS.</i><br />
And because I'm a good mom, and a paranoid, and a book nerd, I bought it. <br />
And now I'm having all sorts of twisted fun reading about things I never worried about before but now do. It's like a hypochondriac's nightmare but I just can't help my damn self. I must obsess over random things that will likely never happen.<br />
Next on my reading list?<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ctanSzuiAeQ/Tw70FPiUKHI/AAAAAAAAAkk/sFFhue6pMLo/s1600/51amS4dwasL._SL500_AA300_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ctanSzuiAeQ/Tw70FPiUKHI/AAAAAAAAAkk/sFFhue6pMLo/s1600/51amS4dwasL._SL500_AA300_.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Because my mental illnesses need more friends at the party.<br />
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Also for my shelf I found some other "vintage" and "farm-housey" type things and I love how it all looks together. Do you like my official decorating terms? I'm practically a famous decorator and I'd say <u>who</u>, if I actually knew of any famous decorators.<br />
EVERYTHING I bought was on clearance, and nothing was over $7.00 a piece. <br />
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Want a picture of my new stacked and decorated cubby wall shelf? <br />
Family photo blocked out.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nPn-WEtdZ3g/Tw74FTEZsmI/AAAAAAAAAk8/LM3gpSoPZq0/s1600/IMG_3888.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="238" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nPn-WEtdZ3g/Tw74FTEZsmI/AAAAAAAAAk8/LM3gpSoPZq0/s320/IMG_3888.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
What do you think?? Be honest. Suggestions? Comments?SarcasmInActionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12135151514208369436noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8373109764994144189.post-69699928140346387412012-01-10T11:56:00.000-06:002012-01-10T11:56:36.246-06:00My Insomnia, Hypochondria, Paranoia, and General Bitterness Combined to Make it a LOOONG Night.Last night as I lay wide awake and listened to the Hubby SNORE like a motherfucker, I realized that my neck was a little sore. I've started working out again and developed an awesomely fun case of plantar fasciitis (which is Latin for "asshole foot stabby pain") so I've been going to a "wellness center" for ART (which is acronym for "I'm going to massage and poke you til you bruise" aka "active release therapy".) <br />
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<i>Anyway, I'm going off track here a moment to tell you I'm terrified of chiropractors because I firmly believe that neck and back bones should not make those God-awful cracking noises when they <strike>break </strike>adjust you. So I've never gone to one. Ever. And I don't regret it.</i><br />
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Back on topic. At my ART appointment on Saturday, the doctor got a wild hair up his ass and decided to "adjust" me without prior notice or permission. Kind of like when the mood strikes the Hubby to fondle me without prior notice or permission, but less fun.<br />
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He popped my back, which felt surprisingly good. He cracked up my hips, which was lovely. Cracking those two areas didn't scare the shit out of me. I was pleased.<br />
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THEN, then you guys.... he started massaging my shoulders and neck. I'm a massage whore. I will do just about anything for a massage. I went in with a stabby foot arch and was getting a neck massage and oh holy Mother of the Baby Jesus I was in love with ART and the doctor.<br />
UNTIL..<br />
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That motherfucker held my head in his hands and cracked my neck.<br />
He cracked up my neck vertebrae.<br />
Panic attack much?<br />
He snuck in a neck crack and even though it didn't hurt, it scared the hell out of me.<br />
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So last night as I lay there feeling my sore neck and listening to the Hubby snore like a freight train, my hypochondria went running wild. <br />
CLEARLY something is broken in my neck...<br />
OR a vein/vessel/artery was torn and I'm hemorrhaging into my brain....<br />
OR the neck cracking let loose a clot that had traveled from my leg and has now entered my brain.....<br />
OR my spinal cord is being squeezed by my vertebrae and I'll be paralyzed by dawn.<br />
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All this paranoia combined with my hatred of all things snoring Hubby ruined my night of sleep.<br />
I sent him to Bossy Girl's room since she was sleeping in Wee One's room.<br />
His snoring wasn't to be stopped by mere drywall, however.<br />
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I lay awake until about 2:00 a.m. plotting his punishment along with my funeral.<br />
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I'm tired today you guys.SarcasmInActionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12135151514208369436noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8373109764994144189.post-72275124398438157992012-01-05T18:33:00.000-06:002012-01-05T18:33:43.718-06:00Look out Hallmark.Well, today in a random fit of boredom I decided to browse around <a href="http://someecards.com/">someecards.com</a>.<br />
These cards never fail to crack me up.<br />
And then I discovered I can make my own e-cards on the site, and I killed an entire half hour.<br />
These likely aren't even funny, but here, take a look.<br />
Humor me.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-53CSry5fb6k/TwZA7chNexI/AAAAAAAAAi0/n45WGu6ob44/s1600/1325799057642_7811834.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="280" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-53CSry5fb6k/TwZA7chNexI/AAAAAAAAAi0/n45WGu6ob44/s400/1325799057642_7811834.png" width="400" /></a></div><br />
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The greeting card business just HAS to be looking for someone like me......SarcasmInActionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12135151514208369436noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8373109764994144189.post-83160177684016882162012-01-03T18:46:00.000-06:002012-01-03T18:46:37.342-06:00Aging Can Suck It.Today I wrote down my new age for the first time. <br />
34<br />
Thirty four years old.<br />
There. I did it two more times. It still stings a bit. <br />
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Then, when I looked in the mirror tonight and forced myself to smile at myself, I really noticed the crow's feet. Like, REALLY noticed them.<br />
I knew they were there, and I've been buying every kind of moisturizer on the planet to combat them. But they were so so <i>obvious </i>tonight for some reason. Ugh.<br />
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I have a love hate relationship with aging,<b><u> particularly my aging. </u></b><br />
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<i><span style="font-size: large;">We're currently in the hate cycle y'all.</span></i><br />
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<div style="text-align: left;">Tonight's rendering courtesy of MemeBase and their <a href="http://ragecomics.memebase.com/rage-builder/">Rage Comic Builder</a>. Check it out. </div><div style="text-align: left;">Just trying something new with my tired old renderings.</div><div style="text-align: left;">Spicing things up a bit my friends.</div><div style="text-align: left;">I want to keep our relationship hot and fresh.</div><div style="text-align: left;">Kinky too. </div><div style="text-align: left;">Please?</div>SarcasmInActionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12135151514208369436noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8373109764994144189.post-16252184072244373172011-12-26T10:49:00.002-06:002011-12-26T10:49:49.129-06:00Merry Happy Christmas HolidaysI'm taking a bloggy break to enjoy my holiday vacation.<br />
I'll be back next week with tales of drunken, food-stuffed, dysfunctional family fun.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3FQqO0CY2_o/TvilnSSRafI/AAAAAAAAAgc/6a4WKbA8n_M/s1600/passed-out-next-to-xmas-tree.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3FQqO0CY2_o/TvilnSSRafI/AAAAAAAAAgc/6a4WKbA8n_M/s400/passed-out-next-to-xmas-tree.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div>SarcasmInActionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12135151514208369436noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8373109764994144189.post-87005688273400012522011-12-13T20:34:00.001-06:002011-12-13T20:35:39.347-06:00I'm a Holiday Elf on CrackI love love LOVE this time of year you guys!<br />
I almost can't even stand myself right now.<br />
Every night for the past week I've turned on my Pandora holiday channel, turned on the Christmas lights, and wrapped presents.<br />
I'm feeling very much like... well... an elf on crack!<br />
Best time of year ever.<br />
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I'm going to do some random Christmas photo posts. Because Jesus would appreciate that for his birthday. <br />
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Let's start with my Christmas tree and some special ornaments. By the way? I freaking LOVE ornaments. I have enough to cover my tree plus a forest of trees. And I want more. Feel free to buy me some. I'll email you my address.<br />
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Here's my tree. Rule #1. Tree MUST be covered with white lights only. No multi-colored lights for this wacked-out elf's tree.<br />
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Most of the bajillion-and-one ornaments are for Bossy Girl and Wee One. Every family member is asked to buy and label them an ornament every year. Someday when they are married or have homes of their own... waa-la! Fully decorated tree, courtesy of momma's ornament-obsessed tradition.<br />
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Next, here are a few ornaments I love.<br />
First, the very first married life ornament I bought. 10 years ago. It represents me and the Hubby.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-PWQTruqy0w8/TugJtbkDwdI/AAAAAAAAAfY/KGxVaNq6BTA/s1600/IMG_4244.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-PWQTruqy0w8/TugJtbkDwdI/AAAAAAAAAfY/KGxVaNq6BTA/s320/IMG_4244.jpg" width="238" /></a></div>Ahhh....<br />
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Next, this one represents my love of the kitchen and baking/cooking.<br />
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Third, a Willow Tree ornament of Mother and Daughter. Because, obviously.<br />
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Last, this ballerina ornament for a few reasons. A., because she's old and kind of "vintage-y." B., because she was my sister's favorite and one she handed down to Bossy Girl......<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YP4hpU7LSwQ/TugJzKDrFMI/AAAAAAAAAfw/h3MmGaqfoDE/s1600/IMG_5702.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YP4hpU7LSwQ/TugJzKDrFMI/AAAAAAAAAfw/h3MmGaqfoDE/s320/IMG_5702.jpg" width="238" /></a></div><br />
..... and C., cause if you look close enough, she's clearly a panty-less hoe. Look where her string tassle just happens to fall....<br />
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Dirty, unkempt ballerina.<br />
I laugh my ass off every time I see her on the tree. <br />
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Sorry I find ways to make even Christmas inappropriate, baby Jesus.SarcasmInActionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12135151514208369436noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8373109764994144189.post-55583206483399181532011-11-30T20:04:00.002-06:002011-11-30T20:09:48.664-06:00Dickeyville.Picture it.<br />
<div>Senior year. </div><div>1996.</div><div>Jerry McGuire and Fargo were the big movies.</div><div>The Spice Girls were a hit.</div><div>I still had a perm.</div><div>Times were <i>clearly </i>tough....</div><div><br />
</div><div>My two best friends at the time, let's call them Thelma and Louise, decided on a whim to ditch school for a day. I was a <strike>total loser </strike> <strike>chicken shit </strike>responsible student and couldn't force myself to join them.</div><div>They had nowhere to go. Just a car and a tank of gas. And a dream. A dream to cause a little ruckus.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Thelma and Louise headed to the school library and pulled out a map (on paper, not Google, <i>damn I'm old</i>.), closed their eyes, and pointed to a random spot. </div><div>The place of their juvenile delinquent destination?</div><div><br />
</div><div>Dickeyville, Wisconsin.</div><div>Because dick is in it's name. </div><div>Giggling. Right. Now. <i>Will I never grow up?</i></div><div><br />
</div><div>They called themselves in absent to school pretending to be each other's moms. </div><div>They said goodbye to my <strike>pussy </strike>studious self, and hit the road. </div><div>When they arrived in Dickeyville, they went all tourist-y and took cheesy pictures and even sent postcards. To their parents. </div><div><b>And </b>to the principal. </div><div>Leaving a paper trail of their truancy. </div><div><br />
</div><div><i>Well-played ladies.</i> </div><div><br />
</div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Ballsy.</span></div><div><br />
</div><div>They did get in trouble. They did have consequences. But mainly, they did have fun. And a memory to last a lifetime. </div><div><br />
</div><div>I had no part of it. </div><div>I am LAME.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Fast forward to this week..........</div><div><br />
</div><div>I had to travel to Wisconsin for a friend who lost her mother. It just so happened that I had to drive through Dickeyville, Wisconsin. I pulled over and snapped a picture for proof.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Not quite a postcard, <b>and </b>fifteen years late.....<i>. but still.</i> </div><div><br />
</div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Motherfucking Dickeyville. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div>I've redeemed myself. Kind of.<br />
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</div>SarcasmInActionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12135151514208369436noreply@blogger.com