Half Assed Weekend Post of Randomness, Now With Dry Weave and Flexi-Wings

Some other bloggers I follow do a half-assed weekend post. I figured I'd get on the bandwagon and follow along.
That's me.  A total follower.

Happy Weekend.  I hit the grocery store early this morning, by myself, which was quiet and heavenly and wonderful.  Weather has it that we're looking at some serious snow storm stuff in a couple of days.  Plus, I've got cupcakes to bake.  I'm making cold oven pound cake cupcakes with homemade strawberry whipped cream.  Recipes here at the Cupcake Project blog.

Once in the store, I grabbed that cart.  You know, the cart that never drives correctly cuz one wheel is fucked up?  I always get that damned cart.  Without fail.  If I could only channel that *luck* when I pick out a lottery ticket....
And I noticed as I walked by the mini carts, those tiny shopping carts for people who are opposite of me, who don't ever go in and drop $200 on food, that someone left an unopened Milky Way bar behind.  I paused for a moment, seriously debating on whether or not I should rescue this orphaned and alone candy bar.  I didn't.  But I wanted to.  Cuz hey, free candy bar.  You know you would've considered it too you guys....

 I'm still on my crochet kick.  I was pretty excited to buy some clearanced crocheted scarves and beanie hats yesterday for $4.00 each.  That I'll totally pass of as if they are my own handmade pretties.  Next I'm gonna figure out how to make some of these crochet masterpieces.

By the way, I'm a little appalled, and very highly amused at the definition of crochet in Urban Dictionary.

Slut bucket.  Yep, totally me.  And I completely forgot about the existence of Cracker Barrel restaurants.  Thanks Urban Dictionary!

Boys may want to stop reading now.  Or anyone else with standards may wish to as well.  Or if you have a delicate stomach, stop.  Or if you contain a sense of decency that I clearly lack, skip to the end.  Sorry about what's coming next Hubby.  And Mom.

So, my "friend" is here to visit.  You know, aunt Flo.  Cousin Red.  Sally.  The Red Tide. I'm trying out the new drug Lysteda to see if it helps cut down on what I kindly refer to as "hemorrhaging" after my second baby/c-section.  It's some pill that doesn't contain hormones, but has acid in it, which seems kinda worse, but what do I know, right?  It's used to treat what their website calls, "HMB"  (heavy menstrual bleeding) when it "interferes with your social, leisure, and physical activities."  By the way, I don't call it "HMB."  I call it "DIGMFPA," or, "Dammit, I've Got my Fucking Period AGAIN." And, whose heavy period doesn't interfere with their social, leisure, and physical activities?  Totally wrecks my weekends once a month...... 
I'd love to join you in the hot tub, but I have HMB.  Can we do that naked massage next week?  I have HMB.  Oh, I'd love to go streaking during pub crawl, but I have HMB.  I'm bothered by something though, if it cuts the flow down by 1/3, where does it go?  Will I have unexpected bloody noses?  Will my gums bleed when I floss?  Seriously.  Where will that extra 1/3 go???

Lastly, you know I love my cat, Colby.  And at the same time I'm perplexed and annoyed by him.
But this?  This just proves what us cat people already know.....

Cats ARE smarter than dogs.  Evidence:

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I'd Like to Thank the Academy, but Technically Since They've Never Given Me Anything and I've Never Done Anything Worthwhile, Then I Guess Thanking Them Would Be Asinine.

Ohmygod this is ALMOST as Awesome as Giving Birth!!  A Total Close Second.I've been given my first award!!!!!!  Breathe... blink.... breathe.... focus....

I'm beyond excited and can't wrap my brain around why on earth some fabulous blogger out there would bestow any sort of award on me.  Unless it's the "this blog sucks" award.  Or the "she thinks she's funny but my God she's the opposite of funny" award.  Or better yet, the "Christ, they let just about anyone have a blog these days, don't they?  Even the crappy writers like this chick" award.

Ready to see it?  Grab hold of your seat.

 

 BAM!

I made the pic WAY bigger than it should be cuz it's that awesome to me.

Today.  Written down on calendar. For life.  So when I'm winning other awards such as Tonys and Golden Globes and Razzys and Emmys and Super Bowl rings I can look back fondly on my first award.  *sigh*

So, the rules of the Stylish Blogger Award:

1. Thank and  Link back to the person who awarded you this.
2. Share 7 things about yourself.
3. Pay it forward to 5 recently discovered great bloggers.
4. Contact those bloggers and tell them about their award.

I'm not the best at following directions cuz I always forget #1 by the time I'm at like, #3, but I'm giving it my all here.  I'm still flustered that I even got this thing.  Wowza!

A HUGE shout out thank you to Rachel at The Rachel Chronicles for choosing me for this blog award. I'm following her blog, stat.  She refers to herself as "batshit crazy," therefore she's totally a kindred spirit.  If you need a kidney or someone to buy some Girl Scout cookies, or a new cornea Rachel, I've got your back.  I owe you at least that.

Seven Things about Myself:

1.  I married my high school sweetheart.  He calls it love.  I call it "lack of options."

2.  I'm terrified, and I mean terrified of possums.  We had one dig under our back deck, curl up, die and fester and rot all maggot-like, just to torture me.  Another died in the middle of our backyard.  Again, just to torture me.  I don't know what it is about their beady, evil eyes and long snout and nasty ass claws, but Ewww gross.  Plus, who can trust an animal that acts all dead, and when you least expect it, it jumps to life and scares the living daylights out of you? And they hiss.  UGH.

3.  I have a slightly irrational fear of electrical fires.  If I see a spark when you unplug something from an outlet, I won't sleep for a whole night.  I'll just sit and stare at that outlet, not blinking, just watching for the inevitable smoke and billowing flames.  Don't even get me started on how "batshit crazy" I get when the Hubby does his own electrical work, like replacing a ceiling fan.  

4.  I have MS, but that's like, totally on my back burner of life.  I don't even think about it most days. I was diagnosed suddenly and unexpectedly almost 5 years ago, and was on treatment within 4 weeks of my diagnosis.  I give myself injections every other night, aka, I "shoot up," and I credit these expensive ass, painful, poisonous shots with the awesome long remission I'm in.  Plus, I get to tell people I "shoot up" and it's legit and legal.  I sound cool and dangerous, yet I'm merely slowing my illness with a prescription drug.  Bonus. I'm still scoring 0 on the disability scales and rocking out my neuro exams.  I don't have symptoms, feel great, and am lucky as all hell.  Oh, and by the way, I don't do pity. Can't stand it.  Hate when people go, "Aww, I'm so sorry." Pity=yuck.  Suck it.  Unless pity comes with giving me cash and presents and special favors.  Then I'm all over it.

5.  I LOVE, LOVE, LOVE pickled eggs.  Never had one?  Try them.  YUMMO.   

6.  I pretty much have zero leg hair, so I never have to shave my legs.  Maybe I have a bum thyroid, I don't know.  Nor do I care.  I rarely have to shave my legs.  Even in summer.  I don't even wear shorts anyway, cuz my shots leave horrid ugly bruises on my skin.  Maybe once a month or so I'll shave the soft peachy fuzz hair off, just for kicks and to feel like a normal woman.

7.  I chew off the skin around my fingernails.  Gross, I know, but I could give a possum's nasty ass tail.


Now I have to pay it forward to some bloggers I've recently discovered.  Only 5??  No fair.  There are so many good ones out there! And since I'm fairly new to this blogging shindig, there are so many that are new to me, but not to others.  So I'm gonna just say fuck it and go for it.

Okay, so here goes:

First I'd like to pass this off to Holly at Are You Serious?  She makes me laugh and she loves the Golden Girls and a good dose of profanity.  AND she won my random giveaway prize of holy awesomeness, so I've gotta give her a shout out. WORD.

Next, I'd like to give this to the Sassy Curmudgeon because who doesn't love themselves some SASS?? She's been blogging for a while, but again, she's new to me, therefore I'm going with it, so deal, okay? I totally had to look up the definition of curmudgeon and found it's is a crusty, cranky old man, but sassy girl Una... well she's a girl.  I'm not sure if she's crusty though.  Now I wonder if she's crusty.  Like extra crispy, Kentucky-fried crusty, or original crusty?

Passing one off to Mommy A at Being Veruca.  She's a hard working mom, student, wife, and blogger.  And calls herself Keeper of the Crayons and a drama queen.  I'm all about the drama queen thing.  I've been nicknamed "Mel" as in "melodramatic" by a friend.  I gotta be me, home skillet.

I gotta hand one over to Pleasantly Demented. She's been blogging for a while but she's new to me and she's married to her high school sweetheart like me and her bassett hound is cute and she's witty as hell.

And my last has to go to again, someone who's blogged for a bit longer than me, but she's new to me....
Living Shallow, Living Well, there is just NO better title picture than yours on your blog.  She cracks my ass up whenever I read her posts.  Keep it up,  Shallow!

Okay.  That was tough, but well worth it.

Now that I'm done listing the bloggers I'm re-gifting the award to, I'm gonna contact them.  Then take a nap.  This was tiring, yo.

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Why do I Suck at Crocheting?

One of my New Year's Resolutions was to learn to crochet.

And unlike many of my resolutions that more dissolve in my mind than turn to resolve, this one I've followed through on.

I contacted my local Stitch n Bitch group, (national group's website) but didn't like the *tone* I got in the email reply, so I looked at pictures of them on their blog and saw that they were a fair mix of old women, young moms, one questionable dude, and a few who clearly like the Oreos a bit too much.  Normally, these are my kind of people, and bonus that the word bitch is in their group name, but I decided that I'm really not a "people person" and to join an already established group of knitters and crocheters would be awkward because I'd be all, ohmygod did you see how the Bloggess got a panda suit and posed like Eminem? And they'd be all, what are you talking about? And I'd be all, teach me to crochet a Snuggie. I love Snuggies, don't you? Can I wear mine to the meetings? And bring wine?  Oh! Oh! Teach me to crochet a wine coozie! And then they'd give me a blank stare and when I'd shout out a cuss word here and there (not just any cuss word but the mother of all cuss words) and snort when I laugh and do my OH OHHH! noise and make poop jokes they'd look at me with that look most random strangers give me that says what the fuck is wrong with that woman? Then I'd make naughty, anatomically correct crochet puppets and jokes about how when I crochet with my hook I call myself a hooker and then they'd ask me to leave. And as I'd walk out I'd call them all a bunch of hookers, even the one male there, and flip them the bird with my hook.  But not before I filled my purse with their free snacks. 

So, I decided that I'd still like to crochet, just without actually having to socialize properly with others.   I conned the Stitch n Bitch pissy email lady to tell me what basic materials I need and went to Hobby Lobby.  No wait, it was Michaels.  Whatever.  I bought some yarn and a couple of crochet hooks with bamboo handles because that makes them seem all classy and fancy and gives them magical awesome crochet skills power, and promptly searched YouTube for some basic crochet tutorials.

I think I'm actually getting the hang of crochet.  I like that with a video I can push pause and rewind, which I do a LOT because I have adult ADD and start to do other things at the same time as listen and learn.

Meet my hook.  This one I call Curly. 












Here's one of my earliest attempts to crochet.  I had *issues.*  Clearly.

But being ever persistent, I didn't give up.  After about two entire hours of work, I ended up with this:

May not look like much to you, this green wormy thing, but there are really and truly some correct stitches in there.  Score!

Next attempt gets me this.

I was diligent and watched and rewatched my tutorial and actually took it seriously for once and it sort of looks decent.  Hell, it's ugly, I know that.  But it's my stitching, and I love it.  It's a stitch only a mother could love.



So I'm starting to feel all expert like and as if maybe, just maybe I'll eventually get this crochet thing and make scarves and cute hats and potholders and such.  It's a domestic feeling I'm not sure I'm used to, but I'm liking it.  Dammit, I'm gonna crochet some booties and an apron and bake some shit.   
I'm gonna focus and learn and keep this resolution and actually be good at something other than sarcasm and making fun of people for once!

And then I notice that my crochet hooks resemble chopsticks.  And yarn kinda looks like udon noodles.  Let's pretend I'm eating some Chinese food!

By the way, yarn leaves little fibers in your mouth when you pretend it it like real noodles.

Back to serious work.  Focus.

I stick my hooks in my yarn skeen (I even know the official effing language for the yarn thingy) and go to replay some crocheting tutorial video..... but not before I notice that the hooks sticking out of it now make the skeen look like a person with arms.  Hmmm.  Logically, I give him a shoe and one of Wee One's pacifiers and name him King Tut, the Multi-Colored Yarn Mummy.

And now the Hubby walks in and gives me *that* look, yet again, and shakes his head.  As if this isn't exactly what one should be doing with her crochet supplies.

Back to work missy!  Stay on task!

And then I hear some musical noise, and see Wee One has her Little People Ice Cream truck and what King Tut really really wants is some ice cream.  So he raises his hook arm and flags down the truck for a bomb pop.

As I'm playing with Tut and my hooks and my Little People I remember that I'm technically supposed to be trying to actually crochet.  Not take pictures of my random and strange ADD play time.

So I woman up, put in the effort and time, and end up with this:

I'm not totally sure what it is yet.  It could be the start of a crooked sarcophagus for Tut.  Or a lopsided Barbie scarf.  Maybe a penis Snuggie? Or the ugliest potholder in the world.
But like my own kids, whatever it turns out to be, I'm gonna be proud of it and love it and show it off to everyone!  And if they laugh at it, then I'll call them hookers and flip them the bird with Curly.

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Forget Linda Blair. I'm Dealing with a Haunted Puzzle Here People.

Behold.

It may look like a cute little kiddo puzzle.
I may seem adorable and harmless at first glance.
BUT
This puzzle is a tool of the supernatural.
It's a gateway to the other side.
It's a portal to the nonliving.
A mode of communication for spirits who dwell within my house......

So, I've likely gone a bit overboard on my description, but for seriously people, this puzzle is fucked up.  And haunted.  Probably.  Cuz let's be honest and look at the facts.  It's technically the same shape as a Ouija board.  Plus, there's kinda a pentagram in the center.  And, it was made in China, so it's likely got lead and aluminum and chromium and demons all wrapped up in it.  Valid, scientific reasoning to support my possessed puzzle claim here.

How this puzzle is supposed to work is when you place the little animals in their proper space, the puzzle provides the animal's sounds.  The dog piece barks when the dog is placed in.  The horse piece neighs.  The cat piece meows. The bird piece chirps. The gerbil/hamster/guinea pig (cuz who the hell really knows the difference between all those rodent-type things anyway) makes some squeaky-ass odd noise that I guess a gerbil/hamster/guinea pig makes.  When it's stepped on.

What I've discovered about this puzzle, in my house, is that you do not technically need a living human being to work it.
This bastard makes the animal noises at random.  When no one is near it. Usually at night when I'm locking up the house and shutting off the lights.  Alone. I repeat, no one is in the goddamn room.  And it makes animal noises. By itself.


For $10.99 I've allowed evil to enter my home.  Goddamn you and your awesome deals, Target.  I couldn't resist the temptation to buy, and ohmygod did anyone else notice like I just did that Target is all red and the employees wear red and red is Satan's color?  And they carry Dirt Devil vacuums!  And there's actually a blog out there on the Internet titled, Target is the Devil.  For reals.  It's all becoming clear now......

 Shit

I did some research on if objects like scary bastard puzzles can actually be possessed.  Turns out, they can, because I read it from some really reliable paranormal source.  I think.  I read that it's less likely the object itself is possessed, it's probably some restless spirit playing with it because said spirit likes it.
OR, the batteries are fucked up.
My money's on the possession option.  Reasonable people would agree.
Some greedy spirit wants my puzzle.
Well you know what ghost person?  It's friggen YOURS!  Take it.  Be gone. Last thing I need is another damn puzzle cluttering my house.  And I don't think I need some spirits cluttering up my shit either.  I don't think that Hoarders show cleans out ghosts.

Someone call the Ghostbusters, stat.  We need an animal sounds puzzle exorcism.

EEK!  The effing fish piece just effing bubbled on its own!!! I'm outta here!!!!!!!!!!

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My Secret Girl Crush

I've never told this to anyone, including the Hubby.
So I guess this makes all of my readers, plus random Internet surfers who stumble upon this blog, privy to some pretty important stuff. Top secret, national security type stuff.

Ok.  Here goes. Deep breath......  I have a secret girl crush on Susanna Hoffs.

And just like that, it's no longer a secret.

Remember The Bangles? Of course you do.  If you have good taste in music and an actual long term memory you do.....

Here's Susanna during her Walk Like an Egyptian and Manic Monday period of life:
 

Hi, I'm a pretty, petite 80s rock girl with an angelic voice and mad guitar skills.  

Susanna today:

Hi, I'm in my early 50s and still smokin hot and talented, even though I could technically be your mom.

I defy you to find someone who's aged better than Susanna.

Hence, my girl crush.  I love that she can rock it out and still looks amazing and like she hasn't gained one solitary pound or wrinkle in 30-odd years.  I want to hold her hand and smell her hair and then sit front row while she performs.  Doesn't she just look like she smells good? And she's so pixie petite you just want to pick her up and carry her around and keep her.
When she does her side of the eyes glancing thing and then looks right into the camera, it's like she's totally looking at me. 

My all time favorite Susanna Hoffs/Bangles song?  In Your Room.




Second would be Eternal Flame.
Oh the memories.

Check out this acoustic Manic Monday.  Listen to her sweet, sweet voice.  *sigh*  I'm in love.



How about a 2001 rendition of Eternal Flame now??


Have I helped bring out your girl crush too, ladies?
Boys, I bet you already knew this and were just waiting for one of us to admit it.
Susannah Hoffs = hot

I'm secure enough in my femininity to admit this.

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And the Winner Is........

The randomly drawn out of a bowl because I couldn't find a hat winner of my bribe to get followers and comments is Midwestern Mama!






God I hope she actually reads this.
I'll just send her a message.
Anyway, Mama gets her choice of one of the following prizes of holy awesomeness:
The I'm More Interesting on My Blog handy dandy mouse pad or the I'm Not Ingoring You, Your Comment is Awating Moderation coffee mug.  See pics below.
Did you already forget about the drawing?  For your reference
Check out Midwestern Mama's blog.  She's funny stuff. And pretty damn cool.  Especially when her new super cool bribery prize of fabulosity!!
She'd better like it or else.
Sorry to those who didn't win.  There's no consolation prize.  Just your bitter, bitter tears of defeat to keep you company on a dark and lonely, non winning night.

I appreciate the new followers and commenters though!  Keep it up!  It helps my self esteem.

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Always a Bridesmaid, Never a Bride. But I Suppose Already Being Married *Would* Put a Damper on Any Future Engagements or Weddings I May Have. Dammit.

 *my title was false.  I should mention that if I were Kody Brown on TLC's Sister Wives, then already being married would so not put a damper on future marriages.  Seriously WTF is up with him and those women? 
 Back on topic now!

My older sister is getting married.    
Hallelujah.
I'd like to personally (cuz a blog post is SO personal) thank the guy marrying her.  He's one step closer to sainthood.
I love my sister and she truly, truly deserves this happiness.  She's marrying a great guy who came along at just the right time because the universe knows its shit and placed this guy on her road in life and she didn't run him over and he was made for her.
They are proof eHarmony is awesome.
Awww....
Having said that I love my sister, I can now say that she's total high maintenance.  And she knows it.
Her fiance is a friggin saint.  I may have to create a shrine to him in my closet with a cardboard cutout of him wearing a halo on his head and fluffy white wings coming out of his cardboard back and scented candles and incense in a circle on the floor around the life-sized cardboard cutout and shiny heart stickers on his forehead and a picture of baby Jesus in his pocket... not that I'm planning it in my mind or anything. That would cause some awkward feelings at the next family gathering.  Probably.

This shrine would NOT take the place of my Mike Wolfe shrine because I gotta stay loyal to my man.  But it could go next to it.  Or behind it.  

Any hoo, I am a bridesmaid.  And I'm helping plan the shower and bachelorette party.

Me, along with my immaturity and lack of common sense and decency, planning a bachelorette party.

Someone didn't exhibit good sense when making that decision, now did they?

With me in charge of a bachelorette party, you're likely to get some or all of the following:

A Betty White "let's partay dawg" cardboard cutout to carry along to all the stops.

We'll all be wearing leopard Snuggie attire.  ROAR!




 Spam hats 









This guy

















Twippy the clown to make balloon animals for random strangers.  Actually, it seems he can't make animals.  Just the shape below.  Totally perfect for the occasion.  He doesn't seem one bit concerned that it leans to his left probably more than it should We could make him guest book attendant at the wedding too.  For fun. 

I'd like to take this lady dancing with us.  Her name is Happiness.  And she makes me happy.  Because she makes my moves look good.

See more funny videos and TBT at Todays Big Thing.

This girl too.  No one would try to pull any shit with us if she were there,  cuz she'll cut a bitch.

See more funny videos and TBT at Todays Big Thing.

Possibly this. But without the cigs, cuz... tacky. Nothing ruins this photo more than the cigarette.  It just doesn't go with the shoes.  Or the cart.  Without the cigarette, then classy awesomeness.

And if we could look up and view heaven on that evening, we'd definitely see this:

 

 Why does she embarrass me so much? *sighs Jesus*

Maybe after reading this my sister will change her mind about me helping.

Or, thank her lucky stars she knows me??

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Yep. It's THAT Topic.

My post today may not be as awesome as they typically are, because I'm in a zone.  A mental preparation zone for what I have to do tomorrow afternoon.  I need to be fully mentally prepared.
Is it a marathon, you may wonder?  Will she be reciting literature in front of an audience?  Is she performing brain surgery?

All valid guesses, but none are correct.

I have my yearly gynecological exam tomorrow.   
dun dun duuuunnnnn... *gasp, cringe, faint in ladylike fashion*

That's right.  Mental preparation is necessary for this.

During my mental preparedness drills today, I've tossed around a few ideas to make this event less scary and uncomfortable.
I have the standard checklist that probably most other women have in preparation for this appointment from hell:
Make sure both legs are shaved.  And not just knee down.  Check.
Make sure socks are matching, nice, and in good condition.  Check. 
Make sure you're not wearing those shoes that get extra stinky too fast.  Check.  
Don't wear underwear that will really dig in and leave those read marks all over your waist.  Check.  
Make sure you didn't leave crumbs from your caramel corn stuck laying around down there.  Check.
Pack purse full of feminine wipes and deodorant spray.  Check. 

Along with this checklist of musts, here's some ideas I have for making this an appointment to remember:

While practitioner is "down there," say, so.... you've seen worse, right? 

Write a note in Sharpie on your inner thigh, or place a sticker down there as a nice surprise.  Not a scratch and sniff sticker, cuz that'd probably be taking it a tad too far into the arena of embarrassing and inappropriate, and we so don't want that, but a glitter or puff sticker would be cool and totally acceptable.  PLUS, it's always a nice gesture to give someone a gift in exchange for their work or service.

Better yet, instead of a sticker or note, how about a fortune cookie fortune?  They could pull the fortune  out, read it, get a nice laugh, smile, and say, thanks for your thoughtfulness.
I know if my nurse practitioner happens to pull a fortune out tomorrow during my appointment, it would totally say,   

you are in the presence of greatness.  

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I Find Myself in Love with an Inanimate Object. Yet Again.

It may come as a total surprise to some of you who've been reading this blog and thinking to yourself, wow, she's gotta be the most normal person I think I know, but I have one or two interesting "quirks." One of which is a list of nonhuman objects that I heart.  With a passion.  As much passion as one can force onto a nonliving, sometimes plastic, sometimes fabric, sometimes battery-operated piece of machinery or tool.

First it was our new, bagless vacuum.  Ohmygod can that thing vacuum like it's 2012 and there's no tomorrow.  Our carpets were never truly clean until this new vacuum came along.

Next came the Snuggie.  Make fun all you want but how cool is it that you can stay covered up yet your hands are free?  AHmazing. 

And this meat chopper thingy-majiggy from Pampered Chef:  Super cool! My favorite kitchen gadget.  Hell, I use it even when there's no meat to choppy up.  Which is weird when you're just trying to stir spaghetti sauce, or attempting to scoop hard boiled eggs out of boiling water, but dude, whatever.  It makes me happy.

 

When I got my Droid phone and slowly figured out how it worked, I was in awe.  And infatuated at once by it's smartphone smartness.  And the free apps. I've played 476 games of SkipBo on that bad boy and there's no end in sight.

My new fridge?  Has instant ice and water right in the door!  Whenever you want it. Hello?  Super amazing.

Then, I fell for my new solid surface countertop.  Don't tell me it's not normal to rub your cheek (face cheek peeps) against the top while murmuring about how much you love your countertop.  And rub it with both hands every time you walk through the kitchen.  And take pictures of it.  And sigh in adoration whenever you glance at it.

Now, it's my new scalp massager.  BAM!

Don't say it's weird looking cuz then I'll say so's your mom and then we'll fight and I don't want to fight.
Head massages are my current obsession.
that's what he said.....


I'll confess that pretty much the only reason I go to get my hair done, besides to color out the godforsaken gray hairs,  is to get my head massaged during the shampoo phase.  Oooo la la.  My toes curl every time.  I have chill bumps just thinking about it.  Did you know your scalp contains thousands of sensitives nerves?  That are just begging to be touched?
I sure did.  And I can't get enough.
that's what he said....

So since I only get my hair done every 6-8 weeks, and Hubby isn't a reliable source of massages, I do what all women must do out of necessity: resort to taking care of my own bidness.  I give myself head massages now.  Daily. 
that's what he said....
Sorry, can't help it.  I'm that immature.

I highly recommend everyone try the head massager.  But not each others.  You could spread lice and other weird itchy shit that way.  Get your own.  You can pick them up cheap at Bed, Bath, and Beyond.  And massage your way to heaven.  I did.  Just now.  A head massage..... while blogging.  In my Snuggie.  Cuz my hands are free to blog AND head massage at the same time, homefries. 

Can't you tell that I'm a more satisfied blogger just by my words?  AHHH.

PS.  whenever I said "head" or "head massage" it in no way was a metaphor for any other massage of any other body part.  I would not blog about that. 
This week anyway....

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I'm a Comment and Follower Whore

In an effort to prove that I will pretty much do anything, and I mean anything legal and moral and fully clothed, to get more followers and comments, I'm setting up a give away.  That's right.  A freebie.  For the people.

All you need to do is one, or both cuz I love overachievers,
of the following:

A.  Comment on this post and one other post of mine in the archives.  That you've actually read.  There may be a quiz.  And not true/false or multiple choice quiz either.  So read it.  And comment in a quality manner, don't type, "look, a comment."  Or, "here's my comment."  Or, "enter me in the drawing."  Or, "I'm in!" Write something witty please.  Make me laugh.  How bossy am I today?  Geez.  Look at all the hoops I'm making you jump through....

B.  Become a follower if you aren't already. (current followers will automatically be entered in the drawing. Unless you want to opt out.  Of the free prize.  But who would wanna do that?  It's free, so play along and pretend you're having fun, dammit.)

I will then do a drawing of the people who have commented and/or followed on Sunday, January 23.

The winner will be notified and we will set up communication through email so I can send you your choice from one of two prizes of holy awesomeness:

 The "I'm more interesting on my blog" mousepad

Or the, "I'm not ignoring you, your comment is awaiting moderation" coffee mug.






Come on guys.  Don't make me comment on my own posts to give away the prize to myself cuz that would be kinda lame.

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The Carb Cravings are Dwindling & I'm Feeling Way Less Stabby, but I'm More than a Tad Tired of Seeing Lettuce, Which Likely Led to My Torrid Affair with Salmon

The title pretty much says it all.

I can't be too bitchy nasty towards a diet that has allowed me to drop some pounds so efficiently and quickly.  I'm all about the instant gratification people.  And don't lecture me about how this isn't a "natural" or "healthy" way to lose weight and once you stop the diet you'll gain it all back blah, blah, yadda, yadda.

I can't hearrrrrr youuuuu..... *fingers in ears, humming*

So having salad and hard boiled eggs everyday is annoying.  Word.  Last night I had salmon and steamed broccoli and was completely psyched about it.  Cuz it wasn't a salad.  I ate it with gusto and delight and it was tasty and good and I loved it so much I could've hugged it.  I was all, hey salmon.  How YOU doin?  Good to see you.  Even better to eat you.   What's this I see?  You don't have lettuce attached to you.  Bonus.  YUM. I never wanted that piece of fish to end.  I savored every single bite  and I chewed and swallowed slower than I ever have before (get your minds outta the gutters you guys!).  I ate the broccoli first, because unlike Wee One, I eat what I dislike the most first to get it out of the way so I can fully savor the food I want the most.  Little Miss Wee One will  tank up on the food she loves first and then save the rest for last.   Not a philosophy I subscribe to.  Other philosophies I don't subscribe to: "pay it forward," "do unto others," good things come to those who wait," "honesty is the best policy," "think before  you speak," and "balance your checkbook."

Back to the salmon.  It was seasoned and lovely and moist and gone all too soon. I fell in love with that salmon.  It made me feel good like a real woman eating a real meal should feel.  Take that salad. You make me feel empty and sad, like I just ate paper with ranch dressing. Which I totally would, but I think paper may have carbs.  I'm plotting when I can have the salmon again.  I didn't cook it, by the way.  It was carry out.  God bless America for all her carry out options. And the plethora of people to make fun of.  And democracy.

I think my whole point here may just be that although I'm not super stabby and crazed and in attack mode currently, I'm still missing my carbs.  I'm past anger and violence, and into depressed in the carbohydrate-free diet grief cyle

Besides my loving and licking enjoying salmon, there are other ways I can tell I may be in the depression phase of my carb-loss grief cycle.
Diet Depression Evidence #2:  I swept the floor.  For no reason at all.
Diet Depression Evidence #3:  I was nice to the Hubby today and allowed a public display of affection.  I know, right? 
Diet Depression Evidence #4:  Insomnia.  I didn't take a nap today.  And it's currently 10:46 PM.  That's NIGHT time.  And I'm still awake.  *shaking head*

Diet Depression Evidence #5:  I barely made fun of the losers on the Extreme Couponers show I saw tonight.  They were all giddy over buying 1,000 toothbrushes for free and spending 70 hours a week clipping coupons and planning shopping trips for toilet paper and showing off their stock piles of crap in their garages turned pantries.  But hey, they saved some bucks on stuff they don't even need and are ready for the zombie apocalypse.  I bet they could bean all those zombies in the head with the 10, 000 cans of Campbell's soup they have.  The zombies won't even know what hit em.  The war would be won by extreme couponers and their 2,ooo bottles of diet Pepsi and 150 bars of Butterfingers stashed in their garages.  That they got for free.  Kudos to them.  Did I already call them losers?  I just made fun of them again.  There's hope for me yet.

Yay!  Look at me!  In a dumpster.  For the coupons.

You'll have to forgive me for posting too much about my no carb state of mind lately.  But it's my blog.  So there.  You can't tell me what to do. Wanna try?  I dare you. 

Shit, I got crabby again.  

I never claimed to be totally cured of my grouchiness, I'm just less likely to bite you to get your cinnamon roll.  Grief is a cycle people, not a straight line.

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HELP!!! I'M SUFFERING THROUGH WITHDRAWLS HERE!!!!

I CAN'T STAND THE CRAVINGS!!!!!
I need help!  Make it stop. I'm about to lose my ever-lovin mind.
I decided to give up carbs and try an Atkins-style diet. I'm calling it the caveman diet. The caveman connotation has more *flavor* than "atkins." What is supposed to happen then will be my body will stop the insulin/blood sugar yo-yo effect and learn to burn fat for energy.  And I've got plenty of that stored up.  I could hibernate all winter if need be. If OPEC would tap into my reserves (particularly my ass) and turn body fat into energy, gas supply would surge and prices would drop.  (OH MY GOD.  Did I really just type that OPEC should "tap" my ass?  Good.  Grief.  Who lets me write this thing anyway?)

I had zero clue I'd miss pasta or bread this much.
And I'm only on friggin day TWO!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I'm crabby as hell and I swear to God and all that is good and holy I will punch someone out if they eat some chips or french fries in front of me.
I will deliver a karate chop to the neck of anyone I see eating spaghetti.
I will rip the individual damn eyelashes out of the eyelids of any poor fool dumb enough to munch on toast or bananas in my field of vision.
I'll dropkick your ass to steal your pancake.
And don't get me started on what I'll do to some idiot brave enough to drink a glass of wine near me.   
Oh Dear Lord the wine.... I forgot about the wine.  How can wine be a carbohydrate?  NOOOOOO.

I knew this violent side of me existed, but who knew I'd go all sorts of insane just by narrowing down my diet to meat, eggs, and lettuce? And did you know there's like a thousand different ways to eat eggs, by the way?
You'd think I was going cold turkey on cigarettes or alcohol or meth or something addictive like that.
Turns out carbs are my drug. (not your love. Sorry Kesha. PS. I don't understand you.  I'm kinda scared when I see pics of you)
And I miss the carbs so so much. 

Sweet, sweet bowl of goodness

Is there a rehab clinic I can go to?  Why hasn't Oprah founded one yet? She could call it the Oprah Winfrey Finally Carbohydrate Free Clinic.  Or, the Oprah Winfrey Stop Eating that Carb Shit and Lose Your Fat Ass Center.  I could spend all day coming up with creative names for Oprah's carbohydrate rehab clinic, but what I really want to do is eat a cheeseburger on a butter-toasted bun instead. With fries.
When I reread this post so far, I sound like a food-obsessed fatty. 
But I don't freaking care. Not. One. Bit. so suck it.  I'm not in the mood to care what others think of me.  Clearly.

I just Googled pictures of pasta for this post, and literally started drooling.  Not even joking. I'm not in the mood for joking. Don't joke with me.  Dude.  Back off.
I was starting to think I was losing my mind, so I then Googled "carbohydrate cravings" and found it's really and truly a disorder, not something I'm making up ( like my long-lost wealthy twin or amazing singing talent or ESP or ability to communicate with the dead.).
See?
 The term "carbohydrate craving" is used in a theory about the relationship between carbohydrate, insulin and appetite. We know that eating carbohydrate raises insulin, which then lowers blood sugar. This causes a desire (or craving) for more food and, for some people, carbohydrates in particular. High-sugar, refined starch, convenience and comfort foods feed the addiction like a drug. They produce correspondingly high blood sugar and insulin levels, which lead to even more cravings. They also produce higher levels of the brain chemical serotonin. In sensitive people, particularly those who may have low serotonin levels to begin with, a carbohydrate binge is the equivalent of self-medication - getting a sugar "high."

I know it's kind of like I'm going through a carb detox and I'll feel better soon, but until then, I'd better stay away from all restaurants, grocery stores, and innocent human beings.
 

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Random Musings for the Day Volume II

I have a whole bunch of things on my mind currently, and no real rhyme or reason or theme to any of them, so I figured it was time to resurrect a random musings post like my first one.

By the way, I went through my archived posts to find my first random musings, and got all sorts of confused when it was under the 2010 catagory and I was all, but I wasn't a blogger last year, why is it under 2010?  Then I realized it's currently a new year. (totally confusing, right?  I KNOW!  I have no idea what I just said. Obviously.)  I've never claimed to be *smart* or *quick-witted*, people.

So, without further ado (whatever that means) here's my most recent rapid fire list of musings:

Why am I always pushing in the chairs around the kitchen table?  Who pushes them all out and then leaves them?  There's only four of us, and the Wee One is too small, so that leaves Bossy Girl, the Hubby, my alternate personality, or the cat.  But his puke trail would give him away.  I half expect that at any given moment I'll turn around and see Carol Anne in my kitchen telling me about the TV people screwing with the damn chairs.  (one of my all time FAV movies ever, btw. I found a copy of the "digitally remastered" Poltergeist at TJ Maxx for $5 and bought it for myself for Christmas.  And wrapped it for myself.  And acted all sorts of surprised and touched by someone's thoughtful gift when I opened it.) 

Oh, and this house?  My house?  Is not clean Tangina.  

Where the hell's my Merry Maid?

For the longest time I've thought my garbage disposal has been playing me for a fool.  I've felt that it hasn't been admitting it's true potential and we've been treating it with kid gloves.  It can take on more food than it lets on, right? Why can it not handle large chunks of potatoes and potato peels, I've wondered.
I tried out this theory tonight.  Turns out I'm wrong.  It's clearly the wussy model.  I may need to chew its food for it next time.  Wimp.

If you ever, ever, ever need someone to put back a lid onto a bottle, don't ask my Hubby.  He'll He Man the shit out of it and you'll never get it open.  Ever.  Again.  I've given up on one of Wee One's sippy cups.  I may just throw it away.  (Oh, and do you think he'd channel that manly man strength into something productive?  Oh, I don't know, say, lugging all that laundry up two flights of stairs for me?  Ah, hell no.  That'd be too *logical* and *practical* and *nice.*)

I'm fairly certain Patrick Swayze is reaching out to me from the great beyond.  Wherever that is.  I've dreamt about the man three times now since he's died.  And I don't have some special affinity towards him as an actor.  I don't necessarily love his movies or call myself a fan.  Although Dirty Dancing was the bomb.  But he's been showing up in my dreams lately, and I'm freaked the freak out (props to Victoria Justice for that one).  In one dream, he literally wanted me dead.  In the second, he was trying to get me to try a new flavor of ice cream at Dairy Queen.  And this last one, last night, he was serenading me with "Seasons Change" by Expose.  What the f**ck?????

Before I go to bed tonight I'm going to say out loud for Patrick to hear, "Look, spaghetti arms.  This is my dream space.  That, is yours.  I don't go into yours, you don't go into mine."
And he'll likely reply with, "Look, you've gotta understand what it's like, Baby. You come from the streets and suddenly you're up here, and these women, they are throwing themselves at ya, and they smell so good, and they really take care of themselves. I mean, I never knew women could be like that, you know?"
And then I'll say, "We're supposed to do the show in two days, you won't show me the lifts, I'm not sure of the turns, I'm doing all this to save your ass, what I really want to do is drop you on it"
To which he'll answer, "I don't see you running up to daddy telling him I'm your guy!"

OK, this just went way past weird about 5 minutes ago......

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In the Mood to Do Something Kind and Generous and Meaningful?

Nella's ONEder Fund

Donate today!

Join Kelle Hampton's beautiful blog, especially if you're in need of inspiration and some soul-stirring and hope.
I'm all about the hope.
It's Wee One's middle name.

Check out this amazing blog!

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A Calorie and Family Filled Stroll Down Memory Lane

For the past few days I've been out of town visiting the parents for a late Christmas.  I'm sure you've enjoyed your break from my musings. You were all, whew, she's not posting every day.  Glad to get a break from her. She was slightly annoying. And now you're all, damn it all, she's back.  And I'm all thinking, oh my poor readers!  They've missed me so!  Better get blogging!  For the people, not me.  This narcissistic blogging behavior totally doesn't apply to me.  I blog for mankind.  And the orphans.

This out of town trip entailed an almost six hour drive to what I'll lovingly refer to as Podunk, a small town with a population of roughly 900. As is typical of all Podunk towns, there's limited options for kids' activities and grocery shopping, zero options for 24 hour pharmacies and gas stations, but options galore for sitting at a bar and snowmobiling down mainstreet.
I grew up in this town and know many wonderful people who still live here.  Podunk will always have a special place in my heart.  But I'm glad I don't live there today. I'm too used to convenience and theaters and traffic and restaurants and population.  However, I must say what the city lacks (my grandparents and parents and extended family and childhood playmates, and people who knew me when I was in diapers and as a pigtailed, skinny kneed tomboy... the true me at the start of my life) Podunk is filled with.  So Podunk kicks City's ass in that respect.

While there, we ate too much, laughed a lot, and spoiled each other with presents.  My children must think they live in a Toys R Us at this point.
We also played the adult version of Loaded Questions.  I'd like to advise that you don't play that game with family. It's everything you didn't want to know about own your sisters' carnal activities.
I also may or may not have bitch slapped my brother-in-law in the forehead.  But if I did, allegedly, he likely deserved it. (I'd like to take the time now to thank him personally for the meteorology lesson in jet streams.....)

Also while there, my older sister pulled out Mom's bins of old photographs to go through and help organize.
It was fun browsing through old, yellowing pictures of my childhood.  It's strange how an image of your childhood home can bring back detailed memories of furniture you jumped on, toys you played with, Grandma's kitchen and sunroom, games played with cousins, and the swing set you loved to swing hard on until it started to pull up on one end, jolting your brain and teeth every time the metal legs smacked back down to the ground.  The home I was born in and lived in until I was 9 years old burned down some time ago, which makes me sad.  I wish i could simply drive by it still and remember. I'm pretty sure the lead paint chips I snacked on back then made me who I am today.

Many things struck me in the photographs......
The 1980s weren't a good time for clothing and glasses and hair styles and furniture and wallpaper.  Fo sho.  Holy ugly. 
Also, it was quite common for your aunts and uncles to snuggle and hold you in their laps while they had a cigarette in one hand and a beer in the other.  Or, if you have a certain uncle like mine, he just had your 2 year old self hold his beer for him.
Also, seat belts? Those were clearly optional back in the day.  Hell, I'd sit on Dad's lap and steer for him.

And particular to my family photos, a common theme stood out in all of them.  Like 99.8% of them.

I was effing pissed off in almost every. single. one.

Therefore, my pathetic, adolescent semi-rebellion is evidenced.

I was a total pseudo bad ass.  With a capital Bad.  And an all caps, all bold PSEUDO.

I was a rebel without a cause.  Or an actual rebellion.

I got straight As.
I studied at the library.
I didn't drink or party or sneak out of the house or skip school. Hand to God.
I was in band and SADD and student council (for one year)
I hung out with wholesome, nonsmoking and nondrugging friends. Weird friends, but overall wholesome.
I held down a part time job through high school to buy my own clothes and pay for gas when I borrowed the folks' car.

But turn a camera on me and force me to sit with my family for a picture?  I'd glare and snarl and roll my eyes and swear in my mind and say to myself, I'll cut a bitch if I have to pose one minute longer and kick a puppy to prove my point and be all sorts of  nasty teenaged bitchy rebel in an instant.

God was I a tough kid to live with. Or at least, be photographed with.

Sorry I didn't smile more in those pictures, family of mine. 

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Bedtime Stories With Ms. Sarcasm

When Bossy Girl was little, she loved having books read to her.  Which was awesome because I'm a book lover, and having a home full of books and reading is important to me.  (Wee One, btw, hates books.  She insists on using them as punching bags or a kicking board.) 

Anyway, one of my favorite books to read to her was Love You Forever, by Robert Munsch.  I loved reading that book not because she necessarily loved it, but I did, therefore I forced it on her.

It's quite a well-known story about a mother's unending love for her son.  

In the beginning, the mom rocks her infant son to sleep, back and forth, back and forth, while singing about how she'll love him forever and he'll always be her baby.

Jump ahead 2 years and she's tiptoeing into his room to rock him and sing to him the familiar tune.

Fast forward 7 years, and she's sneaking into his room to rock him and sing to him the same song.

Suddenly he's a teenager and supermom is still going into his room in the middle of the night, scooping him up, rocking him, and singing about how he'll always be her baby.

So on and so forth.

Eventually, son's an adult, moves out, mom gets super old and sick, and in a sweet, totally predictable role reversal, son goes and picks up dying mom and rocks her, singing that she'll always be his mommy.

Then he goes home, rocks his own baby girl to sleep and.... cue the waterfall.  I'm sobbing hard.  Like I just watched Terms of Endearment or The Notebook hard.  That's some serious weeping.

Last night, I read Love You Forever to Wee One for the first time.

I didn't cry.

I got creeped the hell out.

This isn't a sweet story about a soccer mom.  It's about a STALKER mom!

It's one thing to rock your baby/2 year old/and I'll even allow the 9 year old now and then.  Sweet memories, reminiscing kinds of stuff.  But when you're a grown woman and you feel the need to crawl into your 17 year old son's room to rock him in his sleep, something's up. And dude, what's up with your hand tightly clasping your teddy bear?  MAN UP. Is your pacifier on your night stand too?

And Mom?  Don't you know anything about teenage boys?  I totally wouldn't be interrupting his sleep cuz you never know what you're gonna find under the covers.

So at this point I'm a little unnerved, but two pages later is when I lose it.

Stalker mom drives across town, with a ladder strapped to the roof of her car, to do a little B&E (breaking and entering for you noncriminals) and does it again.  And he's what?  35 now? 40? Come on woman.  Cut the cord. 

And how freakishly strong is she?  I'm gong to see if my grandma can strap a ladder to her car.  Or not.  A heart can be a fragile organ in your 80s. Hips are pretty frail too.  So I hear. 

Oh, but it's not even remotely close to what you see in his bedroom.  Dude is sleeping in a twin bed, with a mouse. He literally has a rodent in his bed.  There's probably chili cheese flavored corn chips and Ding Dongs under his bed.  He never learned to clean.  Mommy did it all for him.  

And I'm guessing he has a twin bed because he can't get a girlfriend/date/paid escort/wife because old mommy keeps rocking him to sleep at night, and likely still breastfeeds too. (picture it for a moment.  EWWWW!)




I think a lot can be explained when you see the son's coffee mug in his kitchen.

Oh, and look kids!  A  R.O.T.A.R.Y phone.  From back in the day. It plugged into the wall.  WEIRD.

 I hope this story is pure fiction and not based on the author's actual, sissy life experiences.

 And by that I mean it's a sweet, sweet story for all families to enjoy.

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