I'm Thinking Nasty

My hatred of certain commercials continues with this gem from Arby's. I am the farthest thing from a prude. Promise. However would someone please explain to me what remodeling one's bathroom or a deep-fried piece of chicken topped with ham and cheese has to do with anything remotely seductive? Please! Thanks...

Euuuww

"Loverboy"? Are you serious? And this guy? Really?

I'm not against most well-used terms of endearment, but people that use that particular expression are the same ones that say things like, "No one puts Baby in a corner." Bleah. Ick. Tooey! Plus this guy is just, well, you decide...

I need a new bathroom, but not this bad!

Doing The Math

Hey, check it out! Today the beer ticker reads 100!!! Woohoo! One hundred days that I haven't had a drink...

Only a few days after I stopped drinking something strange happened. Not only was I not drunk/hungover, but life in general became much more manageable thanks to something I like to call Beer Math. The beer ticker over there is one thing, but actually sitting down and looking at the numbers involved in my personal consumption were staggering--even in the early days-- and are much more significant now as the days mount up.

One of the most important (and most difficult) aspects of sobriety for me has been this math. The difficult part is thinking about what I have been doing to my body all these years but guess what? I can't undo the past, and I accept that. My past has made me what I am today. Bitch with a beer aside, I'm a good person with something to offer the world: The real (sober!) me.

So check this out: This is based on a daily consumption (and a conservative average, by the way) of twelve (count 'em!) beers a day. Yup, t-w-e-l-v-e. Toldja I was a drunk...

Twelve beers a day times one hundred days equals 1,200 beers not consumed. That's ONE THOUSAND TWO HUNDRED beers!!! (How the hell did I get there?)

Twelve beers a day times 110 calories each times 100 days equals 132,000 (one hundred thirty-two thousand! Yikes!) calories not consumed. (No wonder my old clothes fit me again!)

A twelve-pack a day (again, a conservative average) at $11 each times 100 days equals $1,100 not spent on beer. (Good thing since I'm not working and my son's teeth have cost me that much in the last three months!)

So today is another day, but is going to be a good one now that we are in the triple digits. I have to say this, too: Those of you who have offered to share your own experiences, love and support to me have been absolutely priceless in my sobriety. There is no kind of math in the world that can measure what you all have meant to me. Thank you from the bottom of my heart!

Soup! There It Is...

JT showed up on SNL last weekend with Beyonce. It was funny, but this one is second only to "D*** in the Box" for me!

You gotta hand it to the guy for not taking himself to seriously: Among other things, he's appeared on SNL with a gift-wrapped hoo-hoo, wearing high heels and a leotard, and here as Cup O' Noodles... I loves me some JT!!!

How Do I Feel This Good...?

The latest from Pink, entitled "Sober."

I don’t wanna be the girl who laughs the loudest
Or the girl who never wants to be alone
I don’t wanna be that call at 4 o’clock in the morning
‘Cause I’m the only one you know in the world that won’t be home

TWOO

When I was a kid, there was a certain time each year that one of our three television channels would air The Wizard of Oz. Each year, we would watch it. Each year, the flying monkeys scared the beejeezus out of me.

Tonight my son and I were watching it and talking while I cleaned up the kitchen, and that was just about the time that the monkey swarm started on the TV. I told him that the flying monkeys used to scare me when I was his age.

He laughed... A total Mom-you-are-such-a-dork laugh...

What? I said. You don't think they're scary?

No! He says. I think they're funny!

Why do you think they're funny? I say.

Because they are. Look at 'em bouncing around with their little wings! He says.

Well I thought they were really scary, I say...

While I scrub the top of the stove I start in on him and tell him that he gets to see a lot of stuff that I wasn't allowed to when I was his age and that back then that type of thing was really scary. Then I stop talking and start thinking: My mind switches from defensive to paranoid. I'm thinking that I'm a bad mom and my kid is jaded and that maybe I am too lenient and oh god what if he thinks torturing girls (and their little dogs, too) is something funny?!!! Holy crap what have I done? I'm raising a desensitized, violence-loving, girl-with-dog hating son when I look up...

He is at the opposite end of the kitchen from me and is in the midst of doing a spot-on, pre-flight flying monkey impression, hopping around the kitchen all crouched over and begins ooh-ooh-oohing as we lock eyes. It was freakin' hilarious... And so are the flying monkeys.

Duh!!!

Last night I asked my son what kind of homework he had.

Math.

What else?

Watch the election.

Good. We were going to do that, anyway. What else?

Fluency.

OK... What kind of math?

Times... Clocks, not this: (makes an "x" in the air with his finger).

You could have just said t-i-m-e-s, too. (Just as the words escape my lips I can't believe how stupid that statement is).

He looks at me. I look at him. We laugh. A lot.

Normally I take issue with the word, but in this case it was warranted:

Say it, I tell him.

DUH!!!

Punk'd!

OK, I admit it: I went a little overboard buying pumpkins this year. I think I did it so you could check out our mad carving skills...

Have a safe and Happy Halloween, everybody!

The F Word

This weekend was the first in quite some time that I've had overnight guests in my home. What originally was supposed to be one night happily turned in to three. Five of us spent the vast majority of our time together: Eating, playing, traveling back and forth. My son was a super host to our younger guests and made me proud, as always. Everyone got along as well as I could have hoped and observed the one rule I have for house guests: Don't set anything on fire.

I didn't realize until late yesterday afternoon, though, just how much I have become accustomed to my privacy and the freedom to do what I want when I want and where I want when I am at home. One activity in particular is one of my favorites (and I'm guessing might be some of yours, too). Under normal circumstances, I can do it in the kitchen, living room, on the stairs and--of course--in my bedroom without worrying. I try to make sure I am alone but sometimes my kid catches me. I refuse to be ashamed of myself because it's only natural. Sure he complains, but he's young and he'll get over it. He does it, too, and is better than me most times.

So last night I had my house back, and whatever inhibitions I had over the weekend were gone. Actually I felt like I was making up for lost time because I went at it with a vengeance. Felt good, too! I admit it: I love it. What a release! Like a balloon that you let go before tying it, I sputtered all over the place and it was so nice to not have to worry who might be coming around the corner. What a glorious thing the F word is. Farting. Farting makes me happy.

Me And Larry Make A Video

This is too dang funny. Really dang weird, but really dang funny.

(Oh and someone at CNN needs to pay me for the use of my body in this video. Thanks.)

Who Says Laughter Isn't Contaigous?

I love, love, LOVE this!!!

How much more adorable could anything be?

Thanks for sending it, Reenie!

October 5th (2002)

A lot has happened to me since I posted this a year ago today. I am happier than I have been in a very long time. My son continues to thrive and grow and remains the most fantastic, amazing and lovable person I know. For me, the obvious hurt feelings here still exist, but they are much easier to deal with now that I am sober and have come to grips with what truly makes me happy: My life! I wish no ill will to those who chose not to be a part of it or my son's. I'm sharing this again for those of you who might be new here. Perhaps you know of someone with a similar experience...

(Originally posted October 5, 2007):

It is hard to believe that five years ago today that I watched my husband die. Sometimes it seems like it just happened. Sometimes it seems like forever ago, a distant memory. My son was only two at the time. So much has happened since then:

We’ve made a home for ourselves closer to my family, a move that I am positive was the best thing for us both. The love and support that he and I get from my family is priceless. He goes to a great school that is close to home and to my work and is advancing along as well as I could ever hope. My son is remarkable, and the purest reason I can think of for everything that I do. He is smart, funny, creative and able to adapt to almost any situation. I don’t think it’s arrogant when I say that I have the kid that people actually like to see coming--and I get that even from people who claim not to like children…

What I don’t get is this: Even if I did have “that kid” (the one that makes people cringe, the tiny terror, the problem child, whatever) I do not understand to this day why my husband’s parents, brothers or sister have not seen their grandson/nephew since they were in Florida for my husband’s funeral. Not once. Not once have they asked. Not once have they offered to have us come and visit, or to come and see us. Not once have they called him on the telephone. The only communication I get from them is a box addressed to my son around Christmastime. I have been tempted to throw it away, but never have.

Last year, I finally tried reaching out to my husband’s sister. I wrote her a letter and included pictures of my son. I explained that it didn’t matter to me what the family thought of me, but that I just wanted them to know this beautiful boy. A couple of months later I received a Christmas card with a brief note inside from her, saying that she was really busy but would be in touch after the holidays. That was almost a year ago, and I’ve had no word since. They don’t know what they are missing. Like I said, I don’t care what they think about me, but it’s funny how I have been treated more like an ex-wife than a widow by these people. The only thing I ever did was love their son and mine with all my heart.

Mom Needs Help

WANTED: Someone comfortable enough in their manhood to be my partner so we can do this in real life. To my son. Preferably on a day when both the principal and vice principal of his school are in the parking lot directing traffic. Day of week is not an issue. Please contact me via this blog.

Thanks,

Amy

P.S. If you'd prefer to wear the skirt, fine with me.

Altogether Ookey

Tonight, BBC America is airing a documentary called "My Fake Baby." I have to say, I am thoroughly creeped out by this. These are women who pay upwards of $1,000 for a realistic-looking doll and claim things like they are just like little girls who love to play with dolls, only they happen to be grown-ups. Puts a whole new spin on the "it's an action figure" excuse to me. The Today Show clip is below...



...Um, I still don't get it!

Do You Have Gas?

This morning after I dropped my son off at school I, along with about 100 other people, stopped to get gas. Seems that here in The South we are still suffering the after effects from recent hurricanes and other excuses and fuel is hard to come by these days. On Saturday I had to go to three different places before I found pumps that were not covered by plastic bags. Today I got in line with everyone else.

So I sat. Tried to make sure the ass-end of my car didn't sit too far out of the gas station parking lot and tried to make room for the people trying to exit. We are all in this together, right? When I was third in line I watched a man trying to pump gas into his truck and hoped upon hope when he started shaking his head that maybe his credit card had been declined or that he was just thinking something to himself. No such luck. He pulled away, and the woman in front of me got out to pay and tried to begin fueling. She mashed buttons and squeezed the nozzle and mashed more buttons. She walked away again and came back and told me that the pump I was waiting for was no longer working. Shit. A few moments later, the woman working in the booth the size of a small closet emerged with an orange cone and told me she'd wait for me to pull away but that the pump was out of order. I glanced behind me when I heard someone yell something. It was the man in the car behind me, demanding to know what was going on. I told him the pump was out of order. Somehow, in his mind, this was the fault of the woman with the cone in her hand. Ugh. Why do people do that?

So I moved on to another pump and waited again. Finally it was my turn (again). By this time, the man that had been behind me was just sure that this was all some kind of conspiracy against him personally because he kept demanding to know what was going on, honked at someone and waved his arms around (like somehow that would make more gas appear or make the line move faster). Another woman in her vehicle was likewise flailing her arms and mouthing something to the gas pumps. More honking... I put my debit card in the slot, pushed the fourteen buttons you have to push to say that yes I want a receipt and no I don't want the extra additive stuff and no I would not like to get my horoscope today. Finally, I thought, I'll be out of here in a few minutes. Ha! Nothing... I walked back up to the booth to tell the woman inside that number seven wasn't working. She looked like she wanted to cry and apologized. She told me she would reset the pump and I could try again and come back to pay when I was done.

So I go back to number seven, pushed the fourteen buttons again and still nothing. Then, miraculously, the pump beeped at me and a string of zeroes appeared on the display. Whoopie! When I was done I went back to the booth and paid for my gas. As I left I thanked the woman inside for her help and she again apologized to me. I told her it wasn't her fault and to have a good day. I felt like hugging her, really, because I can't imagine having to sit in there and get bitched at all day long by people for something over which I have no control. Patience, people! Sometimes it's hard, I know, but in the long run it helps all of us.

Oh Squiggly Line

Stewie begins his memoirs just as I would...

I Can See Russia From My House

In case you missed it: Tina Fey and Amy Poehler as Sarah and Hillary...

One Chip, No Dip

You may have noticed (or not) that I've added a "beer ticker" over there to the right, and that today marks my 31st day without a drink. This afternoon I went to an AA meeting and got my first chip marking one month's sobriety. The other members of the group were so genuinely proud and supportive and showed it with their applause and with their kind words as I left. Actually, I went today just because something told me I needed to, not because I wanted to drink or because I was really thinking about taking the chip with me. But I'm glad I did. So I just wanted to share since so many of you have asked for updates, and because today is a good day.

Desperately Funny

I hate Desperate Housewives almost as much as I hate Sex And The City. Almost...

...And I love MadTV.

That Day

I don't know how to post something today without reflecting on this day seven years ago. Like all of you, I remember exactly where I was and what I was doing when the terrible news began to flood through. Like most of you, I suppose, I was at work. So it was not until I was able to get home and see on television the sheer terror of it all that it began to sink in. Thousands upon thousands of times the screen would show the towers falling. The faces of stunned New Yorkers, frightened newscasters and the unimaginable bravery of those trying to save the few survivors will never go away. I remember seeing the images, too, of other countries around the world who immediatley began to lay flowers and American flags at our embassies. It seemed so strange. We Americans are the ones who are supposed to be there in their time of need. We are the ones that usually come to the rescue and offer relief. We are the ones who are supposed to be stronger than the rest. We are supposed to be the ones who escape the vulnerability when other countries do not... But how could anyone, anywhere ever imagine what this would be? Our strength, instead, comes from each other and from our resolve to never forget.

God bless America. My home sweet home.

Dear Mr. President

It's not new, but I like this song. A lot.

Chapter Two

On May, 17, 2008, I turned 40. At that time, I heard from so many people that goofy saying, “life begins at 40.” On more than one occasion my not-so-sincere response was, “I hope you’re right.” Turns out they were right, only there were no fireworks, there was no Prince Charming and no magic Forty Fairy that showed up to make it all happen. My actual birthday and the months that surrounded it were not especially happy for me, really. The beginning for me came not on May 17th, but rather three weeks ago. For my beginning to happen, something had to end.

A few months ago I made an appointment with a counselor because I knew that there was something going on with me that needed fixing but I wasn’t ready to admit what. In my mind, everything that was wrong with me was because of someone else, some other thing that happened, and I just knew that I had been wronged in so many ways. I wanted the counselor to tell me that my husband’s death, my job or my ex-boyfriend were the reasons that I was now this unhappy, angry and sad person. Surely this trained professional would see that I had plenty of reasons to feel sorry for myself, right? Not only no but hell no. By the end of our first session it was suggested to me that I check myself into rehab. In that session was the first time that I was able to admit that I have a problem. I had no intention or desire to go to rehab, but I agreed to go from the counselor’s office to the rehab center for a consultation, but not because I thought I needed help. I was looking for a second—hopefully opposing—opinion. I just knew they would see something different! Not only did that person recommend that I go to rehab, but they were ready to check me in that night, right then and there, and it scared the ever-loving shit out of me because that meant I was no longer (in my mind) in control. The idea of being away from my life and my son for three weeks with total strangers just was not acceptable to me at all. I’m not one of those people, am I?

Yes. I am. I am an alcoholic.

The first thing I did when I left the rehab center’s office was go home and drink a beer. Two, actually. (It would have been more right away but that was all I had in the house). Later there would be more. The next night there would be even more, still. I wasn’t ready to give up what had become my one true love and my only interest in life.

The more that I replayed the events and conversations of that Friday in my head, the more my problem slapped me in the face. It was time for me to grow a pair, face the facts and answer the tough questions: Yes, I drank every day. Yes, drinking had affected all of my personal relationships. Yes, it had affected my job. Yes, I drank alone. Yes, I had suffered financially because of it. Yes, I had isolated myself from my friends and loved ones.

With all that said, though, it was not until a friend of mine urged me to go to AA that I could see clearly for the first time that this is what I had become. “Just go and listen,” they said. “Please,” they said. So I did. That was three weeks ago. The moment I walked in the door to that first meeting I knew why I was there: To get better. I also knew that my friend had saved my life.

In the last twenty one days I have felt better, slept better, laughed more, had more money in my pocket and more honest conversations with the people that I love than I have in years and years and good god almighty it feels wonderful and I am so thankful: For my family, for my friends and for my life. I have so much and so many and I was about to piss it all away because I was too busy having a love affair with alcohol to see how good I really have it. No one or no thing can fix me but me. No other person and no amount of stuff is going to make me happy, because I have to be happy and at peace with myself. No one or no thing is to blame for my alcoholism.

I realize, too, that this is just the beginning of a very long and challenging process. Each and every day will mean something new and different. Some days will be fine. Some days will be terrible. But that’s life, isn’t it? One day at a time.

So this is where I begin, my friends, at 40--just like you said. I love you all. Thank you for loving me back.

Jamie Says...

And now a message from Jamie, who asked if I would post this for him.... Please note that content has not been edited... He calls it "My Family."

amy

honey

jamie

teddy

meat my family now


my frends

tucker

kyle

jaque


and my dogs

micky

buster

buddy

honey

teddy

they are inportint to ME!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Mugsy Junior

Last night my son and I sat across from each other at the dining room table. He was working on his homework and I was sitting here reading promises of increased size and performance when he asks me a question:

Mom?
Yeah, Baby?
Do policemen get paid a lot of money?
No, actually they don’t.
Why not?
I don’t know. That’s a very good question.
Well they should. I mean, they risk their lives.
Yes, they do.
Mom?
Yes, Honey?
You know what?
What?
If I ever opened a clink I’d pay them a lot.
If you ever opened a what?
A clink. You know, a jail?

(At this point I’m just about to fall out of my chair because I realize Mugsy Junior is sitting across from me)

Where did you hear that word?
What word? Why are you laughing?
"Clink."

(Now he’s laughing)

On The Suite Life of Zack and Cody. So if I opened a clink I’d pay the cops $30 an hour.
I think that would be great. Good for you.
MOM!
What?
Why are you still laughing?
I don’t know.

(Yes, I do. I’m waiting for you to say “pokey” or “big house” any minute and tell me stories about the time Fishface Freddy went to “spring” Uncle Junior but there was too much “heat” for it to “go down.”)

MOM!
Yeah? I’m sorry…
That’s OK. I’d still pay them $30 an hour.
That’s great, Honey.

Bob-ing For Barker

Oh, my: Lorraine, a fetishist, a wayward tubetop, a leafblower AND Bob Barker!!! Life just doesn't get any better than this, my friends...

"Those sumbitches scare the crap out of me!!!"

Fish Are Friends, Not Food

If you ever find yourself down South-- more specifically in Atlanta--do yourself a favor and visit the Georgia Aquarium… Jamie and I went together in the spring and we just loved it. Yesterday, we went back with my sister and my niece and loved it again. The pictures here don’t do it justice (neither does my photography) but will give you some idea of the scope of what is there.

My favorite exhibit is the Coldwater Quest. Aside from the touch pool, (where you are allowed to touch sea anemones and other critters) you can see sea otters, sea lions and African penguins. The most breathtaking of all, though, are the beluga whales. The first time we walked in I was amazed (of course, none of my pictures came out well enough to post here). They are beautiful, playful and huge. I could watch them all day long.

Other exhibits include the Tropical Diver, River Scout and Georgia Explorer. The latter includes another touch pool that holds stingrays and sharks. Touching them to me is like touching wet velvet. Kids will say “slimy” and “euuw!” and “icky” but I think it’s awesome.

Finally is the largest of the exhibits, Ocean Voyager: Giant stingrays, grouper, hammerhead sharks and whale sharks are on display along with hundreds of other species. I took my chin up off the floor long enough to take some halfway decent photos:

Ol' Hammerhead if my favorite pic from the day:

A big freakin' grouper... Gee, for some reason I'm hungry?

And lastly...

...I don't know why, but the fish refuse to hold still while I am taking pictures. I was trying to get another shot of the hammerhead here, but at least you can see from the people in the foreground how absolutely huge this place is.

Anyway, if you are ever in the neighborhood, please do yourself a favor and visit--even if you don't have kids this is a spectacular place. Oh and to make the idea even more enticing, my friends: I'm just a little more than an hour down the road, I have huge house with three extra bedrooms and I am a good cook! I'll even drive if you dare let me.

Make Me Laugh

(I originally posted this in April, but after watching some more of my Billy this morning I thought I'd share it again...hope you like!)

There's something about laughter, isn't there? No only is it a wonderful release, but to me it's just a big, fat turn-on... One of my favorite funny men is Bill Engvall, and probably because he seems to hit the nail on the head every time, no matter what he's talking about... He might be losing some of his hair, he might not have the bod of whatever man is on Hollywood's A-List right now, but if I had the choice between being locked in a room with him or Brad Pitt, I'd take Billy Boy in a heartbeat... So here he is, talking about two of my favorite subjects: Boobs and wieners.

Hope you laugh, too!!!

I Wonder If There Are Any Men Available For Adoption, Too?

So last time I wrote I was talking about our weekend and what a great time our dog, Honey, had playing with all of her new dog friends at the lake... On Monday I was catching up from the weekend's newspapers and came across the "Pet of the Week,"a feature our paper does on dogs available at our local animal shelter. I saw and was taken with the photo of a pup they had named Chaz, a Border Collie/Husky mix. I don't know what it was about the little guy, but I couldn't stop thinking about him. On Tuesday, he became our newest family member!

He didn't look like "Chaz" to me, though... I messed with the idea of naming him something that would go with Honey: "Graham," "Moon," or "Nuttin'" were some that crossed my mind, but after I got him home and played with him for a little while, I knew he was "Teddy," because he's such a sweet little teddy bear!

So now we are four: Two boys, two girls, and we are having a ball! I feel so good about this and am so happy to have been able to provide a home for Teddy. He and Honey are great together, and despite the fact that he's only four months old is quite mellow. The two of them are sitting at my feet right now as I type... So here they are, Honeybun and Teddybear!

My Dog Is Cooler Than Your Dog

We had a blast this weekend! Jamie and I were invited to a lake about an hour and a half from here to join a big group of friends and family. I’d been to that area a couple of times before, but have to say that this time was da bomb.

I called my neighbor on Thursday to find out if she’d mind looking after my dog while we were gone, but it turned out she already had plans. I thought about it and the group we were going with was pretty dog-friendly so I called to ask if we could bring along ours. Turns out that was fine...

Our dog is Honey. She’s a Border collie mix and is the sweetest dog in the world. She is also very active, but I didn’t realize how much until we arrived at the lake. I was a little apprehensive at first, not knowing if the other pooches would welcome her, but after the initial butt-sniffing was out of the way it was aces.

When we drove up we were met by dog number one: Cujo! Cujo is a scary-looking, all-muscle Boxer. He is the farthest thing from scary-acting, though… He lives at the camp with the caretaker and another dog, Ruby. Ruby is a Lab mix, very old, quite rotund, but a good old gal…

We weren’t there long before we all jumped on the golf cart and headed down the road to check out the boat landing and the beach. Jamie, Honey and I jumped on the cart and Cujo ran alongside, barked at the cart and tried to bite the tires. Honey lasted all of two seconds in her seat. She was having none of this just-sit-here crap. We slowed the cart for her to jump off and she went hauling ass down the dirt road, pausing only to sniff something occasionally and check to make sure we were still there. She beat us all to the water, including Cujo. That was their thing the whole weekend. They must have run up and down that road together twenty times. It was really cool to watch Cujo and Honey run together, He all flappy-lipped and muscular, she a streak of fluffy black-and-white-and-brown.

By the time we got back to the camp, more people and dogs showed up. In total, there were seven dogs there: Honey, Cujo, Ruby, Buddy, Bo, Pogo and Mico! The great thing about it was that none of them fought. So I’ve already told you about Cujo and Ruby… Buddy was The Humper of the crowd. Poor thing. Couldn’t get any no matter how hard he tried. (I feel for the guy). Bo is one of those low-to-the-ground mop-looking dogs whose tongue seems to always stick out about halfway. Pogo is a Schnauzer who usually looks like a black footstool but since he’s gotten his summer cut looks like eyebrows on a stick. Mico is a Pug, and is one of the most adorably ugly dogs I’ve ever seen in my life: Bug-eyed, curly-tailed, and sounds like she could use either an oxygen tank or some serious decongestants. What a gang.

Saturday morning when it was time to head to the water, we loaded up kids and dogs and coolers and off we went. After that morning’s race with Cujo, Honey went immediately for a dip and stayed in the water when she didn’t have another dog to chase. At one point, Jamie decided he needed to be “rescued” from the inner tube and Honey actually let him hold her tail and swam him in. This went on all afternoon. Almost everyone commented on what a sweet dog she is. It’s funny, that made me feel like a proud parent but they were right. She is really cool!

Honey came to us after a friend of a friend found her but could not keep Honey because of her cats. I always knew we’d get another dog, but wasn’t sure if it was too soon after our Chocolate Lab died of bone cancer last October. (He was an awesome dog, too!) We’ve had Honey since Thanksgiving and I think that so fitting. I’m thankful for the person that rescued her, thankful that we were able to take her, and thankful for all the loving fun she’s provided to so many, especially Jamie.

My Cup Runneth Under

Of my many vices, Diet Coke has got to be my worst. People give me a hard time about it just about every day, but until it’s illegal I’m not quitting. Really, I think—wait, I know—I could quit smoking before I could give up my beloved DC. It is very rare that I don’t have any in the house, but yesterday I had to decide whether to put a gallon of gas in my car or buy some of my bubbly beverage, so I sucked it up and bought the gas. Today, though, knowing that my direct deposit would be in bright and early I made sure I was, too, so that I could stop and fill up my 44 ounce cup on the way to work and hit the same sweet high I guess addicts experience when that first hit of whatever hits their bloodstream. I swear I am that bad when I take my first sip. I don’t go anywhere without my cup or at least a can in hand, so the bigger the receptacle the better as far as I’m concerned…

I also needed some Tylenol. I don’t often get headaches, but I developed one yesterday morning that wouldn’t budge. I decided I’d grab one of those single dose packs that you can get at the convenience store along with my drink. When I got in the car and started to open the Tylenol, I noticed the package said “drinking cup included.” Hm. What kind of cup could be in this little thing? Turns out, this was:



Ha! Is that great or what? I guess it depends on one’s definition of “drinking cup,” doesn’t it? Funny, I don’t recall reading “drinking cup for a garden gnome” on that package anywhere. They do clearly point out, though that it is ANOTHER INNOVATIVE IDEA FOR THE "PEOPLE ON THE GO." What a relief that was to see because I should hope they'd get some credit, might as well give it to themselves... So this is their idea of a cup, huh? I think it’s a cruel prank. Finally, you are going to get some relief from your ache or pain and there is room for just enough water in there to lodge the Tylenol perfectly half way down your throat. Great! Now you are choking. “Well just refill it you say,” right? Wrong. I’m guessing since this “cup” has about the thickness of toilet paper that it’s a one-shot deal.

Go ahead and tease me all you want about my giant cup, people. At least I can take my Tylenol.

Non-Traditional

I've always been a fan of the 4th of July... I think because it's summertime and usually my activities include something to do with being on or in the water and this year will be no different. Then, of course, there is the ooohing and aaahing that happens around 9 that night. Fun! It's one American tradition I never get tired of. This year, as the 4th approached it got me thinking about traditions. Most have meaning behind them (why else would they be traditions, right?) Others, not so much...

Somehow, somewhere, we Americans have established other not-so-meaningful traditions that just bug the crap out of me. For what ever reason they are accepted as part of life and most of the time we go on and ignore them. I am, however, a big pain and I am going to point them out.

Take, for instance, the day after Thanksgiving. You will not catch my big butt anywhere near anything shopping-related on that day. I think it's freaking nuts and why we as a culture torture ourselves just so say "we were there" I'll never know... What we do all know is that the malls, parking lots, restaurants, movie theaters, everything will be jammed. It's a given. So why is it necessary for some poor television reporter to be camped out at the crack of dawn (or even midnight in some cases) on post-turkey day to tell us that yes, the mall is crowded, yes, people are buying their Christmas presents, and yes, parking is a bitch... Of course, the sign-off always being, "on this, the busiest shopping day of the year!" Bah! Humbug!

Next, if I ever find out who the first person was that decided that an integral part of raising money for whatever cause via car wash required cheerleaders/band members/scout groups to stand on the side of the road with poorly designed signs yelling "CAAAR WAAASH! CAAAR WAAASH!" at traffic, I will hunt them down and make them eat a piece of neon orange poster board. Oh, look, honey, there are some young people with hoses, buckets, and large sponges massaging that vehicle over there. I wonder what they are doing? "CAAAR WAAASH!" OH, I see! Thank goodness those youths were kind enough to yell out to us that it is indeed a car wash. I would have spent my entire day pondering that.

This last cultural phenomenon never affected me until I moved to the South, and hopefully it won't spread. Now, it is my understanding that the turn signal on a vehicle is designed to do just that. It's my way of telling you, the car behind me, that I plan to turn in this direction or that one, therefore momentarily allowing you to slow down to allow me to do so and go on your merry way. It also allows you, the car behind me, to ease around me should the coast be clear. I expect you to do the same. Down here, though, the natives are run amok with Southern Hospitality and want you to know that the car in front of the car that is in front of you will be turning this way or that momentarily. Do you see what I'm saying? Signaling me (number three in line) via number two (you, dumbass!) that car number one (the one that is actually doing the turning) IS TURNING!!!!! NO. NO. NO!!! Please, stop it.

Happy Independence Day!

Tiny Little Miss Petite Princess

I love this bit. I love Dot. From MadTV.

Go See This Movie!

Yesterday Jamie and I went to see Walle. Now I don't want to get all Ebert on your ass, but if you don't see this movie (and I don't care if you have kids or not) you are nuts. Animation: Excellent. Storyline: Excellent. Humor: Excellent. Message: It will make you think.

'Nuff said... Now go see it and get back with me.

Marry Me!

Right now I am digging through my giant stack of marriage proposals for the sole purpose of being able to do this in front of everyone I know, because it's the best wedding song, ever!!!

Who says white folks can't dance?

Trading Spouses: Meet Your New Eyeballs

The voyeur in me loves to watch reality TV. Not that “Survivor” crap, (I would let the vultures do with you what they will!) but those shows that delve into the everyday lives of people doing whatever it is they do. One of my faves is “Trading Spouses: Meet Your New Mommy.” CMT bought the rights to it and airs old episodes most evenings and I find it fun to see what’s going to happen when Mommy A and Mommy B switch places and move into each other’s homes.

The most famous of all is the woman who called herself the “God Warrior” and has since become somewhat of a celebrity in her own right, but I think she’s just plain crazy and I’ll leave it at that. (Take a look if you’ve never seen it.) There are so many others that demonstrate both the transparency and true adaptability of some of these mothers. One that sticks out in my mind in particular was the episode where a vegan mom switched places with a mom from Louisiana whose husband was a gator wrangler. That was a trip. The vegan mom broke out her “Don’t Be Cruel To Chickens” video in the middle of her tofu-burger fest and everyone left as she proceeded to break down and weep for the chickens. Later, she kept on preaching to the group about why she eats cardboard, saying that “we really need to be careful about what we put into our bodies,” (I mean, just look at you people!) cut to the next scene, and she has a beer and a cigarette. No kidding. In the same episode, the gator mom wanted to cook authentic Louisiana jambalaya for her new family, but instead decided that she had to respect the family’s beliefs and modified her recipe so that it was vegan. They loved it, and her, and I thought that was really cool.

Last night was an especially interesting mom trade. Traci was from Scottsdale, Arizona. Her introduction was filmed in her giant bathroom while she was in mid-bubble bath, bragging about her Tuscany inspired manse and all its trappings. She had her perfect house with her perfect hair, perfect boobs, perfect husband and perfect kids. She just knew she could show her new family a thing or two about—what else?—being perfect. Penny, on the other hand, was a pine nut farmer from Licking, Missouri (I want to move there just so I can say I live in Licking). That’s right, “we’re in pine nuts” (At one point during the episode they were sewing up nut bags—I kid you not!—but I digress). Penny was all about getting dirty (both literally and figuratively). When she appeared at the airport to meet her new “husband,” she was wearing teddy bear slippers with her dress. Her explanation: “My husband gave these to me because I’m afraid of bears.” Um, whaaaa??? She was a trip, that’s for sure. She didn’t follow the herd, no way, but there was something about her. There was also something about Traci, only that “something” didn’t really blossom until near the end of the show. The mothers had spent a week with the other’s family. One week observing, interacting, taking it all in. Penny saw not perfection, but rejection and cruelty. That is, the Arizona family’s youngest child did not meet his father’s perfect standards and was reminded of that every day during whatever activity at which he was not perfect. As if that was not bad enough, he was constantly reminded how really perfect his older sibling was! Ugh. Penny caught on to this really quickly and invited the boy to take a walk and just talk. It was at this point that even I could feel the little guy’s heart breaking due to the lack of acceptance by his own father.

Meanwhile, back at the pine nut ranch, Traci finally decided that instead of sitting around surrounded by imperfection that she might help do something about it. She helped the dad organize his filing system. She helped sew up nut bags (ha ha I said nut bags—again!). She took the son shopping for a pair of tennis shoes (for which he was so incredibly grateful that it choked me up) and was finally able to see that just because these people didn’t have a lot of “stuff” that they were very rich indeed… Rich with love, acceptance and true affection for one another.

Each episode ends with a one-on-one meeting between the mothers to discuss the week’s events. Most times it’s a standoffish thing. Sometimes it’s even aggressive. These two embraced one another like I’ve never seen before and it was just so cool. Penny was grateful, gracious and accepting of Traci. Traci was equally so and asked Penny how her family was. In all honesty, Traci was told that her husband was fine, that son number one was fine but that son number two was NOT fine. (This is normally where the Springer rejects start throwing chairs, but not so in this case.) Traci already knew it deep down, she just needed a funny pine nut farmer in teddy bear slippers to say it out loud. She also needed to be told that her “perfect” husband was a heavy-handed control freak. Again, Traci knew it all along. The two mothers left their meeting arm-in-arm saying, “let’s go get ‘em,” and they did…

The final scene showed the moms back in their respective homes, reunited with their families. Penny was thrilled with the effort Traci had put forth regarding her business, but was more ecstatic just to be back with her loving family. Likewise, Traci was happy to see her husband and children again, but there was a marked difference in her attitude toward her youngest son. Traci’s husband, however, told the camera that he really didn’t think the experience had changed his wife at all. Then Mister Perfect got the surprise of his life when, at the very close of the show, his wife simply said, “no…”

Go get ‘em!

Bye, George...

George Carlin died yesterday in Los Angeles... What a genius that man was! I could sit here and bore you to death with Carlin quotes, but I won't. My tribute, intstead, is to share my favorite poem of his and ask what you might have liked about him...

So here's the poem... It's all about cuss words and I love it!!!

rat shit
bat shit
dirty old twat
sixty-nine assholes
tied in a knot
hooray!
lizard shit!
fuck!

Rest in peace, G... You will be missed.

"Y" Because We Like You

Here's Jamie's version of that mouse, Whatshisface...

This is what he copied it from:

I think going forward I'll put his pics on the dashboard, but wanted to post just this ONE more... (wink, wink!)

Out Of Order

Hey, everybody!!!

I know you waited with bated breath the entire weekend to read my posts and my comments and I do apologize... I hope you are OK now that you know I'm here and I promise to both enlighten and entertain you again shortly... Thanks for all the cards and letters.

Love,
Amy

P.S. My freakin' Internet was down all freakin' weekend!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! UGH.

More Drawrings

Some more of Jamie's artwork...

Man, my arm really hurts from Reenie twisting it so hard!!!

Did You Know You Can Mail A Coconut?

A few weeks ago, I opened my mailbox to find a coconut. Yes, you heard me, a coconut! It had been mailed to my son from Hawaii. It even had a stamp on the outside. The trinket was painted with the words "hang loose" and the hand-thingie they do out there, Brah...

It looked just like this:

My son drew this last night. He was sitting at the kitchen table drawing like he does many nights. I should have taken a picture of the coconut perched on my window sill so you could see how well he copied it. I think he has a good eye, and a future in something creative... So far, he's narrowed down his career choices to Animal Cop/Rock Star/Artist.

(All this ambition at the ripe old age of eight!)

After the "hang loose" picture was finished, he asked me to go look in the living room, where he had hung this from the mantle:

I asked him if he had copied this from something he saw and he said, "No, just my imagination."

Cool.

The last in the series is this one. For those of you who don't watch Family Guy, (oh and you should!) this is Brian, the dog/surrogate father of the family. It took Jamie about thirty minutes to convince Mama that this had not been traced. I'm adding the cartoon's actual illustration so you can see for yourself how good this is... Jamie even managed to credit TBS on this one. Ha!

Yes, I know Mama is bragging!

If I Won The Lottery

You know, it drives me crazy when I hear or read stories about people who have won the lottery and, when asked, say, "Oh I could never quit my job! I just wouldn't know what to do!"

Can I get a big SHUT UP???!!! Are you kidding me? That, my friends, would be the FIRST dang thing I would do. Next, I'd pay off all my debts, my family's mortgages and say bye because I'm moving somewhere tropical at least for a year where I can get away with as little clothing as possible and still stay within local custom. After that, we'll see...

What would you do if you won?

This guy, for one, is honest:

Walter!

OK, everybody, time to switch gears...

This is comedian Jeff Dunham and his pal, Walter. I think I like this so much because (if I'm not already) in about 30 years or so, I'll be just like Walter (only I think I'll skip the bowtie).

Enjoy!

Handcuffs And Crap, Part Two!!!

The cast of characters is as follows:

Jamie: My son
Mary Kate: My niece
Nonnie: My mom
Poppy: My dad

So you already know that Nonnie got Jamie some handcuffs yesterday. Aside from that, the kids went swimming in the lake, played on the playground and went to McDonald’s. According to the report I just received from my mom, she was long overdue for a nap (bless her heart! – Oh, by the way, that’s what we say in The South, “bless your heart.” As in, “She’s so tired, bless her heart,” or, “She’s so stupid, bless her heart.” It’s a universal term).

So she feels that the kids are fine since Jamie is watching a video and Mary Kate is working on one of her magazine projects (that means cutting out pictures) and she’ll go lay down. She says that shortly thereafter she heard crying—no— screaming. She thinks one of the kids must have fallen and runs to check. No one is “injured,” it’s just that it seems the key to the handcuffs no longer works and Mary Kate has been detained indefinitely. This doesn’t set well with MK, who can wail like nobody’s business despite her tiny frame. She is at this time doing so. Jamie is crying because he thinks he’s in trouble. Poppy is pissed because he can’t get the key to work, either. Mom is trying to keep herself together until Poppy returns with… Wait for it...

BOLT CUTTERS!!!!

Mom wants to know if I’ve ever seen a pair of bolt cutters. I tell her hell yeah I’ve seen bolt cutters!!! She says oh you should have seen how big Mary Kate’s eyes got!!! I can freaking imagine, Mom! At this point both Nonnie and Jamie are crying and Mary Kate is shrieking to high heaven. Here comes Poppy with the bolt cutters! (Hey, kid, as long as I have these out let’s take care of that loose tooth of yours!) Holy shit. Then about two seconds later Poppy takes the bolt cutters to the handcuffs and Mary Kate draws back a bloody stump… Just kidding. Free at last!!! Everyone is fine, now. I’m sure that my mom, though, who can barely drink one glass of wine, was shooting tequila until she passed out last night.

It’s only funny because no one got hurt. Oh and because I wasn’t there.

Handcuffs And Crap

My conversation on my way home last night with my son, who stayed the night with his cousin at my parents’ house:

Hi, Honey! How are you?
I’m fine.
What are you guys doing?
Just playing around.
That’s good. I’m glad you are having fun.
Guess what Nonnie bought me?
What?
You have to guess.
Some kind of candy?
No.
Some kind of game?
No.
I give up.
I’ll give you a hint: It has to do with the police.
Concert tickets?
What?
Never mind. A badge?
No.
(oh, please not) A gun?
NO.
What’d she give you?
Handcuffs!!!!
(Oh, lordy) Really?
Yeah. MK and I are playing “coppers.”
Did you arrest her?
Yeah!
Did you lock the handcuffs?
Yeah!
Do you have a key?
Yeah!
OK, well have fun and be careful! I love you.
OK... Mom what are you doing?
I’m on my way to your aunt’s house to pick up her dog.
Why?
Remember, he’s staying with us while they are out of town.
Oh, right… Mom?
Yes, Baby?
Just pray that he doesn’t crap on the rug again.

Is It Rude To Burp In Front Of The Governor?

So this afternoon the governor of our lovely state is coming for a visit with my boss and some other bigwigs in town. Today I plan to meet him (finally).

He’s been here a hundred times in the four and a half years I’ve worked here, but I have never gotten the chance to shake his hand. He seems like a decent guy, a real people-person and I would just like to say hello. Unfortunately, I am one of those employees that people seem to forget: You know, I’m just the Executive Assistant, (read: the one who makes sure all this shit gets done) so why bother?

Anyway, this morning I made it a point to tell my boss that I would appreciate being introduced. I mean, my vote carries as much weight as anyone else’s doesn’t it? He said sure. Cool.

Now I’m scared. Not intimidated-scared, but Arby’s Turkey-Bacon Wrap scared. WTF was I thinking? At lunch I was starving and it’s boiling hot outside and I didn’t want anything really “heavy” to eat so I thought I’d get me one of these wrap things and pretend it’s healthy. Only the wrap-thing has onions in it. Stupid me ate the onions. Now I am burping like crazy. Onion burps. Shit.

I can picture it, now: “I’m pleased to meet you, sir.” Braaaaaaap!!!

Maybe I should start cleaning out my desk right now.

The Ocean

My friend sent me this, a sample of what kids said when asked to write about the ocean…

Seems they have all been to my house…

1. This is a picture of an octopus. It has eight
testicles.(Kelly, age 6)

2. Oysters' balls are called pearls. (Jerry, age 6)

3. If you are surrounded by ocean you are an Island .
If you don't have ocean all round you, you are
incontinent. ( Wayne , age 7)

4. Sharks are ugly and mean, and have big teeth,
just like Emily Richardson. She's not my friend
any more. (Kylie, age 6)

5. A dolphin breathes through an asshole on the top
of its head. (Billy, age 8)

6. My uncle goes out in his boat with 2 other men and a woman
and pots and comes back with crabs.(Millie, age 6)

7. When ships had sails, they used to use the trade
winds to cross the ocean. Sometimes when the wind
didn't blow the sailors would whistle to make
the wind come. My brother said they would have been better
off eating beans.(William, age 7)

8. Mermaids live in the ocean. I like mermaids. They are beautiful
and I like their shiny tails, but how on earth do mermaids
get pregnant? Like, really? (Helen, age 6)

9. I'm not going to write about the ocean. My baby brother
is always crying, my Dad keeps yelling at my Mom, and my
big sister has just got pregnant, so I can't think what to write.
(Amy, age 6)

10. Some fish are dangerous. Jellyfish can sting.
Electric eels can give you a shock. They have to live
in caves under the sea where I think they have to
plug themselves into chargers. (Christopher, age 7)

11. When you go swimming in the ocean, it is very cold,
and it makes my willy small. (Kevin, age 6)

12. Divers have to be safe when they go under the water.
Divers can't go down alone, so they have to go down
on each other. (Becky, age 8)

13. On vacation my Mom went water skiing. She fell off when
she was going very fast. She says she won't do it again
because water fired right up her big fat ass. (Julie, age 7)

14. The ocean is made up of water and fish. Why the fish don't
drown I don't know.(Bobby, age 6)

15. My dad was a sailor on the ocean. He knows all about the
ocean. What he doesn't know is why he quit being a sailor
and married my mom. (James, age 7)

Somebody Call DHR... It's Amy's Kid!

Tuesday night I'm standing in the bathroom, staring into the mirror and wondering why the crap at the age of effing FORTY I am still getting pimples when I hear this mantra coming from the living room:

"Say hi. Say hi. You will respect me. You will respect me!"

At first I didn't pay much attention because I figured it was some game my son was playing with our hyper dog and she was barking right along.

(They do this chase-thing around the house about every night)

"Say hi. Say hi. You will respect me. You will respect me!"

There was a pause in footsteps and barking. I looked out into the hallway to see my son standing there with a basketball stuck in his boxer shorts. (Don't be TOO impressed... He's only eight and it was one of those mini-basketballs that you can play with indoors).

"Huuuunnnnneee!!!! Doooooonnn't!!!!" I pleaded.

He takes off down the hallway with the dog in tow.

"Say hi. Say hi. You will respect me. You will respect me!"

After he ran off I had to close the bathroom door because I was laughing so freaking hard I cried.

That's my boy!

Dear Mr. and Ms. A-Hole

Dear Mr. and Ms. A-Hole Moviegoers:

I realize that it’s a free country and you paid the same amount that I did to go see the Indiana Jones movie today. However, for future reference and for the sake of your fellow moviegoers you might want to think about the following next time you go:

It was Sunday at 11:30. There were a TOTAL of ten (yes, I counted) other patrons in the theater when you arrived. Therefore, we were all spaced out nicely and basically all had a row all to ourselves. Apparently you didn’t notice that. I mean, how often do you get to go to the movies and basically have your choice of 240 out of 250 seats? That must have been a shock and surprise to you because you chose to ignore the situation and sit at the end of our row at the top of the steps. Fine. That’s your prerogative. However, in civilized movie-going culture when someone needs to get past you, the tradition is that you will perform The Seat Shift. Since you were obviously not familiar The Seat Shift, I shall describe it for you:

Moviegoer A (in this case, ME) whispers, “excuse me” as he/she attempts to move out of the aisle. Moviegoer B (in this case, YOU, Ms. A-Hole) performs The Seat Shift. The Seat Shift can be accomplished in two different ways.

Method One: Moviegoer B swings their feet, via butt cheek rotation, to the opposite site of their seat, therefore allowing a reasonable space by which Moviegoer A can pass as swiftly and efficiently as possible and get to the restroom without missing too much of the film. In your case, however, the “excuse me” was met with zero reaction and zero Seat Shift.

Method Two would have been appropriate in combination for both of you. Since you were on the end of the aisle at the top of the steps, Mr. A. In your case, (I'm talking to you, Mr. A-Hole) when I returned from my trip The Seat Shift With Leg Tuck would have been appropriate. i.e., scoot back in your seat therefore allowing you to tuck you feet beneath your seat for 1.5 seconds while I passed. Instead, you refused to move and I ACCIDENTALLY stepped on the edge of your shoe and for which you gave me a nasty look. I apologized, but your SIGH indicated that my apology was not accepted. In the meantime, Ms. A-Hole, you could have again facilitated Method One and I would have returned to my seat without incident. Instead, you refused to budge and therefore forced ME to climb OVER YOU. Nice. Very, very nice indeed!

You know what, though? The next time the two of you go to the movies you might not encounter the polite, patient and sincere person you met today. Next time you might get the person that tells you to move the fuck out of the way. Next time you might meet a person that’s twice the asshole you both were put together.

May you have popcorn stuck in your gums for a month.

No Love,

Amy

This Is True Love

Today my friend and I were talking about our kids—he about the daughter that he completely adores, and who obviously adores him. I made the comment that I wished someone would talk to or about me the way he talks to and about her, but then I realized I already do…

I don’t know of a day that goes by that my son does not tell me I look “hot” or that he loves me or that I’m funny. Not a day goes by that I don’t tell him that he looks "cool" or that I love him (about nine hundred times) or that he does something that makes me laugh so hard that I snort.

I haven’t been so lucky in love, at least in the grown-up sense. However, I wouldn’t trade the true love, affection and utter joy that I feel every day when I am with my son for anything in the world. I’ve made a lot of mistakes, but my son is--by any stretch of the imagination--the best thing I ever did.

Lucky in love: I am!!!

Mister T

Yesterday morning, my son called me on his way to camp…

Hi, Mom!
Hey, Baby! How are you?
Guess what was on Miss M’s front porch this morning?
I don’t know, what?
Guess!
Uh… Flowers?
No.
Then, what?
You have to guess!
A present?
No!
I give up. What?
A snapping turtle!
What? No way!
Way.
You are kidding?

Sidebar: Not only is our area nowhere near close to water or any other turtle-friendly habitat that I know of, but the little booger had climbed the steps to get to the front porch… Eight of them, to be exact…

No, really!
How big was it?
About the size of a Frisbee!
You are kidding? What did you do? Did you touch it? What did Miss M say?
No, it was really big. We just left it there.
Did he ring the doorbell?
MOM!
Well then how did you know it was there?
We saw it when we were leaving for camp.

Then, last night on the way home…

That must have been a trip to see that turtle, huh?
(Laughing) Yeah! Hey, wanna know what he said?
What’s that?
Yo, man, where’s my room?

Ha.

There Ought To Be A Law...

Last weekend, in celebration of my turning the big four-oh, my dear and generous friend took me away for the weekend to this great hotel/spa... We had an absolute blast and I have never had anyone do anything like that for me. We had a super time. I told her before that you learn a lot from people (both good and bad) when you travel with them. In this case, I still like her just as much as I always have, but I digress...

We drove through the rain on Thursday night to get there with the promise of a sunny weekend. Saturday did not disappoint. We woke up early and there was not a cloud in the sky. It was the perfect day for sunning by the pool. We had our pick of lounge chairs in the morning, but the pool deck quickly filled up and gave me the opportunity to do what I love: People-watch... I watched a lovely family play with their children. I watched a Shirley Temple clone run between the fountains that lined the edge of the pool. I listened and watched as a wedding party arrived from out of town...

After lunch, we were back in our chairs when I noticed a group of three men setting up camp across the pool deck... One of the three was as tall, dark and handsome as they come. "Oooh, this will be good," I thought. He removed his shirt: "Wow!" He took off his shorts... "What the...!?"


ATTENTION, MEN OF EARTH:
DO NOT WEAR SPEEDOS!!!
EVER. EVER. EVER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Ugh!!! Not only was it a Speedo, but it was WHITE. Double ugh!!! Not only that, but his friend had on one that matched... Meantime, I'm furiously elbowing my friend (who was on the phone at the time) and doing the "look, look!" head nod in his direction... She finally looked and said, "Well that's not right..." Damn straight, sister!

There ought to be a law...

Cyberbully

Recently, the mother who was the deviant mastermind behind the cyberbullying case of Megan Meier was indicted (thankfully), so I thought I'd post this again. Megan's story had a huge effect on me. What do you think about all of this?

It's a hard thing to admit, even today: I was one of those kids that had a hard time making friends, and I truly hated being a kid. I was always the outsider, even when I ran with the "popular" crowd. It's taken me most of my adult life to get to the point where I'm confident about me and the way I look, and really don't put as much stock into what other people's opinions are the way I used to. I know who I am. I treat people the way I wish to be treated. Dare I say, I am a good person. I try to teach my son to do the same by setting the example. He is a great kid and I think I have something to do with that, and that makes me very proud. I think more than any other compliment, hearing that you are a good mom is the most wonderful compliment there is.

So having a hard time as a kid wasn't because I came from a broken home. It wasn't because I was poor. It wasn't because I suffered from any kind of illness. My fault, at least in the eyes of my peers, was that I was fat. Even now, it's hard for me to sit here, type this, and look at these words. Hard because even now at the age of 40, I still deal with the comments, and they still bother me to a degree, especially when they come from other "adults": You know, you are so pretty but you'd probably feel better about yourself if you lost twenty pounds... You know, you should probably take your hands off of your hips because that draws attention to them... You know, you really have a pretty face: chubby, though... You're just a big girl... (That last one, for some reason, is the one I hate the most!)

Though difficult, I'm doing this because of a story that has recently come to light. It breaks my heart, and it really pisses me off: Megan Meier. This young woman--child, really--was the subject of the type of ridicule that I was never faced with growing up, and that was bullying via the Internet. She was called fat. She was called a slut. She was told the world would be a better place without her. The bullying became so intense for Megan that she felt she had no other choice than to take her own life. She was 13.

As if all of this weren't tragic enough, it turns out that the bully in this case was an adult. Not the online predators we hear so much about, but rather the mother of her former friend. Apparently this campaign began as an attempt by said mother to find out what Megan might say about her former friend behind her back. Under the guise of a young man trying to woo Megan, this person lulled Megan into believing she had a cyber-boyfriend, got her comfortable, happy even, then with whatever deep-down evil this person had inside, harnessed it and began the demise of Megan.I am smart enough to know that the value our society places on the "beautiful" people will probably never change. With that said, though, I also know the value of character, of kindness, of spirit. Our children need to know that they are worth more than their looks.

Tragically, Megan was made to believe that she was not worthy of us. I wonder if it's really the other way around.

Recalibrate Your Phaser

I've never been much for video games. For whatever reason--I guess my lack of coordination or the fact that my son's Playstation games make me woozy when I watch him play--I just could not get in to playing, that is, until now...

There's a recently-opened place in town with indoor inflatables, rockin' pizza and every kind of game you can imagine. The first time we went was on my son's birthday, and I was

too busy feeding people and visiting to pay much attention to what the games were about.

Then, we went back: Off to the side against one wall and looking quite innocent from the outside is my new favorite thing in the world: Star Trek Voyager. Ha! Sit down in the booth, close the curtain and grab your phaser because we have some borgs to kill!!!

Along with video games, I've also never cared much for games or toys that have anything to do with guns, and outside of a Super Soaker I do not allow my child to have gun-like toys. So I surprised even myself with my love of this gizmo and the fact that my eight year old and I can board the Voyager and secure the safety of its crew and thus the universe with our phaser prowess. At one point I found myself taking the whole thing way too seriously when I realized I had my feet up on the front of the game (better traction and marksmanship that way) and was yelling things at the mean ol' borgs:

Resistance is futile, huh? Well, take that you nasty thing!!! You aren't so tough with half a head, now are you? Muwaahaha!!!

Gotta go recalibrate my phaser!

Service This!

To me, in any job there is some degree of customer service regardless of your employment. This past weekend I seem to have come in contact with those who were absent the day that customer service was taught.

First, the bank: I sat, and sat, and sat. I was cashing a check (and a small one at that). Finally, the woman comes over the loudspeaker and asks me if I want to cash the check. (Um, isn't that evident by the fact that I endorsed it and sent my license through the tube-thing?) I told her yes, I did. More sitting. The next question was whether or not I had an account there. (Um, yeah, for about four dang years!) I told her I did. I was asked if I new the account number because she couldn't find it. (Hm. Every other time--like, every two weeks--when I come to cash my paycheck they seem to be able to find it.) I give her the number. Off we go.

Stop number two: The pharmacy. I was already perturbed because when I drove up the drive-thru had a sign in its window that read, "Closed, please come inside." Ugh. When I walked up to the counter and gave the woman my name, she found my bag and said, "Uh-oh." (Uh-oh, what?) She tells me my insurance did not go through. She asked me if I had moved. No. She asked me if this was a new prescription. No. She asked me if I had gotten a new insurance card. No. (Great, I got fired and no one bothered to tell me!) I asked what to do. She told me they'd call Blue Cross and use my social security number. A few minutes later, the woman on the telephone is motioning for me to come over. The woman on the phone proceeds to ask me the same questions that the woman behind the counter did a few minutes before. Finally, the mystery is solved, but only in the sense that I got my medicine. For some reason they have my birthday wrong. Hm.

And last, but not least: The nail salon. For the first time since Halloween, I was going out with one of my friends and I thought I'd treat myself to a pedicure. Nice, huh? I think these people have forgotten what type of business they are in: Service. Sheesh. First I got a lecture on NOT wanting to use the massage chair. (I jiggle enough on my own, thank you, I don't need a chair to do it for me). Next came the real speech: You no have pedicure long time? No. You should have pedicure more time. Make feet nice. Why, I asked, are they free??? Next came the punishment part of my "treat." This little woman attacked my feet with her pumice like she was trying to shoe a horse. Yes, I realize it's been "long time" but my tootsies aren't that bad, really. The way she was going at my feet, though, was like she wanted revenge or something.

Looking back, I guess it's all laughable now, and it reminded me of this video...

You Shook Me

On my way home last night, I stopped at my favorite store (the one with the beer cave). As I was paying the woman at the counter, I looked past her out the window and caught a glimpse of a man's arm. Just an arm, mind you, but I recognized it because it belonged to my ex boyfriend. Just to be sure (and to quickly come up with a way to avoid him), I watched the door out of the corner of my eye until he reached it. Unfortunately, I was right. I don't think he saw me (he was probably too busy looking at himself in the security monitor over the doorway). I took my time folding my money and putting it back in my pocket to give myself a second or two to make my escape. I was successful, thank goodness...

That was the first time I'd seen that idiot since we broke up in September and it threw me for a loop. Not because I have any desire whatsoever to even talk to him, it was just the fact that I was in the same room with that ass that unleashed a sense of wanting to hurt someone physically. I wouldn't mind hurting that stupid car of his, either. Just so you know, I am about the farthest thing from violent that anyone could be and never have been. I don't spank my kid, I've never been in a fight and don't see the point in people who do. So what is it about this particular person that would make me feel this way? I'll tell you: For a year and a half I was manipulated, insulted and degraded. Maybe my anger is really at myself for putting up with it for so long, but that does not excuse what this person did to me. I know I am better off. He is the loser, not me. I'd rather be by myself forever than to put up with that kind of shit ever again, so I've learned my lesson--the hard way.

Still, it might feel good just to whack him upside the head. Just once. Real hard.

Say What?

As I've said here before, when I'm out and about I seem toattract wierdos like flies to honey. It seems here lately that when I'm at work I'm not safe, either.

People, not just kids, say the darndest things to me, like:

The cleaning lady:
"Did you smell your desk this morning?"

Uh, no... Why, will I get high?

A customer wanting the phone number for a different business:
"How do you call information?"

1-800-GET-A-CLUE

Another customer wanting to mail a payment:
"Do I have to sign my check?"

Yes, and please make sure it's in crayon.

A wierdo wanting to talk to my boss:
"How much do you know about horses?"

I only know about whips, does that count?

The jerk that I hate:
"What are you doing this weekend?"

Stuff, you idiot. None of your business.

My boss:
"What day is it?"

Medication Day.

Someone on the phone wanting to schedule a tour:
"So, is this your number?"

No, it's not.

Smurfy

For some reason I am a weirdo magnet… Perfect strangers find me irresistible, especially if they have some gross medical condition they want to discuss or if they need gas money. Recently, though, I got a good laugh when I stopped at the convenience store and I thought I’d share:

Dude: Can I help you?

Me: Can I get a pack of Marlboro Light 100’s in a box, please?

Dude: You sher can!

Dude: Those are some big earrings you have on. They go good with your big blue ears.

Me: Ruh?

Dude: Oh! I mean eyes, eyes!

Me: That’s O.K., I’m really a Smurf.

Dude: Heh. That’s funny. (Puts the wrong kind cigs on the counter) Are you sure you’re old enough to smoke?

Me: Yep. By about twenty years.

Dude: You don’t look 49.

Me: That’s because I’m 39.

Dude: O.K., now you’re embarrassing me! When’s your birthday?

Me: May.

Dude: So you’re only a couple of months older than me.

Me: Smurfs age really well.

Dude: Heh. That’s funny.

Me: Can I please have 100’s?

Dude: Oh. Heh. Sorry! (Hands me 100’s in a soft pack. I don’t have the heart at this point to correct him again).

Me: That’s O.K. Have a good day.