Saturday, December 31, 2011

Playing God

This is supposed to be a funny blog, but yesterday was basically the hardest day of my life, so bear with me as I pour my heart out to you in the best way i know how. This basically reads as a Sarah McLachlan commercial gone wrong, so I understand if you can't read it. I could barely write it myself.

I woke up this morning with my eyes welded shut, swollen and raw from the horrific things id seen the day before. It started off as a normal work day, i worked from home and around 11am i got up to get myself some cereal. I walked by the patio door (or doorwall, for my comrades from michigan) and noticed a stray grey kitty curled up in one of our patio chairs. We'd been meaning to take those downstairs for weeks and i silently cursed myself for not having been proactive before the snow hit.

He was moving a bit slow, and, bleeding heart that i am, i put out a plate of last night's marlin steak for him. He ate the entire plate, and that's when i noticed his eye was damaged and swollen shut. He had patches of fur missing and more scratches above his other eye.

I felt something inside me break and I realized that I had to do something. I couldn't just let him sit outside in the snow and cold to heal on his own. I feared he would run away and I wouldn't see him again. I rushed inside, got an old towel, wrapped him up in it and carried him to the garage. I put a little food and water for him. He immediately ran to a corner,  though I had set him up a bed, and I couldn't coax him out for anything.

K came downstairs with me, and we decided that we should make some phone calls. I contacted our local vet and asked what she thought I should do. She suggested calling shelters and seeing if we could get him in there, or to bring him in for a visit to have him checked out--at which point he would essentially be our cat, and we would take on responsibility for him.

We have 3 cats already, one has one eye and we're lucky the other two get along at all. K and I knew we couldn't take on a 4th, (truthfully, we barely get ours in for their shots on time, which I'm not proud to admit.) I started posting on facebook to see if anyone would take him, and calling shelters. Most of the shelters I called were full or had at least a 3 week waiting period before we could get him even submitted for approval to get in there. I didn't realize shelters were so full or had to be so choosing until now. And I will tell you, I'd hate to be the person at those shelters who has to make the decision on who to allow and who to turn away.

We called the vet back and made an appointment for later that afternoon. I at least wanted to get him checked out, then I figured we could keep him in the garage for a few days while we located a shelter that would take him. (We didn't know if he was sick, and we couldn't risk bringing him into the house to infect our other 3 kitties.)

We herded him into a cat carrier and managed to get him into the vet's office. I was shaking with nerves, I had barely eaten all day, and my stomach was in knots. I had no idea what was in store for us.

The doctor came in, a beautiful girl who couldn't have been more than 24 years old. She had kind, compassionate eyes, and she treated us with respect and handled the kitty with care. She pulled him out of the crate, and I doubled over in tears the moment I saw his face. It was worse than I had originally thought, we hadn't been able to get a good look at his face in the dark of the garage.

*Fair warning, this is graphic.*

His eye was punctured, and hanging out of its socket. His other eye was infected as well, though not as bad. He had patches of fur missing, and scars along the top of his head where it appeared he had gotten into a fight. My heart broke into a million pieces and I realized suddenly that we faced a more somber truth than we had thought. She softly examined his body and told us that they would have to remove his left eye. The vet's office offered to dip into it's stray fund and cover a large portion of the cost of the surgery for us, $400 of $500. The money wasn't an issue, I would gladly have paid the full $500 for him. But it was then that I realized that we would have a hard time getting him into a shelter like this, and I relived the life of our cat Gwennie, who ironically has the same eye missing and was stuck in a shelter for 4 years before K and his ex lovingly adopted her.

My chest tightened with the decision I was forced to make. Unable to control my emotions, even in front of the vet, I sobbed uncontrollably and said over and over "I don't want to do it. I can't make the choice." She left the room for K and I to consider our options. I considered having him have the surgery and taking him home until we could find another home for him, but I couldn't have him recover in the garage--he would need to be in a warm bed, with lots of blankets and constant care until he could get better. I couldn't imagine taking him home for the night and letting him suffer with this horrendous injury for that much longer while I attempted to call shelters to get him a home. On top of that, the doctor was going to perform the surgery the next morning and after that it would have to wait a week or more. I couldn't let him suffer for that much longer. The doctor suspected a respiratory illness and the possibility of feline leukemia. We wouldn't know until we had him tested, and we couldn't risk the lives of our 3 until we knew for sure. Ours would most likely harass him, and I couldn't stand to see that during the recovery process.

I never in my life thought I would be able to make the decision that I did yesterday, but with a strength I didn't know I had, I played God. With shaky hands and tears staining the paper, I signed the release to euthanize him. She offered to take him back where they would do it privately, but I insisted that I wanted to stay with him. After all, though we had been in each other's lives for less than a full day, I was the only person he was familiar with. The vet came in with the vet tech, both with compassionate eyes and soft hands, and K and I stroked and talked to the kitty the entire way through, holding hands behind K's back. I told him I was sorry he had to go through this and that I loved him. And I do love him, I will never forget his presence in my life, or the piece of me that his existence and death changed. I gave up a part of my innocence that day, but I couldn't help but hope that I prevented a slow death alone outside in the cold.

There comes a moment, when a living creature's fate is placed in your hands, and you are given the choice to let them live or die. Something snaps inside of you, and you are forever changed. You suddenly want someone, anyone to tell you what to do. What the right decision is, to absolve you of the burden to have to make the decision. But ultimately it is your choice, and with little time or knowledge, you have to make one of the hardest choices you'll ever have to make. You have to give voice to a creature that cannot talk, and follow your heart the best way you can. The only way you can, out of pure love and compassion. It changes you.

They injected him, and his body went limp, it looked like he was sleeping. And where I had felt mad panic and pain a few moments before, I suddenly felt peace. No more suffering for the little guy, he wouldn't have to endure the cold, fear and pain any longer.

It has hit me in waves over the last day and a half--heaving, uncontrollable sobs that only K holding onto me can stop. My face is unrecognizable, eyes puffy and swollen and my heart is broken into a million pieces. I don't pray often, but right now I'm praying I made the right decision.

Thursday, December 29, 2011

It's not you, it's me.

Dear Maury,

I love you, I truly do. You've provided me with an unending supply of laughter and tears, shock and dismay at who was born a man or woman, and whether or not that dude sitting on the stage really IS the father.

I've enjoyed your smug smiles as you declare paternity results, and the various styles of glasses you've adorned through the years. You're respectful, gentle, but you know how to lay down the law when ladies start throwing chairs up in that mother. You keep it classy, Maury, and I respect you for it.

But with my New Year's resolution of trying to slow my life down and de-stress, I think we should start seeing other shows.

I'm sorry to have to let you down, Maury, but the yelling and screaming has instilled a dangerous level of anxiety in me that only a fellow named Dawson can cure.

It's not because he's younger than you, I swear, because age is just a number. But I just couldn't resist his overscholarly dialogue, witty snapbacks and his love triangle with Jen and Joey Potter. His calming demeanor and bromance with one Pacey Witter hooked me, and the feeling is so strong I cannot resist.

Maybe we'll meet again, Maury, once my life slows down and I build back up a tolerance for yelling, but until that day, here's a peck on the cheek and a hearty handshake. I will always love you. Good luck finding out who the father is.


Tuesday, December 27, 2011

An Inappropriate Christmas

Well, kiddies, I hope you all had a lovely holiday with your families and drank enough eggnog to drown out the sounds of the Yule Log on TV.

Mine and K's families spent Christmas together, and if you've read enough of this blog to know how many times I use the f-word daily, you can imagine it was quite the inappropriate scene.

So this year, to follow up last Thanksgiving's table-wide chant of "What WHAT? IN THE BUTT!" (Yes, both mine and K's mom joined in. You should see this shit, we're like the fucking Partridge Family.)

"I said: What what? (In the butt)"

With K, his brother and sister there and their mom present at the dinner table, I proclaimed that I got triple points for your mom jokes. It's like Shotgun, you have to be in the presence of said mom. Points are multiplied by number of siblings present. K and his siblings missed out on the double XP once my sister and JB left for the evening. TFB, bitches!

We sat at the end of the long table so as not to disturb others with our inappropriate chatter. It didn't really work, because every time I quipped "that'swhatshesaid," the rest of the table went silent. Naturally.

Half way through the prime rib, K's younger brother decided to play the penis game and yell "FELLATIO" instead. He won that game, since I didn't have the balls to yell it louder, and my respect for him grew three times that day.

Because after all, is it really Christmas without the Penis game?

Wednesday, December 21, 2011

Gift Bags and Werewolf Urine

Gwennie, in a less werewolf-like state.
Well kiddies, it has been a wonderful but chaotic week in the mitten state. We returned home yesterday, exhausted, mugged the kittehs and went to bed early after a brief rendezvous with Mulder and Scully (seriously, we're on season 7--are they EVER going to do it?)

I awoke around 1am to the sound of one of the cats rustling some paper, or a bag, or some other extremely loud shit. I reached over and pushed Gwennie off of the nightstand. Take your feline antics elsewhere, momma needs her beauty rest.

She jumped back up, and I pushed her off again. After a third noisy leap onto the nightstand and more annoying rustling, I reached over to punt her like Baxter.

I didn't have my glasses on, but I quickly realized she had gotten herself stuck in the handle of a paper gift bag and was trapped like a goose in a plastic pop holder.

I leaped out of bed, and tried to pull the bag over her head. No dice. She was WEDGED. I called for K to come assist me, grabbed some scissors and prepared to cut her free.

Now the thing about Gwennie is that she won't let you pick her up. Ever. She is a pirate with one eye (K rescued her from the shelter) and freaks the fuck out if you lift her off of the ground.

K picked her up like a dirty baby, I put my glasses on and grabbed the scissors. Suddenly, shit got very Twilight and Gwennie transformed into a werewolf. She started snarling, hissing, and BITING as K held her tightly. Tears poured down my face as I tried to secure the scissors under the bag handle.

A flurry of hissing, biting and crying ensued as tufts of fur flew all over the room. She also peed on the bed for good measure, JUST before I was able to cut her free. I stood shaking for a minute, then we both started laughing. We high fived at our awesome parenting and teamwork skills and thanked our lucky stars that this didn't happen while we were gone in the mitten state. Now excuse me while I go on a gift bag cutting rampage around the house and snip all the handles.

PS: She's totally fine this morning and urine free. I, however, am another story.

Wednesday, December 14, 2011

Eating My Feelings

If you're looking for me today, you can find me curled in the fetal position in front of my fridge with the door open, surrounded by empty Tupperware containers playing a little game called "Eat My Feelings." It's also known as "Shit, I Bought a Ton of Fruit Last Week and If I Don't Eat It Before We Leave It'll Spoil."

Better than Monopoly, I swear.

We're heading to the mitten for an early Christmas with my fam, and I'm freaking the fuck out as usual. I hate leaving the kitties for an extended period of time, for fear they'll go crazy and eat the Christmas tree and poop all over the floor. Which will probably happen.

I am also borderline OCD, made worse by the fact that I work from home and rarely leave the house except to throw snowballs at my bitchy mail lady, so every time I DO leave, it takes at least 20 minutes to check the stove five times, unplug EVERYTHING, and recheck the stove another five times.

And that's just when I'm leaving for the gym.

So you can imagine that when we go on vacation, my OCD heads into overdrive.

Hence the ever increasing pyramid of food containers piling up on my kitchen floor in a desperate attempt to salvage our foodstuffs.

Does anyone else get this way when they leave the house? Or am I just out of my mind? It wouldn't surprise me, honestly.

Monday, December 12, 2011

I robbed Home Depot

I totally robbed Home Depot on Saturday. I donned the ski mask, black gloves, ninja suit and straight robbed them. (Ok, not really, but I might as well have been wearing the outfit for the crime I committed.)

K dragged me to the Depot kicking and screaming for a new toilet seat of all godforsaken things. He appeased me with a king sized PB Twix to keep me from throwing a fit. It worked (sortof) and I held his hand as he led me around the store through the aisles of swirly twirly power tools to the sea of bathroom amenitites.

With the assorted color selection, who
wouldn't want to wear these as jewelry?
As we all know, I need toys to play with to keep me occupied, so K gave me Cable Clamps. I put one on each finger as rings, then punched him in the kidney like they were brass knuckles until we headed for checkout. 

Forty minutes of my life that I can never get back later, we checked out with a cart full of crap and I removed my cable clamp rings one by one so the cashier could ring them up. We got to the parking lot and suddenly my face drained of all color and my jaw fell open as I realized that while playing Pretty Pretty Princess with the cable clamps, I had forgotten a bracelet.

We had that moment where we looked at each other and it ran through both of our minds: do we just go? It's $1.29. But my guilty conscience just wouldn't let me and I ran back inside to the cashier and embarrasingly declared "I'm sorry, I stole this!" He laughed, and gave me a knowing look that said: 'You're crazy, why the fuck didn't you just take it? But I admire your moral high ground nonetheless.' (Yes, a look can say that much.)

I returned to the car talking a mile a minute, as I always do when I finish a robbery, and verbally recounted the embarrassment of my criminal ways.

When we got home, we unloaded everything we had, and I rifled through the Home Depot bag, realizing suddenly that when I had gone back in to pay for the stolen cable clamp, I then LEFT it at the cashier counter. I could have made out with a free cable clamp, now I just paid for one that I didn't take.

That Karma is one complicated bitch.

Thursday, December 8, 2011

Hey Santa, I want a Chia Herb Garden.

I don't know whether it was PMS or the magic that is Mariah Carey's Christmas album, but I found myself blubbering like a baby on the way home from the gym the other day. Out of sheer happiness.

Christmas makes me feel like a 12-year-old girl who just got a kiss from Justin Bieber. I wanted to jump out of the car, make a snow angel, and give Santa a run-and-jump hug at the north pole.

Our tree is decorated, I'm wearing my reindeer sweater, and I'm drinking peppermint mocha through an IV. I'm in the MOOD.

And here's my Christmas list:
- Chia Herb Garden
- Pajama Jeans
- A new hair straightener
- Chia Cat Grass
- Baby Bullet (I like it better because it has a smiley face on it.)
- The new J-Biebs Christmas album
- For Mar Car to go back on tour post-twins

Hey Santa, I'm ready when you are. But just so you know, I can do without another seasonal battle with my evil mail lady.

Tuesday, December 6, 2011

Elbows out

Yesterday I got out my brass knuckles and headed to the mall for the biggest, sweatiest shopping bonanza of my life. Christmas shopping is a full-contact sport. I got myself prepared by putting my game face on (black stripes under my eyes and a temporary tattoo of Santa's face on my cheek.) I adorned every ring I own (brass knuckles), and strapped on elbow and knee pads. (Elbows out is the only way to get through Target without getting knocked to the ground.)
The parking lot is Level 1. You must navigate through the painted stripes of death like Frogger, dodging morons driving silent Priuses packed to the roof with Snuggies and Tickle Me Elmos. Mall patrons are generally drunk and frequently pull out of parking spots with the sole intention of T-boning you.

Once you get inside the mall, strip down to game uniform: sensible shoes, a ponytail and a purse you can strap over your chest. Leave your winter jacket in the car, even if it's snowing. Trust me on this one, I learned this lesson the hard way yesterday.

The trick is to stick to the list, get in, and get out. Don't get in line behind Calculator Lady or Change Counting Man, unless you want to turn those brass knuckles on yourself. If you can make it to the car in one piece, load your crap in the trunk so people don't steal it, and dump a bottle of gatorade over your head in celebration of your win.

Thursday, December 1, 2011

Dear Mark Zuckerberg

Heeeey, Facebook. You know, I don't give you much trouble. When you force us to update and conform to change, I grumble a little, but trust you and think: well, this must be better for all of us. I don't join the groups I Hate Facebook, or Kill Zuckerberg. I don't participate in the worldwide boycott of Adidas sandals.

But when I ask you to sort my stories in chronological order; could you do it please? This morning I scrolled down to see an old high school friend's wife was on her way to the hospital to have their baby. I liked the status, and smiled to myself thinking, hey! What a wonderful day. I scrolled down past 3 more statuses from various friends stating what they ate for breakfast, how many times they pooped today, etc., when I reached ANOTHER status from the same friend stating that the baby was born.

How big an ass was I, liking that status AFTER the announcement that they were on their way to the hospital? HHIS (hangs head in shame.)

Mark, I count on you to help keep my social standing to a maximum. Help me remember the birthdays of people I met one time in a bathroom stall at a bar. Let me know when someone enters into a new relationship so I can stalk their new beaus, or when someone becomes single again. And most of all, help me to spy on those friends who I haven't seen in 15 years, who are having babies and getting married. Because what else is facebook good for, if not for spying?


Wednesday, November 30, 2011

Online Dating: Plenty of Awesome

Online dating. It's been years, but I'm not ashamed to admit that I gave it a shot. I went on Plenty of Fish today determined to find someone's profile to make fun of, but when I looked at the few who appeared at the bottom of my screen, it broke my heart instead. How can you mock someone trying to find love? There ARE some hilarious ones though. One of which, was MINE.

Because really, what is a blog for if not to publicly and anonymously humiliate yourself for the sake of entertainment? You're all welcome. I'm DYING to show this to K, because it is ironic how much he fits what I wrote:

I snort when I laugh
I'm looking for a best friend first who makes me laugh until my cheeks hurt, who will sit in the corner of a bar with a pitcher of beer between us, slinging off-color jokes back and forth or discuss philosophy over four cups of coffee each until we've forgotten what time it is. I'm 24, a graphic designer with a childlike optimism looking for someone soft-hearted, intelligent--even dorky--and cute. I'm definitely a smartass, but compassionate. I love a man with a sense of humor who can carry on a stimulating conversation. Send me a message, I'd love to hear from you. Photos appreciated!

Stifle your giggles, bitches. This baby snagged me a perverted cop, a law student, a leather-clad furniture designer who may or may not have been gay, and a good man seeking a tender girl.

To say my dating life pre-K was interesting is an understatement. Thank GOD I found what I was looking for: a man who will dress up like a giant carebear for me.

Here we are, carrying on a stimulating conversation and discussing philosophy.

Sunday, November 27, 2011

Black Friday's Most Irritating Customers

I'm not going to say who dragged who to Joann Fabrics Saturday, but somehow K and I ended up there with 2 overflowing carts in an astronomical line to check out. I know it's Black Friday weekend and everyone is all bah humbug and gimme gimme gimme, but I didn't expect the line to be as bad as it was.

There were 2 registers open, and we were lucky enough to end up in line directly behind the two worst people you could ever imagine being behind: Calculator Lady and Change-Counter / Price Check Man.

I swear this stuff writes itself. There we were in line, watching the syncronized shennanigans happening simultaneously on the two only open registers. The looks on the faces of the cashiers said it all, as their eyes traveled from the man counting pennies to pay for his nutcracker to the grumpy customers piling up in line.

Of course it was a huge sale day, and with modern technology being as unreliable as it is, Calculator Lady didn't trust the number the cash register came up with and decided if you want something done right, you have to pull out your pocket calculator and count that shit yourself.

Change Counter Man got half way through counting when he realized he had snagged the only nutcracker without a price tag, and requested the cashier abandon her post on the front lines and dash through the store to find one that did.

She returned minutes later to a grumbling crowd only to have the price come up differently than it had originally and Change Counter Man had to start at the beginning, quarters first.

When they finally paid for their items, Change Counter and Calculator Lady strolled out of the store taking their sweet time. I'm convinced they were in on it together and probably rode the same cab from the same apartment complex. They probably paid for the fare in change, too.

Wednesday, November 23, 2011


Tomorrow will probably look a lot
like this, with or without the carebear
costume. I haven't decided yet.
J-Biebs is on the radio with a new hit, and guess what that means? It's HOLIDAY time, y'all!

You know what I'm going to do this weekend? Eat a shit ton of turkey and mashed potatoes, puke and rally, then eat more mashed potatoes. After all, isn't that what the holidays are about? Stuffing your face?

We're having Biebsgiving here at our house again this year, which is a very grown up thing to do, and we are totally grown ups. Since I am culinarily challenged, K will be doing most of the work while I take the credit.

Juuust kidding. I can't take credit, because everybody in this family knows that I can't cook. But he really does do most of the work. I'll probly just spend the day tracing my hand making construction paper turkeys.

I hope you guys have an awesome turkey day, and remember who we should all be giving thanks to this year. The Biebster.

Monday, November 21, 2011


For years, I've been digging through the S-M-L bins at Deb, pretending everything didn't fit like a shrink-wrapped baby tee. It was only about a year ago at the ripe old age of 27 that I broke down and admitted that I couldn't shop in the Juniors section at Kohl's anymore. (Denial, anyone?)

I'd cry into my Big Mac the entire ride home, lamenting about how many zippers I'd broken in the fitting room. Until I found my mecca. Lane Bryant, my favorite store ever. And it's not just because they told me I'm a D-cup, when I've been wearing B's. (Because that's the one good thing about putting on a few pounds, y'all.)

Smiling cashiers open the doors in unison with unjudging eyes and chubby angels sing hymns from the rafters that sound like hugs from Jesus. It is a refuge from the restrictions of 5-7-9 when I've had too many Kalteen Bars, a safe haven for curvy chicks everywhere.

They welcome you in with a knowing smile, and you can leave your fears of a sob fest nothing-fits shopping trip at the door. I had no idea what I was missing. It was love at first sight of being on the "small" end of the LB size chart.

It's about damn time they made clothes for women with badonkadonks.

Wednesday, November 16, 2011

Selena's puppy ate some rocks.

The hottest breaking news this week? Selena Gomez's puppy ate some rocks, y'all.

Whomp, whomp.

I'm one of the biggest animal lovers you'll ever meet and I hope the little guy pulls through his rock-removal surgery, but I just have to ask--WHY is this top news? This is kinda like the time J-Biebs got a haircut and it made front page news.

Guess I should get a more reliable news source than Perez Hilton.

Tuesday, November 15, 2011

What the hell is an 'awl?'

I am one proud lady today, kids. I successfully hung shelves and towel rods in our bathroom.

The house is solely K's (he owned it before we met), so since I moved in I've treaded lightly in my redecorating. I didn't want to move in and tear everything apart. (I already had one Pougar and 4 giant carebears with me--that's enough to drive anyone crazy.)

This week, I ordered shelves for our bathroom all on my own. They got here, I assembled them myself and I was SUPER fucking excited to put them up. Then I freaked. I panicked and decided to wait until K got home. I was afraid of putting holes in the walls, and I didn't want to hang things crookedly, because if anyone would notice--it's him.

After staring at the assembled shelves on the floor for two days, I got BRAVE. I said fuck it, marched upstairs with my tools and stood in the middle of the bathroom with my hands on my hips. The shelves came with these little plastic anchor thingys which I had no idea how to put in the wall. So I googled that shit. Thanks,

Once I figured out what the hell an 'awl' is, I took a deep breath and pounded the first nail into the wall. Two hours (and two cramped hamstrings) later, we have SHELVES!

Look at me, using tools and shit.  I'll be building houses in NO TIME.

Wednesday, November 9, 2011

Hold the fucking door, please.

I was raised in the midwest. With manners. Napkin-in-your-lap, please-and-thank-you, the whole nine. I even attended a Miss Manners seminar when I was 12. It was the longest and most horrific day of my life. The only thing I remember from it is the rhyme to remember how to eat soup: "little ships go out to sea, only to return to me." Good thing I've carried THAT with me and don't eat like a tyrranosaurus.

But I digress.

This may be why, when a lady failed to hold the door open for me the other day, I screamed after her: "THANKS FOR HOLDING THE DOOR!" And exhaled a silent "BITCH" under my breath. I might have been angry, but I wasn't about to get into a Jerry Springer brawl at a rest stop.

But seriously?? I hold the door open for EVERYONE. Even if it's an awkward couple of steps before they even REACH the door. Men, women, children, monkeys. Doesn't matter. I hold the door.

This particular day I was exiting the rest stop with two full drinks in both hands, a purse on one shoulder, and keys draped over my arm. This lady went through TWO sets of doors, slamming BOTH in my face. I had to kick them open like Chuck Norris after her selfish ass made it through scot-free.

I wanted to punch her square in the shnoz.

What the hell is wrong with people? Didn't your mother teach you ANYTHING?

Tuesday, November 8, 2011

Ya'll lookin like SNACKS.

"Giiiiirls, ya'll lookin GOOD. Ya'll lookin like SNACKS."

I've been out of the dating game awhile, it seems. Because it appears that this is the line young gentlemen use to woo potential female suitors these days.

I was walking down the street with my girlfriends when a group of guys yelled this out at us.

Snacks? Like Twinkies? Pringles? Cheetos?

The cheese that goes CRUNCH?

I'm not sure whether it was meant as a compliment or an insult. So thanks? I think?

What the hell happened to the dating scene since I've been outtie? Or has it ALWAYS been this way, and I was too drunk to notice? I'll tell you what--I'd rather be at home watching Lifetime Original Movies ALONE than catering to someone's primal vending machine desires.

Monday, November 7, 2011

The Proposition

A guy at the bar on Saturday leaned over suggestively and whispered that if I ever wanted to leave my boyfriend, he'd be next in line. I pulled away from him quizzically, wondering if he was serious and took careful inventory of my life.

K drives me crazy sometimes. He really does. Xbox, dirty socks lying all over the house, and saying the word 'retard'... makes me want to chase him down and beat him over the head with a nerf bat.

But when I got home from our girls night yesterday and saw him standing in the driveway, I looked into his eyes and had the sudden, almost uncontrollable urge to full-on sprint across the driveway, jump into his arms and hug him. It's this feeling I can't describe--like a candle lit from the inside that tips over at the sight of him and warms my entire soul. It makes me glow.

After all of the heartache in my life, I never thought I'd ever feel this way about someone, and it brings tears to my eyes when I realize how incredibly lucky I am. Some days, I want nothing more than to be as close to him as possible and just breathe him in.

This man is my world. We share a home, a life. He made me believe in love again, made me trust again. He gets my jokes, he balances me out. He knows how to calm me down when I'm flipping out. And he dressed up as a giant carebear for me. He's more than my boyfriend, he's my family.

So my answer to the random stranger who propositioned me was a knowing smile and a shake of my head. He just didn't get it. And maybe he never could. There's just no room in my heart for anyone else.

Friday, November 4, 2011

Slow Motion Tango

There are moments in your life that emblazon themselves in your memory. A painful one of mine popped up unexpectedly this morning on my way to the gym, to a Taylor Swift song. I remember it so vividly: the moment I saw my ex with the other girl. My entire life came to a standstill and crumbled into pieces in front of me.

My girlfriends and I were home on Christmas break; we went out to a Canadian bar where we could legally drink. We were laughing, dancing, doing shots... I remember being intoxicatedly happy. My roommate, Kirst, spun me around the dance floor in a sloppy tango, prancing me from one end to the other. I threw my head back in laughter, and people parted ways for us to charge through.

She went to dip me, and that's when I saw them. The crowded bar seemed to dissipate, and everything began to move in slow motion. I stood frozen, still holding Kirst's hand, the look on her face revealing that she had spotted them before I had. Her eyes dropped, she clenched my hand. They were standing at the bar, he was buying her a drink. I watched him laughing and smiling at her as my heart shattered into a million, billion pieces on the floor.

For a moment, I considered charging them and throwing the drinks they had just bought, punching him and slapping her. But I couldn't bring myself to move; I was cemented in this spectatorial position.

I couldn't feel my heart; my arms were numb. I felt as if I was sinking into quicksand, watching my life crumble in front of my very eyes. And as I grabbed my coat and walked out of the bar, supported on each arm by my very best girlfriends, I took one last glance at the two of them and didn't shed one tear. He never even knew I was there.

Tuesday, November 1, 2011

This shit just writes itself.

Seriously people, this shit just writes itself. Saturday, before Carebear-Palooza, K and I were having a leisurely breakfast downtown. We returned home to finish decorating the front yard, when an elderly lady walked past us on the street and said "did you hear that someone robbed the bank?" We nodded; it was local news and everyone in Stars Hollow knew about it. "No," she said, "They robbed it AGAIN. Just now!"

My mouth dropped in disbelief: we were JUST having breakfast next to the bank! But more importantly... who robs the same bank TWICE? In ONE WEEK?

K: "How stupid do you have to be to rob the same bank AGAIN? These people must have serious problems."
Me: "...Or they're incredibly SMART. Because they have successfully robbed a bank 2 times without getting caught, and I have successfully robbed a bank no times. Who's the winner there?" (Granted, I'm not wanted for armed robbery, but it must have been a hell of an adventure.)

I cannot fucking WAIT to read about this in the police blotter. We are bound to be in morons in the news, AND I'm willing to bet there will be an overhaul of the Stars Hollow Police Dept, too. You can't make this shit up if you tried.

Monday, October 31, 2011

Happy Slutoween! Or, Carebear-Palooza.

Happy Slutoween, everybody! Hope you all had a fab weekend. We had our annual par-tay here at the house, despite the atrocious snow storm that rocked much of the Northeast. Snow, schmo. We just wanted to play some beer pong.

As I sit here, I'm still dressed in my carebear costume. Because let's face it, one of the perks of working from home is making your own dress code. And fuck it, I'm going to dress like a carebear if I want to. It's halloween, after all, and I'm a grown up, so I can do what I want.

I just have to share a few photos of the amazingness that K came up with for these costumes. I am one lucky lady, because let me tell you that that man knows how to work a sewing machine. And he taught me too, so I was able to help a LITTLE this time:

Me, K, and our friend R: K did ALL the hand stitching!

Carebear amazingness. (Sans creepy mask)

Carebear tummy bump.

The butt is by far the most amazing part. Thatswhatshesaid.
I am one lucky lady to have a man who is willing to dress up like a giant carebear for her. A good time was had by all, and I managed not to spill beer OR dip on my tummy. Added bonus: the carebear mittens function as potholders AND beer openers. SCORE!

Wednesday, October 26, 2011

Leave the change, you filthy animal

We've been robbed. Not our house. But the bank that I could spit on from my front porch if I took a running start.

Who robs a bank anymore? I thought that went out of style when Bonnie and Clyde died in the 30s. I guess it just keeps coming back, like a bad rash.

Regardless, I slept with the lights on last night. I checked the locks, re-checked the locks, then built myself a pillow fortress on K's side of the bed to protect myself. From robbers, and also any monsters that may be hiding in the closet. I put all of my stuffed animals on the bed with me (like there weren't enough already) and left myself one crack in the pillow fort so I could still see the door.

I've been orchestrating my Panic Plan since I moved into this house. This is serious, people. I have strategically chosen my side of the bed because it is farthest from the door, and left two stairs on the way up to the second floor creaky so I'll know when someone comes up. I've also blow torched the door handle and rigged paint cans to drop down the stairway a-la Home Alone (that Kevin was a smart fucking kid.)

I've fantasized about the day I'll get to put my plan into action. Here's how it goes:
1.) Hear strange bank robber lady/rapist/giant monster creep up stairs when stair creaks.
2.) Do silent ninja somersault out of bed, snagging my phone from the bedside table.
3.) Sweep up all 3 cats and army crawl to my walk-in closet.
4.) Bar the door with laundry bins and call police.

Maybe I'm more easily scared then most. I started watching Monsters Inc. on ABC Family's 13 Nights of Halloween until the monster jumped out of the closet and scared the shit out of me. I recorded it for a later (daylight) showing and changed the channel. Yes, I know it's a cartoon.

When I woke up in the morning, I had 2 cats on the bed with me, and one in the hallway keeping watch. They can sense when I need protection. It's like they have ESPN or something.

Thursday, October 20, 2011

The sun doesn't set on bad ass

After the bridesmaid's dress fitting from hell, I ate hot pockets and cried myself to sleep for a week. Then I went back to the gym. I'm not going to give you a play-by-play of how awesome I am and how much weight I plan to lose, because that is just fucking annoying. But I will tell you how I made a giant ass of myself this morning.

I strolled into Planet Fitness like I was badass, hair in a ponytail, shiny new running shoes, smirking about my witty remarks to the guy at the desk about his crossword puzzle. I was feeling brave, so I ventured over to the "boy's side" to attempt some weight machines.

Nobody ever wants to look like they don't know what they're doing on those mo-fos. So you saunter over, take an unassuming glance at the diagram with the crash test dummy showing you how to work your deltoids or triceps or whatever else fucking muscles you have stashed under that 6-pack.
You deceptive mother fucker.

I sat down at the "lat pulldown machine," faced the machine in front of me and began to pump some iron. A few seconds later, a woman sat down at the identical machine in front of me, and sat reversed on it so she was facing me, about 10 feet away. She shot me a look of annoyance, and I cursed her silently before assessing the situation.

If the machines are all facing the same direction... whyyy are annoying lady and I facing each other?

Because I was using the machine backwards. I was facing OUT, when I should have been facing IN. Guess I didn't notice those round pads that are supposed to go UNDER your knees. Sweet.

It was too late to turn back; I couldn't turn around in the middle of my set and let her know that I had realized my mistake. So I carried on with my 2 remaining sets, staring her right in the eyeball the entire time, pretending like I totally meant to do it on purpose.

No wonder people hate the gym. That shit is more awkward than elevator silence.

Tuesday, October 18, 2011

Fuck you, Sisqo

Dumps like a truck truck truck.
You know what? Fuck you, Sisqo. You are a rat bastard. You make one catchy song and females worldwide have to suffer the next 20 years with a strip of fabric jammed in their ass cheeks.

Why couldn't you make a song about how awesomely comfortable granny panties are? They are cottony-soft, cuddle your butt like a teddy bear, and don't cause you to lose hours of your life in the bathroom pulling your underwear out of your butt.

She had butt that was covered up up
Wedgies are gone gone gone
Baby no more whale tale tale

I challenge you, Sisqo. I'd like to see YOU wear one of those bad boys for an entire day and let us know how you're diggin it. I bet that look in your eye won't be so devilish.

Monday, October 17, 2011

Day Drunk

Happy Monday, bitches! Hope you all had a fab weekend. I know I did. Saturday, my sister and I decided to go watch the biggest football game of the year for us: MSU vs. the Wolverines. Since nobody else is really a fan in these here parts, we decided to go relive our college days and get day drunk. By ourselves.

We didn't want to drive, so we walked to three different bars in Stars Hollow before we found one that was open. Nothing classier than a couple of chicks in sweatshirts and flops traipsing around town to find some beer before noon. But we finally found it: a sweet watering hole in a very dry desert. We saddled up to the bar, made the bartender change the channel, and got our wings and beer on while we angry facebooked our frienemies.

Five hours and three pitchers of beer later, it was a very different day indeed. We had beat UofM, I had wing sauce all over my sweatshirt, and we were day-wasted. Also, it seemed a tornado had blown into Stars Hollow at some point during those three pitchers.

We watched the end of the game and long-distance high-fived the TV from our barstools, then got our check. And I don't know if it was because it was raining sideways, or if people are just REALLY nice in small towns, but the lady bartender offered to give us a ride home. It might also have been because I was so drunk I locked myself in the ladies room during halftime.

Either way... we were offered a free ride. And we totally would have taken it, except it stopped raining for a hot minute and I figured I needed the ten minute walk to sober me up a bit before I went home to K.

All in all... an AWESOME day for Dwight.

Friday, October 14, 2011

Pie Attack

I'd like to take a little trip down memory lane to a tragic day in history. It's the story of a hungry young girl with an appetite for life, who has her dreams smashed to crumbly apple bits. All over her shirt.

You see, that girl is me. And on a cold winter day, I sat on the couch, cuddled in my blanket and ready to watch a movie with my delicious snack. I raised my fork in anticipation of the taste of apple pie in my mouth when my plan backfired and my snack attacked me.

It all happened so fast. I held one hand under the plate as I tried to cut myself a small bite with my fork. The crust must have been harder than I thought, because it was that very moment that the pie lept off the plate angrily and jumped to its messy death onto my chest. I sat, stunned, staring down at the remnants of my dessert, not sure if I should laugh or cry.

Luckily, my sister was on hand to document the lowest moment of my adult life. She is such a princess, that one.

You can all thank her for these.

Thursday, October 13, 2011

30-year-old carebears

I have been a very busy bee, my beautiful babies. After I got over the Mad Cow Disease, K got it. Whomp, whomp. We've been sickies. But we DID manage to begin the long and arduous journey towards the completion of our HALLOWEEN COSTUMES. (And by "we", I mean "K" did most of the work, and I watched.)

Here are a few snapshots of the process:

The beginnings of Love-a-Lot's ear.

K, sketching out a clover for Good Luck bear's tummy.

Bedtime's tummy!

Our workshop, complete with model.
So, you guessed it: we're going to be carebears! So what if we're almost 30 and K is 6'6"? I might just make him wear the bedtime bear costume around the house so I can give him the carebear stare all day long. Stay tuned for pictures of the completed costumes after the Halloween party!!

Friday, October 7, 2011

The first hit is free

Playing it safe: all candy that I don't even like
so I won't be sad when it's gone.
We couldn't BELIEVE how many kids came to the house trick-or-treating last year. We made the grave mistake of handing the bowl out as they came to the door, rather than dishing the candy in regulated quantities. Big mistake. Those greedy little monsters were grabbing candy by the fistful. We made three trips to the store in total, and went through 10 bags of candy.

I even had to sacrifice the secret stash of kit kats I was withholding for my personal indulgence the next day, when I would be alone to eat my feelings.

This year, I was smart: I bought the candy that nobody I don't like.

I strategically chose items that will deter kids from wanting to return to our house next year. Like poison apples. And razor blades.

No, I'm not that evil. But here is what I did come up with:
- Pixy Stix (parents will LOVE me.)
- Marvel Heroes candy sticks (guaranteed to send your kid into a diabetic coma.)
- Starburst (does anybody REALLY like these?)
- Skittles (a risky purchase, since I do actually like skittles. I hope I can maintain enough willpower to avoid eating these before the big day arrives.)
- Nerds (delicious, but not my FIRST choice of candy.)

Note: no chocolate. No king sized candy bars. And I resisted the urge to purchase pop rocks and Lik-m-aid, because they're the heroin of the candy world. The first hit's free, but they'll keep coming back for more. You're welcome, parents.

God, I'm gonna be such a great mom someday.

Wednesday, October 5, 2011

Blast from the pornographic past

Hey, there it is!
Remember this music video? Where this dude basically showed us his junk and licked his lips a lot? I'm not saying I didn't like it. But do shiny abs spinning on a rotisserie really constitute an artistic masterpiece?

What happened to music videos that told a story? Had a plot, stirred up deep emotions with its artistic value? Like Lil Jon's Get Low? Girls on a stripper pole, booty poppin' in bras and heels? Iced grills and bottles of champagne? God bless those girls, if I tried to pull something like that, I'd throw my back out.

Skeet skeet, motha fuckas.

And a friendly heads up for the pervs like me that try to google d'angelo--don't. You'll get more than you bargained for.


Monday, October 3, 2011

Mad Cow Disease

I've been living in an adorable quarantine bubble, working from home, sheltered from the swine flu and SARS that the rest of the world working in actual offices has been contracting and sharing. I didn't realize how good I had it. Until now.

I woke up Sunday and it hit me like a ton of bricks. Sniffly, sneezing NON-STOP... coughing... and then the headache sets in later in the day. I must have Mad Cow. By the time I went to bed last night, even my FACE hurt from sneezing so hard.

When you're single and live alone, you can lay around in your PJs like a snotty mess for three days, surrounded by a sea of crumpled tissues and abandoned ice cream bowls watching Lifetime marathons and funneling Thera-Flu.

But now that K and I are living together, I feel a subconscious need to at least ATTEMPT to keep it together, get semi-dressed (PJ bottoms and a sweater was as far as I got) and keep my tissues in a neat pile (instead of strewn about the coffee table.) At least until I reached the headache point of no return, when I stopped having the energy to care and allowed myself to succumb to the sickness.

I'll tell you something, though. I never realized what I was missing OUT on, having someone to take care of me when I'm sick. I powered through while I lived by myself, sulked around for days, not wanting to be a bother to any of my friends. But to have someone get you Chinese food, make you tea, and sit on the couch watching bad movies all day with you? PRICELESS. This is SO much better than taking on SARS solo.

Thursday, September 29, 2011

My Ex is Engaged

I found out that my ex of 6 years got engaged. How are you honestly supposed to feel when this happens? Another girlfriend of mine had an ex have a baby this month. Though she and I are both in new, happy, committed relationships, there is still a strange, nostalgic feeling that accompanies news like this. We questioned ourselves: is it normal to feel this way?

Ironically, K and I discussed this the week before I found out the news. He said he thinks it's more difficult for girls for some reason. And I think he's right. I'm not quite sure why though. Is it because that person was such a big part of your life for so many years? Because there was a point in time when you thought that would be you standing next to him?

But you don't want to be with him. And even though my ex and I are still on good terms, there was a reason we broke up; we just weren't right together.

Remember my recurring wedding dream? If you don't, I'll rehash: for years, I have had this recurring dream in which I am preparing in the dressing room, getting ready to walk down the aisle. The dress and church were different each time, and I could never see the groom's face, though it was different each time. Every time, my mom and sister turned to me and said, "don't do it if you don't want to," and I wound up running out the back door, leaving the mystery groom at the altar. Each time, I woke up in a cold sweat after this nightmare. Then, a few weeks after I met K, I had the same dream. But it was different. I felt different. I was so happy, and for the first time, I could see that it was him standing at the altar, and I couldn't wait to marry him. That was the last time I ever had the dream.

My BFF Sarah made a valid point about the whole thing: she said it's the closing of the final chapter of what once was a big part of your life. That finality, that officially saying goodbye to your past. Maybe what it's really all about is letting go. And sometimes that is a tough thing to do.

But you know, in all honesty--I've had some time to let the news sink in, and even though this stirs up strange feelings of nostalgia, I truly am happy for him. And I actually like his fiancee, too. I wish the best for them both, and I honestly can't wait for the day I get to share all of this wedding/engagement excitement with K.

So you KNOW you're happy in your new relationship, but you just can't help but feel strangely nostalgic about the news. Why is this? Has anyone else had this happen? I suppose it's natural since we're *COUGH* almost 30 *COUGH*...

Tuesday, September 27, 2011

Bumfight at Walmart

We were stupid enough to attempt a Sunday night Walmart run last week. Apparently the People of Walmart come for their photoshoots that day, and we were knee-deep in white trash the entire trip.

We pulled into the parking lot and K got a bad case of road rage when we got stuck behind this chick parked in the fire lane, yelling at her boyfriend. He swerved around them and pulled into a spot. Never a good sign when you're angry before you even get INTO Walmart.

Walking up to the store, we could tell something was awry. A group of people (employees included) were gathered near the door, staring in the direction of the car, where the driver had gotten out to continue yelling at her boyfriend.

What happened next was nothing short of Walmart-tastic. Her boyfriend got out of the Taurus to approach another dude in a beat up pickup truck, parked a few spots away from us. Both of the guys in the truck got out, angry words ensued, and one of them jacked the girl's boyfriend right in the face.

The boyfriend stood, face bloody, banging on the truck windows as the dude who assaulted him locked his door and tried to escape. As the truck sped off, the angry, bloody boyfriend stared after it, shaking his fist in dejection.

It was a drive-by fist pumping of epic proportions, and it totally made my day. Just when you think Walmart can't get any trashier.

Monday, September 26, 2011

Epic Fail Monday: Jersey Turnpike

Hope these epic fails brighten your already awesome Monday.


Hard to tell whether this mannequin is trying to Jersey Turnpike or take a poop.

Literacy isn't dead.

... because Tom Andersen became her first friend on MySpace.

Isn't this a bit of an oxy moron?

I'll treat your mom with care.

Friday, September 23, 2011

Police Blotter Friday: Ninja Skinny Dip

September 17th: After hearing noises during the night and finding an unfamiliar pair of shoes near her hot tub in the morning, a woman on Spring Creek Drive suspected someone had used her hot tub while she was sleeping. 

Dear Hot Tub Ninja,

I understand that everybody needs to take a dip now and then. You were probably out for a midnight stroll, spotted the beam of light reflecting off of a stranger's hot tub, and thought you'd jump in and warm up for a bit. I'm curious why the woman who owned the hot tub didn't come outside and check what the noises were when she heard them, but you were probably just splashing around and accidentally turned on the jets. When you were done with your soak, you threw your shorts back on and went on your merry way. But you forgot one thing: your shoes. How did you not notice you weren't wearing them as you made your ninja escape? I mean, I would imagine your feet were pretty pruney once you got out of the tub, and probably more sensitive than usual as you continued your walk down the street. Or maybe you were wearing those freaky shoes that have toes, which don't feel like you're wearing anything at all, so you didn't notice the difference. Either way, nice job leaving a souvenir behind. You're like the Tommy Boy of ninjas, and if I were your ninja master, I'd revoke your purple belt. I hope you enjoyed your tub experience and good luck with the rest of your career. 


Thursday, September 22, 2011

High School Reunion

Most likely to be a smart ass?
Next year is my 10-year high school reunion. 10 fucking years. Where has the time gone?

I'd like to Romy and Michelle my ass in there, bragging about how I invented post-its, saying I've done all I set out to do when I left the mitten...but what did I really set out to do?

Truly, I've had a pretty charmed life. Moved to NY, worked at Cosmo, and found an awesome guy who doesn't mind that I sleep with giant carebears.

But 10 years is an eternity. What are you SUPPOSED to have accomplished by now? I'm not married, I don't have kids, and I drive the same car that I did in high school (which I'm actually pretty proud of.)

Things I've accomplished in the last 10 years:
- beat 37 spiders to death
- got a cat
- got 2 more cats when I met K
- drank 10,956 cups of coffee
- fed a giraffe
- learned how to mow the lawn
- developed a cougar crush on Justin Bieber
- got my boating license
- broke about a bajillion things around the house

What do you think? Does anyone get to 27 and feel like they accomplished what they set out to do?

Tuesday, September 20, 2011

Sucker for a sucker.

Go away, Cindy. I don't want
your delicious candy.
I'm a sucker. A huge fucking sucker. I heard a knock at the door yesterday, and opened it to a little girl with Cindy Lou Who eyelashes selling candy bars for $2 apiece.

There were several reasons for me NOT to buy candy from her. First of all, I'm on a diet. (They're these weird Swedish nutrition bars. They burn carbs. They just burn up all your carbs.) Second of all, I'm trying to save money.

So what did I do? Went and got a 5 spot out of my purse and brought it to the door. "Do you have change for a 5?" I asked. Of couuuurse she didn't. So instead of saying "you know, I'm all set, sweetie, thank you!" Which would have been absolutely acceptable, I said:

"Okay, I'll take 2 then. And you can just keep the change."


As I shut the door behind her, my eyes crazy with desire for the devil's chocolatey playthings in my warm little hands, I realized that I had forgotten to even ask what the donation was for.

Hopefully I didn't fund an underground cocaine ring for schoolchildren.

Monday, September 19, 2011

Epic Fail Monday: Prison Tats and Canadian Tuxedos

Happy Epic Fail Monday! Here are a few LOLs to get you through the toughest day of the week.
Prison tattoo fail. I hope that's Sharpie, Ashley.

That's what she said?
Naked man and kittens: sexy fail.

Nice Canadian tuxedo, Ryan Seacrest. Fashion fail.

A whole FEST? For JESUS?! Sounds like a blast in a glass.

Isn't it a bit too late for this suggestion?

Friday, September 16, 2011

Drink the koolaid

Hey, little girl... do you want some candy?
I was watering the plants in my front yard like a 90-year-old lady when a white escalade pulled up in front of the house, and two men in suits exited the vehicle, both holding binders.

I looked around nervously, planning my escape route. Because clearly these guys were here to either plan and execute my abduction, or doing an unconventional daytime drive-by.

I froze as they approached me, and a pool of water began to form on the lawn where I absentmindedly held the hose. And of course I was wearing my sluttiest flowy boob shirt and goucho pants, my "I'm-not-leaving-the-house-today" outfit. Epic fail.

I stared them down until they spoke. "Hi, we're here from the church of WeLoveJesus, and we'd just like to ask you a few questions."

The polite young lady deep (VERY deep) down inside me didn't want to be rude, and I obliged. (Damn you, people pleasing syndrome!!)

"Do you and your husband have any kids?"

Whaa? Husband? Kids?

How did I answer this man's question without breaking his Jesus-loving heart?

"Why actually, sir, we're living in sin. We're not married, and we don't plan on having children in the near future. Hell, come on over Thursday and bring your boyfriend--we're hosting an orgy!"

Instead, I weighed my options and decided a blanket "no" would cover it.

"Do you ever think about the future?" he asked me. This was becoming more of a philosophical pondering than an interrogation. I realized quickly that it was up to me to end this, or they would be camping out on my front lawn. "No," I replied.

No? I never think about the future? HUGE lie. But I was desperate. And I didn't want to talk about Jesus anymore.

They took the hint, left me with some mind-blowing literature, and burned rubber down the street in their escalade.

Since when did recruiting people for the church of WeLoveJesus become such a profitable and accosting operation? Does anybody else have any good stories about solicitors?

Thursday, September 15, 2011

High-maintenance? Or adult baby?

I heard on the radio this morning that one of the warning signs of being a high-maintenance girl is having a lot of stuffed animals.

You thought I was kidding, didn't you?
There he is in all his glory, folks: the namesake
of this blog, and my bedmate of 27 years: Heart Po.
If that's the case, K is in a world of trouble. Our bedroom looks like a 5-year-old's fantasy suite, complete with heart po (pink gingham pillow who inspired the name of this blog), a purple stuffed pegasus that K got me for valentine's day (Peggy), and a giant carebear (I need someone to snuggle with when K is not home and/or is staying up late playing call of duty.)

This is not just for show, or for purposes of exaggeration. Ask anyone who comes over on a regular basis. Our room looks like this ALL the time. And let me tell you why I love K: he NEVER complains. He actually steals our bedmates for snuggling purposes in the middle of the night, much to my chagrin. I try to wrestle them away from him, but he is surprisingly strong when in a post-COD coma.

Does this make me high-maintenance? I think it actually makes me more like the equivalent of one of those adults who like to dress up as giant babies in cribs. But not in the weird fetishy way.

Tuesday, September 13, 2011

MOM. Guess who's PREGNANT??

"MOM. Guess who's PREGNANT??"
"Oh... not me."

Apparently I have a certain finesse for phone calls. And giving my mom heart attacks. I guess when you get to the point in your life that becoming pregnant is a possibility, albeit a far off in the future one, you shouldn't start conversations with heart-stopping lines such as this.

I was filling her in on some facebook dirt I had dug up on a girl I went to school with, and was eager to share the news. Mom doesn't do facebook, so I have to give her monthly rundowns when juicy gossip pops up on my newsfeed.

We discussed whether the pregnancy was planned, if I thought she was happy, and when she was due. I can't wait for the baby shower photos to be uploaded, I'll have to give her a verbal play-by-play of each snapshot.

Friday, September 9, 2011


This is not a joke, people.
I've got a fresh new can of whoopass to open on these stage mom bitches.

In almost every episode I've seen, the sequin-clad toddler is screaming, crying, and being dragged by her daintily painted fingernails to center stage.

What possesses these moms to torture their kids in such a fashion? Parading them around in baby hooker outfits (no, really), training them to be tiny bitches with superficial diva tendencies? False eyelashes, toupees, "flippers", and spray tans belong in a wax museum, not on your child.

And are they seriously so self-centered that they don't realize these shows are making FUN of them, not celebrating their vicarious living? I am frightened for the future generation of women that these parents are raising.

She's having a blast!
You may have not fulfilled your dream of being a Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader or having Richard Gere rescue you from the throes of prostitution, but your 3-year-old sure as hell doesn't want to punished for it. So take off the false eyelashes and take her to Chuck E. Cheese, where a kid can be a kid.

Thursday, September 8, 2011

Spider Assasination

Crossing through the kitchen yesterday, I noticed Loki perched under the kitchen table. It was a weird place for him to sit; kitties have their fave nap spots (wheremycrazycatladiesat!)

Figure A., subcat position.
I bent down and walked towards him. "Heeey, buuuddy! What are you doing under the tab--OHMYGODDD!"

I backed up and stood frozen in the middle of the kitchen, staring. Loki crouched in subcat position (see figure A), eyeing his newest target: an eight legged monster of epic proportions.

I slowed my ragged breathing to normal and assessed my options:

Option A: grab object close to me, not taking my eyes off of the creature. Problem was, things around me included: a pack of Hershey's chocolate, a candle, K's fanny pack, and a box of Triscuits. Not even close to enough ammo.

Option B: walk away from the spider to go find a longer weapon with which to attack. The risk factor: it could run away in the meantime, never to be found again. I would not sleep for an entire week, and if my eyes did close, visions of creepy crawlers would inch their way into my brain.

I decided reluctantly to go with Option B. I dashed into the laundry room and retrieved the longest, most dangerous weapon I could get my hands on: a dollar store broom.

I ran back into the room, and took a deep breath before I executed the assasination.

The next minute was a blur of flying plastic, screeching kitties, and crying. When the battle was over, I stood sweaty and heaving in the middle of the kitchen, shards of broken plastic strewn across the kitchen. The spider was dead, the kitties were scared, and my eyes were glazed over with crazy. I think next time, I'll leave the spider killing to K.
The aftermath.

Tuesday, September 6, 2011

Ranger Danger and Carol's Broken Arm

This weekend, my girlfriend KW came into town from the mitten state and we went camping. The noise police was on patrol, and we were notified twice to keep our voices to a whisper. Quiet time began at 10pm, and we received our first verbal assault at 10:15pm. Ranger Danger was on POINT.

After several (muted) beer pong games, we all settled in for a long winter's nap. But what we thought would be a peaceful slumber turned into Nightmare on Elm Street when we were awoken around 4am to the sounds of blood-curdling screeches coming from a neighboring tent.

I shot up in my sleeping bag, my eyes adjusting to the darkness. I heard the screams again.


Holy crap. What was going on?

"Yes, you can. It's OPEN. Just get out."
"Carol. Walk towards the door. It's unzipped."
"WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!" (Fierce rustling sounds -- apparently Carol was battling a raccoon?)

We crawled out to get a better view of the action. Carol's screams continued for about 5 minutes, while her friend coached her blindly toward the door. Yelling finally diminished to muffled sobs, and it was clear that she had found her way out of the labyrinth.

Whatever became of Carol? Did she really break her arm? Or was she just a victim of an acid trip gone wrong? The world may never know. But I'll be checking the police blotter for an update on her status.

Thursday, September 1, 2011

Condoms in a Fanny Pack

As K sped out the door for work yesterday morning, THIS fell out of his fanny pack.

Whaaaat. Is that.

Alarmed, I sleepily strode over and picked up his contraceptive, somewhere in the back of my head wondering why he would keep them in his fanny pack. And why he even has a fanny pack.

It was then that I realized it was no condom.

It was a lens cleaning wipe.

Whoops... my bad. I think I've been watching too much Maury.

Tuesday, August 30, 2011

Penis balloons and stripper heels

"Hey baby! How's the party going?"
"You do, huh?" 
"YESSSS. All the girls let me try on their wedding rings and they are SOOO SPARKLYYYY."
"Oh yeah?" 
(phone goes silent) ... Helloooo? Baaabyyy?"

You know, I'm thinking of turning this blog into an advice column. Because I hear that the best way to get your boyfriend to want to marry you is to drunkenly demand he give you very expensive diamonds.

He did not in fact hang up on me, but this ill-timed, epic iphone fail was really the epitome of my entire evening. Thank god K has a sense of humor.

This phone conversation took place at approximately 7pm Saturday during a bachelorette party, between a delicious wine tasting and going out to the bars.

The rest of the night was awesome, but it made me realize that I can't hang like I used to.

Remember when we could stay up for three days straight, do shots of cheap vodka, dance on tables, drink our faces off then wake up at 6am to start drinking again for tailgate? How the hell did we do it?

My girlfriend J put it perfectly when she suggested we kick off the night with a champagne toast, then we pop two advil.

Man, when did we get so old? One wine tasting and I was half in the bag. Guess I just can't hang with the kiddies like I used to.

Fun fact: If you Google 'penis balloons', Christina Aguilera comes up all over the place.