Friday, May 27, 2011


K and I no longer measure the length of time we've been together in years... we measure in Call of Duty releases. So far, we've survived Modern Warfare, World at War, Modern Warfare 2, Black Ops, several stupid map pack releases in between, and now MODERN WARFARE 3?

When I say survived, I mean HE survived. The wrath of me, when he stays up all night and comes to bed at 5am. 

K has strategically failed to mention the release of this new gem, probably with good reason. Have I mentioned I effing HATE call of duty? With the firey passion of a thousand burning suns.

I know there are plenty worse things he could be doing that I could be yelling about, but Call of Duty is a thorn in my SIDE. And I want to punch it in the face.

Maybe I'm really just mad at myself for joining K's dirty threesome, trying to learn how to play and subsequently being mocked by all of K's online gamer boyfriends.

It looks like it's going to be another stormy Call of Duty season. I'll batten down the hatches. And stock up on US Weeklys to keep myself entertained.

Wednesday, May 25, 2011

Google Maps Hates Abortions

While searching for a new doctor yesterday, I thought I'd check out the Google street view of each of the locations listed, to see if I liked the areas, what the buildings looked like, etc. And in one of the locations, this is what I found:

The office looks great, I like the area, and the sun is gleaming... right off the abortion protesters' signs.

Take a look. That's right, abortion protesters. What are the chances they would be outside of the office RIGHT as the google street car drove by? Pretty slim. And if they were there then, chances are even better that they're there often. And the last thing I want to deal with when I'm on my way for a pap smear is people yelling at my car, calling me a baby killer.

So... needless to say, I'm going to find a different doctor.

Tuesday, May 24, 2011

I'm deaf in the right ear.

I'm back, bitches. I'm sure you're all waiting with baited breath to hear how my trip down memory lane was this weekend.


I went back home to the mitten to visit my parents and my college roomie and BFF Kristin.

A short recap on why we are BFFs: we got put in blind freshman year in college. Due to overbooking, we had a third roommate who was supposed to stay in our room until something opened up. We kicked her out before we even met in person, when we decided we were soulmates after a phone conversation during which Kristin informed me that she once threw a refrigerator over a balcony on spring break. Insta-BFFs.

Fast forward 9 years (holy shit!) and we are inseperable, even though we live in different states.

Rockin' out with our 80s gear.
So I went to visit her and catch up. We found ourselves immediately at happy hour on Friday, drinking delicious beers and singing Justin Bieber songs at the top of our cougar lungs.

Saturday, we went to an 80s party that was ah-MAZING. Naturally, we dressed up in our hottest leg warmers and crimped side ponytails for the endeavor. The place had a cover band that played the best 80s songs EVER. We stood in the front row, right in front of a giant speaker--which explains why I still can't hear out of my right ear. Totally worth it.
Awesome 80s band & giant speaker that stole my hearing.

We had an awesome time this weekend, and it was so good to see my lady friend. I missed her terribly. There are some friends you lose touch with over the years, and some that stay stronger than ever. That you can sing Justin Bieber songs with. And wear side ponytails. I am so thankful for those friends.

Friday, May 20, 2011

Police Blotter Friday: Lost in the Wood.

April 16th - 10:05pm
Police were dispatched to Washington Street for a caller reporting a missing person. The officer then spoke with a woman who said her husband sent her a text message reporting being "lost in the wood." The officer had a dispatch 'ping' the phone and it showed the last time it had been used was in a neighboring town. 

It's super easy to get let go of your mom's hand at the mall and wander into the Toys-R-Us for a Tickle Me Elmo, and suddenly you turn around and realize you have no idea where you are. Terrifying. I'm sure that's just what happened. To a grown man. Who found himself lost in the woods.

Why a text message? If he had the ability to text, he certainly could have at the very least called his wife to have her mapquest him out of the wood. Or hopped on the interwebs and figured it out himself. Hey, they say the iPhone tracks you wherever you go anyways.

I can only imagine how that convo went:
Wife: Hey asshole, when are you coming home?
Husband: Don't know.
Wife: Why? Where the hell are you?
Husband: Lost in the wood.

And what exactly was he doing in the wood? In a neighboring town? Did he follow a white rabbit in a waistcoat? Shrink himself down with magic potion then run three miles giggling like a schoolgirl until he realized he was lost in the wood?

I sure hope he managed to click his red heels and make it home to his loving wife, who was obviously very worried about him. And sir, just a suggestion: maybe it's time to upgrade to a smart phone with GPS features? Or at the very least, a compass.

Wednesday, May 18, 2011

I am a HUGE asshole.

Okay, I am a HUGE asshole. I was at the airport (still am, as I type this), toting around a hugely overstuffed carryon since checking a bag for fucking $50 is out of the question, when I had to pee. I dragged my baggage into the ladies room, and it was empty.

Upon entering, I was faced with two choices. A choose your own adventure of the very best kind. Option A: drag my overpacked bag into a single stall and attempt to close the door on both of us. Option B: step into the luxury handicapped suite complete with double the square footage and a bonus handrail.

Naturally, I chose the latter.

I took my sweet time in there--it was quiet, free from the loud, anxiety-ridden chaos of the terminal. And since nobody else was in there, I thought I'd even pop out my cellular device and hop on the old facebook (so much for that hiatus, right?)

So I'm checking status updates, relaxing in my luxury suite when I hear somebody come into the bathroom, interrupting my peaceful zen.

"Would you like to leave the wheelchair out here, ma'am?"

Oh shit.

What are the fucking CHANCES that somebody who actually NEEDS the luxury suite comes into the bathroom while I'm in there??

I quickly shoved my phone into my bag, got myself together and sheepishly exited the suite, head hung in shame. The look the TSA agent assisting the handicapped woman gave me was nothing short of disapproving, I'm sure. I couldn't lift my head up to meet her eyes to confirm. I washed my hands, unflushed my cheeks and skedaddled the hell out of there to the sounds of a wheelchair banging against the sides of the stall.

Tuesday, May 17, 2011

Your clothes, give them to me!

Holy scandal, batman! By now, I'm sure you've heard that Maria Shriver left Ahnold because she discovered that he fathered a child with their housekeeper. 10 years ago.

Firstly, good for you, Maria. Secondly, I commend Ahnold for being forthcoming and owning up to his... uh, mistake. But the news brings several questions to mind:

Ten years ago? This child is not a baby. Does he/she know the Terminator is their dad?

Reports say the housekeeper was married at the time the child was conceived. I'm sure the husband could tell the baby wasn't his when he came out with a bionic arm and one red eye.

Good for Ahnold for sending cash monies to the kid for his entire life so far, but how was there no paper trail? And if he's sending money, is he (more importantly) playing an active role in the child's life? My guess is probs not.

I don't know about you, but guilt eats at me like battery acid. I can't eat, I can't sleep, it's all I can talk about. So how did Ahnold last 10 years?? And when exactly did he bear his soul to Maria and the kids?

What a crappy thing to have to go through, especially in the public eye. Maybe Ahnold and Tiger Woods can go grab a bite together, laugh about their indiscretions--and build a giant doghouse... for two.

Monday, May 16, 2011

First rule of yard sale: don't talk about yard sale.

The first rule of yard sale is: don't talk about yard sale. If you keep the uproar to a minimum, we may have a better chance of snagging the hot items. Like Nintendo cartridges. Or VHS tapes.

We had our town wide yard sale this weekend. K and I stumbled upon it last year by chance, driving home hungover from a night at a friend's house. It was early, my head hurt, and I was thirsty as hell, but the call of my neighbors' used items lured me with its siren song.

Yard sale is by far the best day of the year. It is like Christmas (minus the Santa), and I wake up with the excitement level appropriate for such an occasion. This usually calls for jumping on the bed in my PJs and making my stuffed pegasus repeatedly and vigorously hug a very sleepy K until he stirs out of slumber. 
The faux bear rug--a big hit with the kitties.
Last year, we scored our kitchen table and chairs for $40. Awesome, right? We also managed to make it home with a faux bear rug and a suit bag that we got for $1 each. SCORE. 

This year, we woke up a little late. But it was okay, because the weather was a little crappy anyways. We got dressed, drank some coffee, read the police blotter, and we were on our way. We walked around and found a few items that we loved--I got some candle holders for $3 and... a CAREBEAR! For 50 cents! Now THAT is a deal.

Nothing pleases me more than walking down the streets, waving to my neighbors. I am like the homecoming queen, and I would straight wear a tiara if I wouldn't be shunned from Yard Sale.

We learned a valuable lesson this year at Yard Sale, however. We found a coat rack that I was dying to have, it was only $2! And it was in pretty good shape. K insisted that we come back around and pick it up on our way back home since we didn't know how heavy it would be. When we came back around on our return trip, the coat rack was gone. Second rule of Yard Sale: grab 'em while the gettin' is good. Or cry yourself to sleep that night.

Candles I scored this year-- $3 for both!

And the real prize... Bedtime Bear! He lights up and EVERYTHING.

Friday, May 13, 2011

Happy Hump Day!

I know it's not really hump day. Wednesday is hump day, right? The day when people across the world feed into their inner beastly desires, run around in their birthday suits, and do it like they do on the discovery channel.

Which is what I actually thought, until K clarified the meaning of hump day for me... one week ago.

Let me recap the convo for you:

Me, talking to K on phone last Wednesday while he was away for work: Man, this has been a long week.
K: Yeah, but at least it's Wednesday!
Me: Ooh that's right! Hump day! You'll just have to run around your hotel room and hump the fresh linens.
K (long pause): You DO know that hump day is a term that means the middle of the week, signifying that the rest of the week is all downhill from here? 
Me (tilts head in confusion): You mean... it doesn't mean that everybody humps?
K, laughing hysterically: Um, no. 

And that, my friends, is how I learned about the birds and the bees. And how inappropriate my thought patterns are. Kindof like the time I learned what blumpkin means. But we'll save that for another post.

Wednesday, May 11, 2011

The Hooligan House

I am the nosiest neighbor you will ever have. I work from home full time, live in a small town, and have little else to do than army crawl on my living room floor spying on you out the window.

We live in a peaceful little town for the most part, white picket fences, Victorian style houses, a police squad of about 3 cars. But there is ONE house across the street from us that has disturbed the peace since I moved in. The Hooligan House.

We would constantly hear the big mean bullying teenagers screaming obscenities and pushing around the younger kids as they walked past our house on their way to school. The mom was never home, and the oldest teenage daughter sat most nights on the porch, smoking and rocking her newborn child... in a car seat.

I can't tell you how many times we heard the mom standing on the porch, screaming at the oldest girl for hanging out with the kid across the street and smoking pot. I'm talking white-trash-episode-of-COPS screaming.

Then, there was the time that the girl's underage boyfriend was arrested in front of the house for trying to drive his motorcycle while intoxicated. Naturally, K and I decided this would be the perfect time to go out front on the porch and have a cigarette. Or five. With the porch lights off so we could see better. Come on, this isn't amateur hour.

Just before winter hit, it appeared they abandoned the house. We only figured this out this after we went a few weeks without hearing screaming or cursing, and the cops stopped rolling down our street nightly. They left ALL kinds of crap on their porch. The baby car seat, corn stalks, broken lawn chairs, a pair of galoshes, a broken mailbox, and what was left of a busted up basketball hoop. It was truly a sight to behold, but we breathed a sigh of relief as we accepted that they were finally gone. A few weeks later, the two cars in the driveway were towed, and the things were cleared off of the porch.

Then, driving by one day, (at a slow crawl, so I could survey the scene) I noticed that the front door had been smashed in. Broken glass, it looked like the whole door was bent--maybe kicked in. A break-in? But who would dare trespass on the Hooligan House? And what could they POSSIBLY hope to steal? Beheaded baby dolls? Crack pipes?

A month ago, to my anger and dismay, we started noticing their black SUV in the driveway again. Then came the familiar screams, and the cops rolling down our street daily. And yesterday, I heard the boyfriend screaming at someone on the phone while literally standing in our driveway. I stood frowning, like an ornery old lady, holding my cat and watching him through the window with a scowl.

It looks like the hooligans are back. I can't wait to see what they have in store for us this time around, and what kind of crap they will adorn their porch with. Bah humbug.

Monday, May 9, 2011

Who wants a swirly?

I have a long and expensive history of giving my phones a bath at highly inconvenient times. This weekend was no exception.

Waiting for K to text me on his way home from work, I kept my phone close to my ass--tucked deep in the back pocket of my jeans. Two glasses of wine and some hilarious conversation with some awesome ladies later, and of course I forgot it was back there.

I went to go to the bathroom (this was pre-pee, I promise) and suddenly I heard a gentle PLOP and a splash.

I realized right away what I had done, but instead of turning around in a hurry (thanks, delicious wine, for slowing my reflexes) I said (out loud) "ohhh... NOOOO," and turned around in slow motion to survey the damage.

Luckily, my brother in law works for AT&T and was quick as lightning to open up the phone and do cellular CPR. He reported back that it didn't appear to have any damage, but if I should notice anything to give him a call.

This wasn't the first time I gave my phone a bath, and I'm sure it won't be the last. But I guess the only thing truly hurt that night was my pride.

Friday, May 6, 2011

Never let go, Jack.

The actual cover art. No joke.
Yesterday, I was browsing our Netflix queue... Maniac Nurses Find Ecstasy... X-Files... Alien vs. Predator... Titanic 2? Really?

I looked it up on IMDB to see if it was legit. Believe it or not, it was.

"On the 100th anniversary of the original voyage, a modern luxury liner christened "Titanic 2," follows the path of its namesake. But when a tsunami hurls an ice berg into the new ship's path, the passengers and crew must fight to avoid a similar fate." 

*Tilts head and frowns*

 Okay, passengers of the luxurious new ship... I have a few questions. I don't know if you caught the adventures of Jack and Kate on any one of the thousands of times it has been re-run on TBS, but I'll sum up their bitter end for you in three words: iceberg, right ahead.

We all know what happened to those unlucky passengers of the first Titanic on that cold April evening. And I'm sure some of you were dying to recreate the naked painting scene and maybe even the romp in the carriage (cue handprint on window). But was it worth suffering through the ENTIRE experience again?

Were you really surprised when your ship got hit by another iceberg, closely resembling the fate of your predecessor? I mean--the tsunami was a bit of a monkey wrench; I'll give you that. But I'm assuming the end result is pretty much the same.

I didn't happen to catch your sequel since it went straight to DVD, but I imagine you all faced many of the same challenges that Jack and his friends did on the first go-around. I wish you all the best, and I at least hope you had enough lifeboats this time.

Thursday, May 5, 2011

I can has cheezburger?

It's no secret that I have a newly reignited obsession with Maury. I love watching him deliberately put on his glasses, read the paternity tests and announce: "You are NOT the father!"

Every once in a blue moon, they feature the 'bad girl' episodes. You know, "My 12-Year-Old Daughter Is The Village Bicycle." Those kinds of shows. These are truly gems.

Oh, Audreeana. I think your parents sealed your fate when they added the double 'e' to your name. Those hoop earrings don't help much either. I'm sure you're a very sweet girl, and god knows I've had insane cravings for a cheeseburger before too. (A girl's got to eat, right?) But trading a happy meal for sexual favors? At least get yourself some steak and potatoes, girl. You're going to be hungry again in an hour anyway. 

I guess you gotta do what you gotta do. I mean even those LOLcats need some noms every now and again.

But next time, maybe just go up to the counter and ask for one. I'm sure somebody will take pity on you and slide you a quarter pounder.

Wednesday, May 4, 2011

Mean Girls

I can remember back to high school when there were people I dreaded seeing every day. I'd walk awkwardly down the hallway, trying to avoid eye contact. I just wanted to stay invisible. I thought if I could make it through four years without being noticed by the wrong people, I'd be okay.

I'm 27, and those days of trying to avoid being noticed still haunt me. I've never been one of the cool kids--I didn't fit in with them. And to this day, when one of them sends me a facebook friend request, I am surprised that they even know who I am.

I never experienced true bullying; I think I managed to fly below the radar enough to avoid it. But I still felt the pain and awkwardness that came along with not feeling like I fit in. And even when I got the chance, I couldn't bring myself to join them--to become one of the mean girls, who made fun of other people and made them feel bad about themselves.

It's easy to do, isn't it? Join in and gang up on someone who is vulnerable, say things behind their back, and make them feel sad and left out? And unless you've been on the receiving end of such treatment, you'll never know how it feels. The harder thing is to not join in. And if you've ever been in a situation like that, I commend you for staying strong and not being a part of the negativity.

With the popularity of facebook and twitter, kids are finding even more creative ways to bully each other. It hurts to see people write things about each other back and forth, and I can't even imagine going through that as a kid, having to see those people every day and feel that pain. I can see how some of these kids feel so overwhelmed with all of the drama and tension that they feel they have no other way out than to end their lives.

It's got to stop. I don't care how old you are or what your situation is--be the person who doesn't join in. Because the truth is, people who spend their time hating others are probably hurting more on the inside than you'll ever know.

Monday, May 2, 2011

Redneck Raking

This weekend, I strapped on my swishy pants and Tractor Supply galoshes and stomped around the house scaring the cats. (They're terrified of the swishy pants.) We got down and dirty after buying planters and yard decorations from a surprise 50% off sale at Joann Fabrics. (Who knew?!)

At one point during the digging, K went out back to mow the lawn while I finished up planting the flowers in the front yard. I was standing at the kitchen sink washing my hands post-planting, when I saw a giant plume of smoke rising from the middle of the yard. It was then that I realized I didn't hear the mower anymore, and I couldn't see K.

I dashed out back to assist in the fire extinguising. I assumed the lawn mower had exploded into tiny bits, and visions of K lying on the lawn with shards of grassy mower shrapnel filled my mind.

What I found instead was K crouched in the middle of the lawn, lighting a square of grass on fire. With a blowtorch.

The "test patch" that K burned into our lawn.
I stood for a moment, head cocked in questioning disapproval and confusion. What... was he doing? Making crop circles in case aliens decided to descend upon us?

"Honey, what are you doing?" I yelled, anxiously awaiting his explanation.
"Burning the dry grass," he replied matter-of-factly.
"Uh... what? Why are you torching a square into the lawn?"
"It burns up the dry grass so the other grass can grow through it. Haven't you ever seen it?"
"No. I grew up in the suburbs, honey. I've never seen anyone light their lawn on fire."
"It's great! The lawn grows back fuller and thicker. I'm doing a test patch."
"A test patch... in the middle of the lawn?"
"Yeah! It's redneck raking!"

I sucked both lips in and tilted my head in the other direction, contemplating how to wrap my mind around what was transpiring. He was already done though, and there it was: a big giant square of burned lawn, right there in the middle of the yard.

And there you have it. What K likes to call "redneck raking."

We should start doing internet videos about redneck yard work. I think they'd be a big hit for the folks over at Tractor Supply.