Merrittocracy

Fragments

Friday again, another installment of fragments. I'd love to say that this week just flew by, but it really didn't. It really, really didn't.
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Coolest saying ever: nuggets of wisdom. It reminds me of poop. If wisdom was poop, or if nuggets meant poop, I don't know. Nevermind. Made more sense in my head.

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Every August, Davey goes to football camp. It's run by the high school football coach (who incidentally was the coach and gym teacher when I was in high school). David looks forward to this camp all spring and summer long. Well, there was a message on the answering machine, they'd cancelled it. Didn't say why. The poor kid is heartbroken. The lady who called said, in lieu of football camp, we're willing to offer you a free week at the outdoors camp. Ok, first off lady, it isn't free. I already paid my $100. Second, "in lieu of" a stupid saying. Third, outdoor camp and football camp are so not the same thing. Now look what you made him do.

It's a sign he made. Supper bumed. Poor kid is so distraught he can't even spell. I think he was going for super bummed. I'm also not sure why the P on the guys' chest is backwards. Might have to check into that.

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Actual conversation via text message:

Me: Do I make you happy?

Chris: Of course you do.

Me: What if I had an unfortunate accident with a wood chipper and I lost the bottom half of my body, and we could never have sex again. Would I still make you happy?

Chris: In the unlikely event that you were critically injured in a wood chipper accident, yes, you'd still make me happy.

Me: What if I had to talk around on my hands? Or pull my torso behind me?

Chris: Yes. I would still be eternally grateful that I was with you.

Me: What if I had to use my chin to walk because the wood chipper gave me gangrene and I had to have my arms cut off and I inched around like a caterpillar?

Chris: In that incredibly morbid event, I would still be happy. Not happy that you were a human inch worm, but happy to be with you.

Me: Ok good. Just checking.

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I spent some time going through my archives this week, fixing old links, making sure everything was pretty and all cleaned up. If you notice that I missed something or something is not working, let me know, granted I may tell you go to hell, but that's a risk we're gonna have to take. If you're interested in going down the rabbit hole a little further check them out. It's kind of interesting to see how I used to try to be a good little mommy blogger. I even tried the no swearing policy. Then it went to shit and I decided to stop trying to be something I'm not. I went back and tried to change all the "fricking" and "friggin" to fucking, because c'mon. Who am I trying to kid?

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How was your week?

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Check out more Friday Fragments with Mrs4444.

You know what I'm not? A SAHM. Thank God.

I've learned a lot this week. Namely, I am so fucking grateful that I'm not a stay at home mom.

Normally, the kids go with their Dad during the day because I refuse to pay for daycare for kids who really only need enough supervision to make sure they don't burn the house down or kill each other. Tuesday, I had a big project I was working on and I needed Photoshop, which I don't have on my computer at work, so I worked from home. I could've still sent them to their Dad's, but it was a beautiful day, I figured I could work and the kids could just play outside and I could work uninterrupted. So wrong. They played outside, but funny thing. When the windows are open because it's 85 degrees outside and 117 inside, you can hear everything. EVERYTHING. For the first 2 hours, I listened to them play this incarnation of Deal or No Deal (they watch a lot of Game Show Network during the day at their Dad's, what can I say), only instead of suitcases, they used the basketball. I never realized how extraordinarily bossy Kat was, she's yelling at David, No! I'm the host! No! You go over there! No! That's not how the rules are! David, do it MY way! Holy shit, it was driving me nuts. I "reminded" her about 27 times to play nice, and by reminded, I mean I yelled out the window, knock it off.

So then after lunch, I told them that they could play with the hose in the backyard. I really, really needed to get my project done for a big presentation I had, so I was hoping the bickering would stop if they cooled off a little. Nope. They argued over who gets to spray the hose, who had it longer, who sprayed who last. It was excruciating. About 3 hours into that, they finally got along, only to send me straight into madness. They decided to sing. The Barney song. Over, and over, and over, and over. Finally I was like, GOOD CHRIST PLEASE STOP SINGING! Then they went back to fighting. Sigh. Now normally I would have some reprieve at 2:20 when Chris got out of work, but he's working a different shift this week and isn't home until almost 8:00. I had to make dinner, get all the housework done, begin my slow descent into madness AND get my project done.

How these moms stay home and deal with that shit all day is beyond me. Don't get me wrong, I love my kids, I really do. I do not love staying home with them all day. Granted, I was with them all day Saturday, Sunday, Monday and Tuesday, but I don't think it's normal to have kid overload after 4 days. To do it day in and day out...I'd need to be committed. I have to do it again next week, to be home with them all day. I'm afraid. Hold me.

It's my blog and I'll quote Popeye if I want to

Lately there's been all this talk about what is and what is not a mommy blogger. About why we blog, why we do what we do, and why we feel it's necessary to be put in a box (or bust open the seams of said box). I got an email today about yesterday's post. Basically tsk tsking me for talking about vibrators on a mommy blog. This, combined with Aunt Becky's (in case you didn't know, Aunt Becky is the shit. I totally stalk her and you should too. She rocks beyond compare) question, "Why do you blog?" really got me thinking. Who am I really? Where do I fit? Why do I really blog? Am I doing the wrong thing? Am I too "out there"?

I have kids, sometimes I talk about them. That doesn't make me a mommy blogger, at least not what people seem to think mommy bloggers are. If there was some rule that "mommy bloggers" weren't allowed to talk about things like porn or vibrators, no one told me. See the title up there at the top of the page? That's my name. My real name, well the Merritt part, not the ocracy part, that would be a hella weird name. So...my name, my rules. If what I write offends you, don't read it. Because honestly, I don't write for you. And maybe that's not cool for me to say, but it's true. Yes, I love that people read what I write. I love when people leave comments, because it gives me validation that I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and doggone it, people like me. But at the end of the day, I write for me.

I have notebooks full of random shit that just pops into my head. I need an outlet for my crazy, and this is it. They used to have me on Prozac, but this is really much cheaper. You can only tell your friends and family about your random rambling thoughts so many times before people really start to think you're nuts. On my blog, I can be nuts, I can be crazy, because hey, crazy is the new black, right? (See how I just slipped that in there? I should totally be in advertising.) I write because I love to write. I love to have this crazy idea in my head, all jumbled and senseless, and just let it out into a (vaguely) coherent story. I love the process. I love everything about it. I've written for myself for way longer than blogs were popular, and really before the internet was even a "thing", I'm that old, y'all. It's always been my outlet, the only difference between now and then is, now, I have an audience other than my mother (my mom still reads my blog, even though she thinks I'm vulgar).

I'm doing all I can to not apologize for even possibly offending someone, but I'm not going to do it. As a wise sailor once said, "Aye yam who aye yam, and that's all that aye yam."

Best iPod attachment. Ever.

So the other day I was playing on my laptop and somehow got on Eden Fantasys, a sex toy website. I don't remember the linkage that got me there, but I spent the whole afternoon looking at sex toys, and holy shit there really is something for everyone. By the way, this is totally why I love my laptop. I can look at sex toys while the kids watch Jaws. I know, I know, it's not appropriate to be looking at adult things while the kids are around, but hello? They were watching Jaws, it's not like they were paying any attention to me. Ok, so they probably shouldn't have been watching Jaws either, but it's not like I was going for mother of the year anyway.

And you know how I'm always looking for places to write? Well, Eden Fantasies has this program where they'll send you sex toys to try and you have to write a review about it for their website. I don't know if you've heard all the chatter about blogger PR Blackouts or the ethical dilemmas about accepting or not accepting "gifts" in exchange for a review, but I say screw ethics. If someone wants to send me free sex toys, and all I have to do is try them out and write a review, sign me the hell up.

Where was I? Oh yes, something for everyone. There's even a toy for music lovers like me. Ok, you know those little plastic dogs that dance around when they're plugged into your iPod? iDogs, or something like that? Well they have the same thing for adults. But it's not a dog, it's a vibrator. So it's not really the same thing, but it's still a toy that hooks up you your iPod and "dances" to the music, which to me sounds way more awesome than a stupid dog that jumps around. I haven't tried it, and I don't think I'd buy it because I only listen to my iPod at work (which just wouldn't be a good idea), in the car (which could be very distracting) and when I do yard work (my neighbors already think I'm nuts), but I still think it's a cool idea.

I bet if your kids have one those, you're never gonna look at them the same again.

P.S. The sex toy isn't really a dog, I'm just messing with you. Here's the actual link to the NaughtiNano, should you be so inclined.

Fragments

So I've been looking for something "catchy" for a weekly post. I thought about doing Flashback Fridays, but then as I started writing these stories, almost all of them started with, this one time, when I was drunk/high (did I not tell you I used to be a total juvenile delinquent?) and since I have to preserve some modicum of integrity, albeit, not much obviously, I just can't tell those stories. Then I considered doing the Wordless Wednesday thing, but the only pictures I ever see are from Cake Wrecks or I Can Has Cheezburger, so that wouldn't work. Then I thought about doing Monday Magic, would be like all about some great new crafting project or some kick ass recipe that I made, then I remembered that I sincerely suck at crafting and I can't boil water without burning it. The only thing that I could really come up with was Friday Fragments, which is about the random thoughts that I've had throughout the week, the random things that just need to be shared and really don't need a whole post. Brilliant, right? Yes, because I'm really good at being random. Just work with me here.

Here we go.
  • You know where I'm not going? BlogHer. If you haven't heard about it, it's this big conference in Chicago that (mostly) women go to. They do all kind of networking, get all kinds of goodies, learn to be even more awesome. It sounds really cool, but I'm not going. And I probably never will. I don't really like people, especially new people. And I don't like being away from home without my family. I'm totally needy and dependent that way. Plus Chris is cheap and I can't see him ever agreeing to pay for a trip about blogging. He's supportive, just not THAT supportive.

  • As much as I try to be one of the cool kids, I'm actually not. I really, really don't get twitter. Yeah, I can twitter, send my little tweets and such. But I just don't get it. And when I reply to people, they don't reply to me, so I don't know if it's because people don't really like me and think that I'm retarded, or twitter people are just mean. Sometimes I tell myself that they just can't see my tweets because if they could, and they didn't reply, and they did think I was just retarded, that would just feed my inferiority complex, and then I'd get put back on anxiety medication, and it would just be a big mess. You can still follow me though. That would make me feel a little better.

  • You know what word I'm really digging today? Clusterfuck. Great word, way underused.

  • I almost got hair extensions put in. I'm so sick of trying to grow my hair out. I called a salon and even made an appointment. Then I told Chris how much they were going to be ($400) and after he stopped having an aneurysm, he told me I'd better be damned sure I wanted them. So to help make up my mind, I played around on thehairstyler.com, one of those sites where you take a picture of yourself and then try on hair. It was so much fun it was scary.

Some sexy stripper hair:

With an afro:


Channeling Princess Leia (on crack):


How was your week?
UPDATE 7/28/09: Apparently great minds really do think alike. There is a fabulous blog (which you should totally check out), Half-Past Kissin' Time, and she has this great weekly thing called, ding, ding, ding! Friday Fragments! She's been doing it for awhile, so I wanted to give her props (since she did it first). Here I am thinking that I had the best idea ever, I found her blog today and the best idea ever was someone else's first. Who knew?

Self-imposed writer's block

I'm not usually a procrastinator, but there are a few things that I will put off as long as humanly possible, like putting away laundry, cleaning the bathroom, having an enema and writing my short story. I know, likening writing a short story to having an enema is really bad, especially if you profess to love writing (and I do). Here's my problem: I'm fucking terrified. I mean, flat out, no excuses, full on terrified. It's just a contest, and I know the chances of me winning are slim to none, but part of me wants it so bad I could scream. The winner gets their story published in the magazine and wins $3,000. The other part of me wants to curl up in a ball and rock back in forth until the deadline for submissions passes. What if they hate it? What if they said , this is the worst piece of garbage I've ever seen. What if I did win, and everyone said, Man, you really suck, I can't believe they printed that shit. Even though I have a blog and I write on it all the time, I get ridiculously scared of writing actual stories and having people read them. Yeah, I can bitch about stuff and tell funny stories about my family, but to tell a real story is different. When I was in high school, there was this column in the local newspaper, the premise was a teenager from the Northern part of the state wrote their opinion on an issue, and a teenager from the Southern part of the state wrote their opinion about the same issue. I was asked to do it. I said no. The thought of someone reading my stuff was too overwhelming. Which is retarded because I was the editor of my school newspaper, and I wrote stuff all the time. I don't know what the issue is/was, it's like anytime I get close to being able to write for real, I freak out.

I "hired" Chris to be my "agent", to get me motivated and keep on me so I actually write this story. I've fired him about a dozen times, he says I'm not allowed fire him. Something about a union contract or something.

I want to say to myself, oh you can do this! You'll bang it right out. But I just don't feel that way. I feel like puking. And I haven't even started yet. I see that evil cursor blinking at me and it makes me want to cry. Whatever happens, win or not win, even if it turns out to be the biggest pile of shit on the planet, I feel like I have to do this. I've used every excuse there is: the kids need me (they'd rather watch tv than have me fuss over them), there's housework to do (the kids have chores now, they even vacuumed this morning!), I don't have a laptop and it's too hard to write at the desktop (Chris bought me a laptop), I don't know what to write about (I have intricate plot lines scribbled in notebooks all over my house), I've just run out of excuses. Anyway, today (with great trepidation) I'm starting my story.

P.S. If any of you say, aww, you can do it! I believe in you! In the comments, I'm totally kicking your ass.

P.P.S. However if you really want to gush about my awesomeness, who am I stand in your way?

P.P.P.S. Just kidding about that last part.

P.P.P.P.S. Ok, I'm not really kidding, you can gush.

It's not like I asked him to put it on his forehead

I have three tattoos (as I mentioned in my 100 things post), a vine around my ankle, a sun on my shoulder and the chinese symbol for tranquility on the inside of my wrist. The one on my shoulder was my first act as an adult. Register to vote? Nah. Buy cigarettes legally? Nah. Get a tattoo to piss your parents off? Hell yeah! The one on my wrist was at a time when I felt I needed a constant reminder to stay calm and be tranquil. It doesn't really work, but it looks cooler than a string around my finger. I love tattoos. I love them on other people, and I love mine, except the one around my ankle because really, there's no need for a fat girl to have a big blue vine around her ankle, it only makes her leg look more like a tree trunk. It's really not sexy. Granted, when I got it, it was in an alcohol and drug induced state, and I really wasn't thinking about things like, I wonder if I'll regret this when I'm 30 or I bet this will just draw more attention to an already heavy leg. That's probably why there are laws against getting a tattoo if you're intoxicated. Intoxication makes you do things you wouldn't normally do, go figure. So anyway, I was talking to Chris about getting another tattoo. I said I was thinking about getting another one, and I thought that he should get one too. Now this isn't the first time that we've talked about him getting one. When I got the one on my wrist, he went with me and was thisclose to getting one, but he totally chickened out, that was 3 years ago. I said, wouldn't it be cool if you got a tattoo about me, like my name or something? He was like, I'm not putting your name on me. Ehhh, what the fuck? Why the hell not?

Apparently there's some man law that, thou shall not tattoo a woman's name on you, even if she's your wife. He says that even though he has no plans on divorce and wants nothing more to be with me forever (aww, sweet, right? Wait for it...), there's always a chance that we'll get divorced or I'll die and he'll be stuck with my name on his body forever (there it is!). Are you kidding me? Not only is he thinking about our divorce but he's also considering my death? So I'm getting, Oh I love you so much, but if you die, I'm gonna be able to pick up any chicks with your name tattooed on my arm? That's just wrong.

Ok, I totally get that a tattoo is a big deal for some people, it's a forever kind of thing. You can get them removed, but that sounds like an immense pain in the ass, so you really need to be sure before you get a tattoo. And it's not like he's like, I don't want a tattoo at all. He does, he just can't decide what he wants, well that and he's afraid it's gonna hurt a lot (which it totally doesn't). So surely getting something about the love of his fucking life should inspire him, I mean it's not even like my name is Betty or Jane or a name that is even sounds like other names. Maybe Merritt means excellence, to be worthy of, goodness, perfection (which it totally does according to the thesaurus) and he just spelled it more fancy with an extra r and t. And it's not like I think it should say I heart Merritt (like with a picture of a heart, like I heart NY), that's dumb. It could say, Merritt is the best and hottest wife ever, or Merritt is the most wonderful woman on the planet, or Merritt is the love of my life and I've tattooed her name on my arm to show the world that there will never be another woman for me, although that may be too long. Some girls like flowers and candy, I like tattoos. Am I nuts?

What do you think? Would you want your husband/wife/girlfriend/boyfriend to tattoo your name on him/her? Would you be offended if they said they wouldn't?

Not the kind of chain letters I remember sending

So tonight on the way home, my phone rings, and it's my mom, who says (in her total "I'm really disturbed and upset" voice), Merritt, I have to tell you something. I'm thinking someone's died or something. I just got a message from Kat, and you need to see it. I'll send it to you, it's really important that you see this. It says something about slitting a girl's throat. I was like, WHAT? She said, just read it. Call me back. The message said (copied verbatim):

Hello. my name is Alexis. When I was 7, me and my dad got into a big fight and he slit my throat and threw me into a sewer.

I was like what the hell? I took Kat's phone, and there's this whole chain of messages, my mom only got the first part. The rest said (copied verbatim):

One day a girl named Alyssa got this message, thought it was stupid and erased it. That night when Alyssa went to bed, she heard laughter coming from her bathroom, got scared, and ran to her phone and sent it. She went to bed fine that night. Later that night, around midnight, Alyssa's parents heard laughter and cutting from coming from the bathroom. They went in there to find the bathtub filled with Alyssa's blood and her phone with my picture on it floating in her blood. Now that you've read Alyssa's death, I am going to have to kill you too. The only way you can escape this is to send to ten people besides the person who sent this to you. If you don't, I will be at your bed when you fall asleep and at midnight, I will kill you. NO SEND BACKS. I'M DONE!!!! I'm sorry...I will see you at midnight...goodbye and good luck.

What the fuck kind of chain letter is that? I was like, Katherine, what the hell is that? Who sent that to you and why the hell would you send it to anyone, let alone your grandmother? She immediately started crying and said she didn't see what was wrong with it, one of her friends sent it to her, but she assured me that she didn't send it to anyone else. Well good thing, because I'd have to do some serious damage control. I mean, I'd have to contact everyone she sent it to, apologize and assure them that it wouldn't happen again, because that's just totally inappropriate, and I'm not going to let my daughter be one of those stupid kids who does shit like that. I'll be damned if my kids are going to be punks and be perpetrators of such vile shit...oh wait, what's that? Liar, liar pants on fire! She not only sent it to my mom, but also my dad, my brother, and every other person in her goddamn phone book. Unfortunately for her, she hasn't learned that you can see what's been sent if you look in the sent messages folder. Even more unfortunately for her, I'm not as stupid as she thinks I am and thought to check the sent messages. I spent the next 20 minutes yelling at her for being so colossally stupid to send something like that and then lying about it all while retexting everyone in her phone book saying, hi, this is Kat's mom. I'm sorry that she sent you that text message, it was inappropriate and wrong. It won't happen again.

I'm so pissed I haven't even finished deciding on her punishment. I don't know what I'm more pissed about, that she sent it at all or that she lied about it. Later on (after she stopped sobbing), I asked her again why she sent it. She said, I was afraid, I didn't want it to be true. Normally, I'd scoff and tell her to stop being dramatic. But the fear was real, she really was afraid. I think that's the most disturbing thing here, what happened to the chain letters when we were kids? Like about how you get good luck if you don't break the chain. I don't remember anything about throat slitting and murdering when I was a kid. What do you do with that? How do you temper punishing her for being so irresponsible (read: stupid) and lying about it with trying to comfort her and reassure her that no one is waiting to kill her because she broke a chain letter?

If you're going to get a waitress fired, you should leave a bettter tip

Friday night we got the kids back from my mom and dad. They had taken the kids for a couple of days, took them to an amusement park, stayed overnight in a hotel, and just did all kinds of fun grandparent stuff with them. I figured since we hadn't been together for a couple of days, we'd go out to eat. We went to this restaurant and the waitress was really crap. I ordered a cosmopolitan, because after 15 minutes the kids they bickering with each other, talking back, just like they never left, I was ready for a cocktail. Now, normally, I'm a margarita girl, but I like vodka, and I usually like cosmopolitans, but this one was so gross. It was like vodka with a lime slice and a splash of cranberry juice. Two sips and my throat was burning because of the vodka, which normally I wouldn't complain about, but I still had to get through this family dinner, do grocery shopping and laundry when I got home. I wanted a little buzz, not to get sloppy. So I asked the waitress if she could please make me another one, and maybe add a little more cranberry juice. After about 20 minutes, she brought another one that was like all cranberry juice, no vodka, and this time there was an orange slice floating in it. Ok, so she sucks at making cocktails, I'll just stick with my Diet Coke. Then the salad came on a warm plate (yuck), but I was starving so I was going to eat it anyway. Davey was looking longingly at it (even though I specifically asked him if he wanted a salad and he said no) and I finally said, do you want my salad? To which he promptly picked up his fork and said, since you don't want it, sure! Sigh. So our meal comes, it was fair at best. Our waitress was not very good, she kept forgetting things we'd asked for, important things like forks and ketchup. Plus she'd screwed up my drink twice. So I was pretty annoyed by the time we were done eating. We got the check and I paid for it with cash. It came to $32.19 and I gave her a $50 bill. She was like, be right back with your change. So when she came back, after another 10 minutes, she just dropped the little black check thingy on the table. I was like, hrm, rude. I open it up, and there's $17 in it. I'm looking at the change, looking at the receipt and trying to figure it out why it looks wrong. After a few minutes of counting on my fingers, I realize I'm missing 81 cents.

Me: Uh, I'm missing 81 cents.
Chris: Babe, it's 81 cents, it's not that big of a deal.
Me: Yes it is, it's friggin 81 cents, that's almost a dollar!
Davey: I'll give you 81 cents...
Me: You don't have 81 cents, love.
Chris: Just let it go, let's not make a scene.
Me: Fuck that. I want my 81 cents.
Davey: Yes I do Mom, you can have my pennies!
Me (to the manager lady that was walking by): EXCUSE ME.
Manger lady: Yes, ma'am?
Me: Yes, our waitress shorted us 81 cents. I know it's "only" (I even used air quotes when I said only) 81 cents, but it's MY 81 cents, and I want it back.
Davey: My piggybank is full of pennies...
Manager lady: Oh of course, I'm sure it was just an oversight, I'll get it for you.
Me: Oversight or not, it's my 81 cents, and I really want it back.
Davey: I think I have some silvers in there too...
Me: David, please. I don't want your money.

At this point I think the manager lady thought I was insane. I was shaking and was talking in a really weird high-pitched voice. I was really pissed. I told her I wasn't saying that the waitress stole it or did it on purpose, but c'mon, if me, math retard extraordinaire can make change, she should be able to, and she has no right taking my change, and that I'LL decide how much to tip her so she can't just keep my 81 cents without asking, and she was not a good waitress anyway, and I really, really wanted my 81 cents. Chris was hanging his head in shame, Kat was pretending she didn't know me and David was still yammering on about the freaking change in his piggy bank. The manager lady came back with the correct change and said something about, who was your waitress? I was like, Shannon. She goes, I thought as much. I'll make sure this doesn't happen again. I thanked her and we started walking out the door. Then Chris says, you know, they'll probably fire her.

Oh my God, did I seriously just get someone fired over 81 cents? What kind of horrible psychopath not only makes a scene over 81 cents but then totally throws her waitress under the bus and probably got her fired? But part of me still thinks that she totally stole it because she just hightailed it out of there after she brought back the wrong change and part of me thinks, so what if she did? It's 81 cents, get over it. But either way it's still my 81 cents, right? Right? I think I'm really starting to lose it.

Indecision rears its ugly head. Again.

This morning I decided I'd do some shopping on Sephora, like I so often do. I'm almost out of my favorite face cream, which I affectionately call "magic in a little blue jar". I'm also almost out of my face cleanser, and I decide I'm going to go with a different brand this time. I'm going to get all the same line of products (the ones to match my magic blue jar). Of course there's lots of great stuff, and I start clicking "add to cart" like a crazy whore. I check on my shopping cart and there's $286 worth of products. Well shit. I can't spend that much money on beautification right now. Something about paying the electric bill, the water bill, blah, blah, blah. So I start removing things, and then I start getting all upset. My hands are sweating, I feel nauseous, I'm starting to get a headache, I can't deal at all. I can't decide. I want them all! How can I be expected to choose between smoother skin, less fine line reduction, or pore reducing? I can't do it. So I just closed the browser window. I literally couldn't deal with it.

I do this kind of thing all the time. I just freak out and can't decide what to do, so I do nothing. Same thing happened with the sheet debacle last weekend. I couldn't decide, and I freaked out. I can't make a decision, so I get nothing. I can make decisions for everyone else, but I can't for myself. I can nail down our household budget, move things around, decide when, where and how we should get things done. I can choose between the best doctors and orthodontists for my kids. I can solve everyone else's problems in .7 seconds, but when it comes to making a decision for myself, I just can't seem to do it. Chris and the kids are always looking to me for decision making. Chris says that I give great advice, and Kat often looks to me to help her sort out her tween drama with her friends, even my mom calls me for advice. Advice for me? Nope, can't do it. I'm too stubborn to ask for or take someone else's for help. When people offer their opinion, I'm all, thanks, but when I want your opinion I'll give it to you. And I really mean it, I don't want help, I want to figure it out myself. I'm the biggest control freak on the planet. I just can't control my own shit.

Last night Chris wanted to know what I wanted for dinner. The kids are with my parents for the week, so it's just the two of us, and I didn't feel like cooking, I knew that much. He asked me until about 7:00 what I wanted, I kept saying, I don't know, why do I need to decide now? It wasn't that I wasn't hungry or that I didn't want to eat, I was starving, I literally just didn't know what I wanted. I couldn't decide. Finally he made us peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and I was like, I don't want this! He's like, then make a goddamn decision and I'll get you something else! I was like, I don't KNOW! Why are you pressuring me?! He gave up asking, and I just ate pb&j for dinner. What kind of moron can't even choose what they want to eat? I take 30 minutes every day staring at my closet trying to choose what I should wear, even though I know it's going to be jeans and a t-shirt. Chris has tried to buy my jewelry several times, but I can't make up my mind, so I get nothing. This is beyond OCD or a need for control or whatever head issue I have. This is just retarded. I'm seriously thinking that it's time for medication.

Davey told me the other day that "momma" is Latin for boobie. So when he calls me momma he's really calling my boobie. I'm starting to think he's on to something there.

Girl Talk Thursday: What Turns You On?

I know I already wrote a post for today, but I couldn't resist playing along with Girl Talk Thursday. So I'm breaking the rules, thou shalt not post twice in one day AND thou shalt not talk about vibrators or porn (I don't know if that's an actual rule, maybe more like a guideline, but I'm still breaking it). Yeah, I'm going there.



This week's topic: What turns you on?

These aren't in any real order, just kind of a randomized list.
  • Sliding into clean sheets. Crispy, clean, just brought in from the clothesline sheets. There's nothing like it.
  • A thunderstorm in the middle of the night. There's something just primal about listening to the pounding rain and the banging thunder mixed in with the occasional flash of lightning.
  • Having the dishes done and the house clean. It's really hard to get it on when all I can think about are the dishes in the sink or the carpets that need vacuuming.
  • The song "Love Song" by 311. There's something about guitar, the drums, the bass, that's just sexy. It's also of course "our song", but I really think it's the drums.
  • Attention/Affection when it's not expected. When I'm doing the dishes, or folding laundry, just a kiss on the back of the neck, or a squeeze on the shoulder on his way through the kitchen. Just knowing that even though I'm in full-on mom mode, he's still there and still thinks of me as a woman, not just a housekeeper/cook/warden.
  • Wrestling. Not watching, doing. I'll push Chris, he'll push back, we'll end up in a wrestling match (which I always lose), laughing and rolling around on the floor. Great way to get out aggression.
  • Those quiet moments that you look at your husband, when he doesn't know you're looking, and you catch that glimpse of the man you married and remember all the reasons you're the luckiest girl in the world.
  • Porn. Yeah, I said it. Porn. Quit judging me.

So there's my overshare. How about you? Care to overshare a little (or a lot) about what turns you on?

The soundtracks of our lives

I love music, every kind of music. It's also one of the few topics that I know a lot about. For instance, remember that show, Rock N' Roll Jeopardy, which is like regular Jeopardy but way better because it's about rock? Yeah, I own at that game. I'm like a fountain of useless knowledge when it comes to music. Sure, I know albums, artists, all that stuff, but I also know lyrics. If they still had Name That Tune, I'd own at that too. We'll be flipping through the radio stations, and I'll immediately know the song on just about any channel, and of course I always sing along...even though I can't sing for shit. Since I was little, I've had this love for music, and it's always been a big part of my life. Growing up, my dad was one of those sometimes distant dads, who just didn't always know how to relate to a girl. The only way we really communicated for a long time was through music. He'd taught me all about classic rock, the original "guitar heroes", he'd introduced me to all the greats, Lynyrd Skynyrd, Led Zeppelin, Eric Clapton, Jimi Hendrix, all of them. It was just easier to talk about music than other stuff. So it's natural that I've always used music as a kind of soundtrack for my life. When I was really angry, I'd listen to Riders on the Storm (The Doors). When my first boyfriend broke up with me and I was sure that I would never love again and my life was over, I made a mix tape of just The Rose (Bette Midler) and Love Hurts (Nazareth), just put them back to back, so I could have 120 minutes in uninterrupted wallowing. I could listen to anything and think of a place or time where it would've applied to my life. Some may call it vain, I call it awesome. I think it could have something to do with me being a drama queen and thinking that I should totally have my own soundtrack. So even though it may not be weird for me to have my own soundtrack, I think it may be a little weird when I start making soundtracks for other people.

See, in my head, I've made a soundtrack for Barack Obama. I figure they'll make a movie about him, and I want to do the soundtrack. I don't have all the specifics worked out yet, but I've got some ideas. For instance, I see him telling his staff about how important votes will be, every vote will be hard fought, etc. Then it will cut to the volunteers fanning out over the communities, signing up voters, shaking hands, telling people about Obama, and in the background Waiting on the World to Change (John Mayer) will be playing. Ok then, in another scene, on election night, it will show people's reactions, spliced in with his acceptance speech, and then his voice will fade out and be replaced by Signed, Sealed, Delivered (Stevie Wonder). Genius right? Lastly, I see the final scene of the movie, the part where they show a still frame of the actor playing Obama (which totally is going to be Will Smith), and then the screen dims for a second, and real-life pictures of his presidency, the First Lady, his children, the heart warming pictures of the whole family, and all the while in the background you'll hear Bob Marley's voice singing Redemption Song. How awesome is that? That's a kick ass movie right there. Of course that's only three tiny parts of the movie, to make it really work I'd need a whole script, someone to buy the script, a studio to finance it, actors, producers...but I'm totally on top of the soundtrack.

100 things for the 100th post

So this is it. My 100th post. Isn’t it exciting and great excuse to drink a margarita? Yes, I think so too. Ok so, apparently I’m not supposed to bore you with an actual post, I’m supposed to tell 100 things you didn’t know about me, or did know but want to hear again…I don’t know, I’m not really clear on the guidelines, so we’ll just wing it. Here we go.

100. I can’t wink with my right eye, only my left.

99. My right eye is retarded and won’t stay closed.

98. I’m allergic to artificial cinnamon, like the kind in Big Red gum.

97. It makes my throat close up.

96. Once I peed my pants in the Maine State Museum.

95. I was 13.

94. I got a 910 on my SATs.

93. I’m really, really bad at math.

92. I still count on my fingers when adding.

91. My first concert was White Zombie and Pantera.

90. I didn’t have tickets, I snuck in with my boyfriend.

89. I’ve never left the country.

88. Not even to Canada which is like 50 miles away from me.

87. I met my husband online.

86. I dance like Napoleon Dynamite.

85. In public.

84. I sing like a bag of cats being beaten against a wall.

83. My first tape was Guns N Roses, Appetite for Destruction.

82. I love Post-It notes.

81. I’ve had a spinal tap.

80. It really, really hurt.

79. I voted for George Bush.

78. Twice.

77. When I get my period my feet swell up, Shrek-size.

76. If I was a boy, my mom was going to name me Trent.

75. My mom hates me and was hell bent on giving me a crap name.

74. She says my name was from a movie that she “loved”.

73. She can’t remember the name of it.

72. I think she’s trying to make herself feel better for naming her daughter Merritt.

71. I can’t play board games with my children because I obsessively cheat.

70. I hate losing.

69. Even to my own children.

68. But I punish them for being poor sports when they cheat.

67. My monthly Diet Coke intake would fill an Olympic-sized swimming pool.

66. I don’t watch American Idol.

65. My favorite day is Groundhog Day (February 2).

64. I have no reason for this other than it kind of caught on in junior high when I was working out how to best rebel against society.

63. Clearly, Groundhog Day is reserved for the true rebels among us.

62. I almost passed out on a roller coaster I was so scared.

61. They park took a video of the ride, and people were standing around laughing and pointing at the monitors showing the screaming/crying/nearly dead girl (me) on the roller coaster.

60. The guy selling the video said it was already big hit.

59. I didn’t buy a copy.

57. I got hit by a car when I was 6 while I was delivering Girl Scout cookies.

56. Chris says that’s the most awesome thing he’s ever heard.

55. I have 3 tattoos.

54. A sun on my shoulder, a vine around my ankle, and the Chinese symbol for tranquility on my wrist.

53. The tattoo around my ankle is one of my biggest regrets.

52. I know all the words to the movie A Few Good Men.

51. Even the “You can’t handle the truth!” speech.

50. My favorite line is, “don’t I feel like the fucking asshole.”

49. Once I accidently started a fire on the floor board of my car.

48. While I was driving.

47. I never, ever liked New Kids on the Block.

46. Even though everyone I knew loved them.

45. The Christmas that everyone got the New Kids on the Block tape, I got the Dr. Feelgood (Motley Crue) tape.

44. When I eat ice cream, I have to flip the spoon upside in my mouth.

43. I also can’t let food touch my lips.

42. Once at Easter dinner, I told my family that my favorite word was clitoris.

41. My grandmother thought it was funny.

40. My mother was horrified.

39. My least favorite word is moist.

38. When I was pregnant almost all I ever ate was Vienna sausages and Slim Jims.

37. That probably had something to do with gaining 80 lbs during my pregnancy.

36. I used to be a vegetarian.

35. I love steak.

34. Rare. The bloodier, the better.

33. I was a really bad vegetarian.

32. When my brother was a baby, I pulled him off the changing table by his arm to see what would happen.

31. He cried.

30. I don’t separate my whites from darks when I do laundry.

29. I hate lima beans.

28. My date to the prom was gay.

27. I didn’t know he was gay at the time.

26. Even though I probably should’ve because he had more sparkles on than I did, it just never occurred to me.

25. Now that I think of it, my date to homecoming was also gay.

24. I didn’t know he was gay either.

23. They were two of the best dates I’ve ever had.

22. I eat mayonnaise on my French fries.

21. I used to “play” the cello in the orchestra.

20. But I didn’t really know how to play it.

19. I was just a good bullshitter and knew just enough to get by.

18. I also tried to play the flute.

17. I couldn’t fake that one as well, and the teacher kicked me out for faking.

16. I had a pierced belly button.

15. I let my boyfriend do it with a needle, a lighter and tequila.

14. It got infected and I had to take it out.

13. I kissed a girl.

12. I’ve never had a cavity.

11. My favorite flavor of anything is red.

10. Popsicles, Kool-Aid, lollipops, gum, anything.

9. I suck at retelling jokes.

8. It’s a lot harder than you’d think to come up 100 things to say about yourself.

7. I’m totally not doing this for the 200th post.

6. I just realized this isn’t the 100th post.

5. It’s actually the 101st.

4. Because apparently I really can’t count.

3. I’m not doing an extra thing to make 101.

2. I’m a rebel like that.

1. Or just lazy.

Between the sheets...there is a psycho drama queen who needs lots of medication

Saturday was day 4 of not smoking, and honestly, it was wearing on me. That morning I had spent the morning cleaning my disaster of a house after my "ungrateful children and husband" who had left a sea of laundry, dishes, carpet stains and sticky floors for me to clean. Of course the kids were with their dad and Chris was working, so I had no one to vent my building anger to. By the time Chris got home, I was a little better, I'd tried really hard to let it all go. I bitched a little, but pretty much let it go. Chris suggested we get out of the house, maybe that would help relieve the building stress. Couldn't agree more. We had a great afternoon, we went to an antiques store, we got Chris some new sandals, had a great late lunch, not a cross word was spoken, not a sideways look given. Then we went to TJ Maxx and all hell broke loose. I've been telling Chris for God knows how long that we need new sheets. Now you might be asking, why don't you just buy sheets yourself? Good question, and I could. But we try really hard to make all household purchases together, or at least with each other's input. Every other time we've gone to get sheets (and we've done it no less than 20 times) we always end up leaving empty-handed. He freaks out about the price, I try to explain the value of a high thread count sheet, he doesn't get it, I think he's cheap and being difficult, he thinks I'm being a spoiled princess, we usually just leave well enough alone and don't get into it. I mean really, who fights about sheets?

So we go to TJ Maxx in search of the aforementioned sheets. We can't seem to agree on the price/thread count/color, but I'm determined. We're not walking away this time. So after about 45 minutes of me handing Chris sheets to feel, fretting over percale or sateen or Egyptian cotton, he'd had enough. He takes a deep breath and says, does it really matter? They're fucking sheets. Well, as you can imagine, that went over like a ton of bricks. I said (getting increasingly upset), Of COURSE it matters! I just want something nice to sleep on. Don't you care? He says, babe, c'mon. They're sheets. I turned back to the sheets and completely ignored him. He sighed and wandered off. I finally pick some, and I track Chris down, but I'm really irritated. I showed him the sheets, and he was less than impressed. He was all, yeah, they're fine. They're sheets. So now I'm pissed. Not a little angry, not a little cranky, I'm fucking PISSED. Was it because he didn't "care" enough? Was it because I couldn't find the "perfect" sheets? Or was it just because I hadn't smoked in 4 days? I put the sheets on the shelf and say, forget it. Take me home. And he's all, why? What's wrong? Again, I ignore him, certain that this had nothing to do with smoking, Chris was just a big jackass who obviously didn't care about what's important to me (sheets).

We get home and I stomp around for awhile, and then he's all, what's your problem? Are you that mad about sheets? I'd like to say that I handled this well, that I was the picture of calm. I so wasn't. I came unglued. I said just about every hateful thing I could think of, I threw books on the floor, I threw a shoebox at him, I mean I had an all out temper tantrum. He's just standing there during all this, probably in awe of my dramatic scene, and he says in the most calm voice I've ever heard, that's enough. Well, if I wasn't really, really mad before that, I was now. I said, Enough? I'll show you enough! Go to hell! I'm leaving! So I stormed out and slammed the door behind me. By this time it's starting to occur to me that perhaps I'm overreacting a bit, maybe I should just go back in and apologize for being such a drama queen, and that made me more mad. I hate being wrong. So I figured, I'll show him. I won't be sitting outside. I'm really leaving! So I start walking down the street. In my big dramatic exit, I've left my wallet and my cell phone on the counter, so it's not like I can go far, and that makes me even more mad. So to cool off and decide how to tell my family that I'm getting a divorce, I walked...for a fucking mile. I had my flip flops on, which aren't great walking shoes, and it was getting dark and I was cold in my tank top and capris (also forgot to grab a long sleeve shirt), so I went home. Chris wasn't there, he was out looking for me (which made me more angry). He eventually came home, and was understandable concerned. I was like, I'm so mad at you, I hate you, and I want a divorce! So we spent the next 45 minutes with me sobbing/yelling about how he really hated me and didn't care about the sheets that were so important to me, and him trying not to laugh at my utter ridiculousness.

Suffice it to say, we didn't get a divorce. We did buy a pack of cigarettes though. As it turns out, I wasn't really mad about the sheets, I was just being an uber bitch, probably because of my not smoking. Go figure.

P.S. Sunday afternoon he took me back to TJ Maxx and we bought sheets.

How was your weekend?

Friday I woke up to the sun shining, the birds singing, it was a beautiful day. It's been raining for so long here, I desperately wanted (and needed for my own sanity) some sunshine, so I said, screw it, I'm not working today. I called my boss and told her that it was just too nice of a day to be stuck inside and I was taking the day off. I got her voicemail, so I think she had the same idea I did. I spent the day outside with the kids, they played in the sprinkler, I channeled my inner diva:I sat in my lounge chair, my hair wrapped in a scarf like an old Hollywood movie star, my oversized sunglasses and my chilled beverage by my side and read sTORI Telling by Tori Spelling (which if you haven't read it, is a deliciously fun read). Of course because there's been no sun since March, my pasty pale ass got sunburned, but that's ok, at least I wasn't working.

Saturday, I spent the morning cleaning and then went shopping with Chris for sheets. We decided that instead of buying sheets we'd have a screaming match that ended in me literally walking for a mile to cool off, a pack of cigarettes (I know, I know, I suck), and some really ridiculous drama, but more on that tomorrow.

Yesterday was another beautiful, sun-filled day. We took the kids swimming, I even went in the pool. I put on a bathing suit for the first time in over a year, which was a bit traumatizing. I really think that we should go back to the 1800's style bathing suits, with the almost knee-length shorts and full coverage tops. Ahh, those were the days big girls could prance around by the pool without their cellulite scaring small children. Sigh. Anyway. We decided that since we were on a roll for family fun day, we'd rent some movies, unwittingly subjecting them to inappropriate adult topics. We rented Bedtime Stories and Yes Man for the kids. Bedtime Stories was cute, it was a Disney movie, so there were no surprises. Yes Man, good movie, but not really for kids. I'm not giving away any plot points or anything, but if you don't want to know anything that happens, stop reading. It was rated PG-13, which is usually not bad, but there was one scene that Jim Carrey's old lady neighbor propositions him. He has to say yes, which has it's own ickyness. So she throws him on the bed and the camera shows his face, she's, ahem, going down. Then you see her put her false teeth in a glass by the bed. I'm laughing hysterically, because it's really, really funny. The scene ends, and I think we're in the clear and Kat says gross. I didn't say anything, surely she can't know what that was all about, right? And if she does, well, I'm not having that conversation yet. "Gross" works for me. Then Davey says, Mom, what's she doing? Why'd she take her teeth out? Ehhh...there's really no good answer here. I was like, she must've lost her contact on his pants and then had to take her teeth out to brush them. Seriously, what the hell am I supposed to say? Oh, she's performing oral sex on him, and apparently he likes it. You see, oral sex is... Yeah, that's probably not a good idea. I don't know if he believed me or not, but he didn't question it, so I just breathed a sigh of relief and let it go.

So that was my weekend, sunburned, almost divorced and exposed my kids to totally inappropriate oral sex references. How was your weekend?

What would you do with an extra 3 hours and 20 minutes a day?

So it’s day 2. So far no one has died, no one has lost any limbs, and I haven’t smoked. I found out today that not smoking means I have a shitload of time on my hands. I spent an average of 3 hours and 20 minutes smoking every day (10 minutes per cigarette, 20 times a day). Today I:

  • Cleaned my entire house. Twice. Before 9 a.m.
  • Went grocery shopping and bought 732 boxes of Little Debbie snacks. I’ll worry about being fat later.
  • Found out that I really, really hate it when people change the radio station too often.
  • Found out that it irritates me even more when it’s my ex doing the station changing.
  • Watched three episodes of Touched By An Angel on the Hallmark channel and cried. I DVRed the rest of the season.
  • Spilled a whole glass of Diet Coke in the living room. It got all over the curtains, which gives something to do tomorrow.
  • Helped Chris grill hotdogs. Then he told me to go away and take my “opinions” with me. I merely pointed out he’d set the rolls on fire. I thought it was helpful. He disagreed.
  • Accidentally stuck my tongue in a fan.

I’m thinking I may take on a new hobby. I have way too much time on my hands. Any suggestions? At this rate, I’ll either be in the hospital trying to loosen my straps or will have figured out how to make cold fusion.

I might bite your head off

Last night Chris and I were outside smoking, and he says to me, so I think I’m really ready to quit smoking now. I say, oh yeah, why’s that? He says, well, you know my granddad died of emphysema (to which I nod), well, it’s just been weighing on me lately, you know? (I nod again, feeling increasingly like a large pile of shit for smoking). I knew. I’ve smoked since I was like 12. There was this girl, who I won’t name because I actually see her from time to time and she still scares the shit out of me, who made me smoke. I know what you’re thinking, yeah right, she made you, pfft. No, for real, it’s totally true. I was walking home after school and this titan of a girl grabbed my arm (I was scrawny and skinny when I was a kid), and was all, You smoke now. Don’t make me angry, you wouldn’t like me when I’m angry. Ok, so I’m not sure if that’s what she actually said, it could’ve been The Incredible Hulk, I’m not sure, but the point is she was ginormous and I was not. So she gave me a cigarette and showed me how to smoke and laughed when I coughed my head off after trying to inhale. A couple of weeks later, I thought I’d be really cool and try it again. So one day when my parents were at work, I stole my mom’s cigarettes. I couldn’t figure out how to use the lighter and I wasn’t allowed to play with matches (yes, I did follow SOME rules), so I stuck my head in the oven and lit the cigarette on the bottom burner. In hindsight, sticking your head in an oven probably isn’t a good idea, I could’ve just used a burner on top of the stove, or better yet, used a match, but I was 12, what do you want from me?

So I smoked off and on until I was about 16, then I just went bad. Very, very bad. I smoked, drank, did drugs, blew off school, dated guitar players, developed a permanent scowl (hence the wrinkle branded on my forehead), you name it. See then, back before political correctness/health awareness smoking was cool. I did quit when I was pregnant (at 19 mind you. I told you I was bad), but I had my friend wheel me across the street from the hospital to smoke. I know, I know, going outside in your hospital gown and wheelchair just isn’t cool . I don’t (and haven’t) smoked in my house in a long, long time, I do have some parental standards. About a year ago, I quit for a month. Then I got into the accident with my Jeep and almost had a nervous breakdown on the side of the road, so I started up again. I’ve been beating myself up about it ever since. So when Chris laid his guilt trip about oh, I love you, I want to grow old together, I don’t want you to die early, blah, blah. I was like, SIGH. Fine. I quit. So here I am, day 1. Armed with Nicorette and grape Bubble Yum quitting smoking. I hope for real this time, I hate smoking, but I know it’s time, and it's for the best. Keep that in mind if I become an unbearable bitch and tell you all to go screw yourselves, which is entirely possible.

Karma gets you every time

If you have a problem with poop, tampons or toilets, you should not read this post. You really probably shouldn't read it anyway...

The other day I was working in a different building, cleaning up some odds and ends before the long holiday weekend. Chris called and said he would be there in a few minutes to pick me up, and I knew that in Chris language, that means like an hour, so I pretty much ignored it and continued doing my work. I gave it about 40 minutes and decided I should go to the bathroom before I left. So in the building that I was working in, there’s a private bathroom. I decided that since I was pretty much alone in the building, screw using the public stalls, I was gonna use the private bathroom. Still no call from Chris, so I decide, what the hell, I’ll poop too. So I’m doing my thing in the bathroom, and decide that Chris and I probably won’t go straight home, so I ought to change my tampon while I’m at it. I finish up, and I’m getting ready to flush and Chris calls, says he’s pulling into the parking lot. Perfect timing! I reach over and flush the toilet.
The water starts filling, and filling, and filling. I’m like, well, I probably just didn’t hold the handle down long enough. No luck, the water splashed up nearly to the very top of the bowl.

Oh my dear God, I’ve overflowed the toilet and there’s poop and a used tampon floating in the toilet! I start frantically searching for a plunger, no go. The only thing I can find is a toilet scrubber. I don’t know what the hell kind of bathroom has a toilet scrubber but no plunger. So I grab the toilet scrubber, thinking that maybe I can swoosh everything around enough to maybe unclog it. It’s still not working. I’m totally afraid to flush again, because any more water, it’s gonna be all over the floor. At this point, I’m totally freaking out because I’m not even supposed to be using this bathroom, so it’s not like I can just go ask a janitor for help. And really, there’s no way I’m going to walk up to some random stranger and be like, excuse me, I plugged the toilet, would you mind plunging it for me? Don’t mind the poop or the used tampon floating around in it. So not happening. So I debated for a minute, ok more like a split second, and I decide I’m bailing. Because I’m one of the youngest people (everyone else is well over 50 and post-menopausal) that work for my department, anyone seeing a floating tampon could deduce that it was me who plugged the toilet and left it all weekend. Actually, now that I write that, it sounds kinda asinine, that someone would actually be like, hmm, plugged toilet, floating poop, I have no idea who would…OH MY GOD! There’s a tampon! It HAS to be Merritt! It sounded so much more plausible at the time... Anyway, I decide that I’m leaving the poop and toilet paper, but taking back the tampon. I grab the toilet scrubber and start trying to use it as a pole to fish out the tampon. I get it the first time, but the string wraps around the handle of the scrubber and I fling toilet water on my feet and fling the tampon across the room. Ohmygodoymygodohmygod. Totally freaking now. I pick up the tampon off the floor with a paper towel, wrap it in like 587 more paper towels and bury it in the trash, I clean up all the water and mess, I do a little gross out dance and scrub the hell out of my hands.

I get to the door and reach for the light switch, the toilet makes this wooooosh sound and the water spins around, and flushes, taking all the contents of the bowl with it. Son of a bitch! I turned around and said (to the toilet), stupid motherfuc… The fucking toilet GURGLED at me. I hauled ass out of there, I wasn’t about to stay in there with the toilet from hell, who was clearly possessed. I suppose it serves me right for using the bathroom in places I don’t belong, then trying to leave my shit (literally) for someone else to deal with.

Happy 4th of July

I hope everyone had a great holiday weekend. Our was pretty near a bust. It rained. Again. I'm so sick of this rain, I think we had more sun in January. Kat was supposed to do a cheering performance, but it got rained out. We did make it to the parade, which wouldn't have been complete with the psycho Shriners with that force you to pull your children back from the sidewalk so they don't get run over by their little death cars. Other highlights were the Hispanic Elvis impersonator, who not only forgot the words to "Don't Be Cruel", but only made a vague attempt at pretending to play the guitar, he kept swinging the guitar over his back to do his best Elvis hip shaking, and then would mistakenly hit the guitar strings on the way back. It was kinda sad. There were the line dancing ladies, who seriously have more balls than I ever would. Over my dead body would I get up on a float with a red and white checkered dress, a la Hee Haw, with white fringe cowboy boots and line dance to "Achy Breaky Heart". My mom said, Oh that looks fun Mer, let's do that ! Yeah, that's not ever gonna happen. I can't imagine a scenario in which I would ever, ever do that, but they all looked like they were having a blast, so whatever works for you, I guess. There was a fair amount of candy throwing. As always, my kids could be counted on to knock over any other kids who got in the way of their candy scavenger hunting. They're at the age where they're not sure if they really like the parade or think that it's "boring" or "totally retarded" (which just about everything is these days). Chris did buy them hats, so that perked them up a little.


We ended up not going to the fireworks, because (surprise) it was raining. I was really bummed about it, the 4th just isn't the same without the fireworks. So I'm washing my face getting ready for bed, totally pouting about the crap day, when he phone rings. It's like 11:30, and I'm like, who the hell is calling so late? I figured Chris locked himself out again. I have soap all over my face and I'm yelling to Chris to pick up the phone, and he doesn't even answer (I'm hoping that he's just watching tv and ignoring the phone, and not really locked out, so I don't have to go back downstairs to let him in), so I run into the bedroom, cursing Chris. I answer in my best "I'm really, really annoyed" voice, hello? It's Chris, he says, hey, look outside. I'm like, what the hell, I'm kinda busy here (the soap dripping onto the phone at this point). I peer through the blinds and there's Chris standing in the rain waving two sparklers like a crazy fool. He says, I know you were bummed about missing the fireworks, so I brought the fireworks to you. Happy 4th of July, baby! What can I say, except, awwwwwww! I got over being pissed really quick. As usual, Chris reminded me of what it's really all about. Enjoying your family and celebrating the fact that we live in a great country, where you can have bad Elvis impersonators, ladies in white fringe cowboy boots, greedy, candy hungry kids and a crazy man standing in the rain waving sparklers at 11:30 at night all exercising their birthright of freedom. God Bless the United States of America!

Braking and entering

A couple of months ago we were all in the car, and brakes made an audible squeal, the one that’s the tell-tale sign that it’s time for new brakes. I, clearly the most car-savvy of the bunch, said, Sounds like we should get the brakes fixed. Chris says, No. They’re fine. We don’t have the money to be dropping $200 on brakes just because of a little squeal. Hrm, well ok then. So fast forward to a month ago. We’re all in the car and the brakes make a grinding sound. I, clearly the most car-savvy of the bunch, said, Sounds like we should get the brakes fixed. Chris says, No, the brakes are fine. There’s nothing wrong with a little grinding. We’ll get them looked at before winter, but we just don’t need to be spending money on stuff like that. Well, alright I guess. So fast forward again to last week. The brakes are now make a horrendous grinding sound, metal on metal, the car shudders when the brakes are pressed, it’s bad. So I try again, you know, I think we REALLY need brakes. Chris says, yeah, maybe we do. Yeah, ya think? So I made the appointment for 8:00 a.m. Chris leaves for work at 5:30 a.m. and I still don’t have my license back, so I asked Dave to help me out. He agreed, and I told him how simple this would be. All he’d have to do is go switch cars with Chris and bring Chris’ car to the garage. The garage would call me when they had the price, and I’d pay it over the phone with my credit card. He’d switch cars again with Chris, the whole thing shouldn’t take longer than 2 hours. Easy enough right? I wish.

At about 7:30 that morning, I’m sleeping soundly. I know that since the car is in the garage, I’ll be going into work late, so I’m catching up on some much needed beauty sleep. The kids are sleeping, it’s gloriously quiet. Then the dogs start barking. I don’t know if you’ve ever heard a Pomeranian and a Puggle (Pug/Beagle) barking, but it’s like a shrill, high-pitched screeching bark from the Pomeranian, and a low howling bark from the Puggle. It’s probably one of the most annoying noises on the planet, especially when you’re sound asleep. So I’m refusing to open my eyes, and I yell, shut the hell up! They both lay back down and are quiet for a few minutes. Then they start barking/screeching/howling again. What the fuck is wrong with you two?! SHUT THE HELL UP! Vivvy (the Pomeranian) is barking so furiously she’s literally hopping in circles and Layla (the Puggle) is running back and forth between the bedroom door and the bed howling like a werewolf. Then I hear a pounding coming from downstairs. By now I’m pissed. So I go stomping down the stairs, expecting to find one of the kids has gotten up and has forgotten that we don’t wake Mommy up before 8:00 on a sleep in day. I get to the bottom of the stairs and through the window of living room door I see this shadow of a man standing on our front porch. I don’t know whether to be terrified or really pissed, so I fling open the door and there’s Dave. Standing on my porch. I’m like, What the hell are you doing here? You’re supposed to be at the garage with the car. Wait…how the hell did you get on my porch? (we have a glassed in sun porch with a dead bolt on the front door that leads to the living room door, so you can’t just walk up to the living room door from the outside without going through the sun porch). He says, all nonchalantly, oh, I just broke in. I lifted up the windows and crawled in. What. The. Fuck. Who breaks into someone else’s house? Ever heard of a telephone? He says, I couldn’t remember how I was supposed to pay them, and I called your cell phone, you didn’t pick up, so I broke in. You said I couldn’t have a key… Geesh, I wonder why you can’t have a key, you fucking freak.

I told Chris, who thought it was hilarious. He thinks that Dave and I have the most dysfunctional relationship ever for two divorced people and it never ceases to amaze him when Dave does this kind of stuff (which he does all the time). He didn’t find it nearly as funny when it cost almost $350 at the garage for the brakes. They had to change the brakes, pads and rotors. They were like, well, we probably wouldn’t have had to do the rotors, but it looks like you’ve been driving on them like this for a long time. Hrm, what are the words I’m looking for here….oh yes. Told you so.

A trip down memory lane

I was reading my gossip sites because I, for some reason, can’t stop reading celebrity gossip, even though I think that the photographers and “reporters” who follow celebrities are deplorable at best. It makes me a total hypocrite I know, but I don’t really care. So I’m reading about the latest in the Michael Jackson saga and about how Madonna is in the new fall 2009 Louis Vuitton ad campaign, which by the have you seen? She’s gorgeous, totally airbrushed and flawless, but gorgeous. I told Chris that for our 10th anniversary, I wanted a trip to Paris and a vintage Louis Vuitton trunk. He said he could buy me a house and it would be cheaper, so I don’t really see that happening. But a girl can dream, right? I’d settle for a kick ass bag and a trip to Paris. Or even just the LV bag would be ok. But I want a big one, not one of the dinky little ones that hold a cell phone, lipstick and a tampon. I carry way more crap than that with me, and I’m dropping $500+ on a bag, it better be big enough to carry all my shit. And hell, if Madonna looks that good next to LV, then surely it would work for me. Yeah, I’m a sucker for the power and suggestion of good advertising.

Ok so, where was I? Right, Michael Jackson and Madonna. So I’m reading about Madonna when “Billie Jean” came on my iPod. It was kind of nostalgic and sad. It got me thinking about when I was a kid and I used to strut around with my 387 jelly bracelets and side ponytails listening to “Material Girl” and “Bad” thinking I was the coolest shit on the block. It made me sad that my kids won’t ever really get it, and the world is totally different than it was then. We were watching the news with the kids after Michael Jackson died, and they were like, did he sing other songs than “Thriller”? Yeah, yeah he did. MTV was showing Michael Jackson videos and the kids didn’t even know that MTV used to show ONLY videos. I was telling Davey about how I used to listen to the Thriller album in my walkman, and he was like, what’s a walkman? Sigh.

Me: A walkman is kind of like an iPod. But it played tapes.

Davey: What are tapes?

Oh dear God.

I tried to explain how different it was in the 80’s, how the world was different: before the internet, before cell phones, back when parents would let their kids walk to the corner store alone, and you could play outside until dark, but they really just didn’t get it. To them, the 80’s was like the stone age, filled with laughable hair styles and bad fashion. To them, Michael Jackson will always be that weird guy that wore the masks. To us, he’s the man who made the music that helped define a generation. Regardless of what he did or didn’t do, guilt and innocence aside, he will be remembered for forever changing the face of music as we know it. For that I’m grateful, as are my children, even if they don’t know it, or really understand it.

Lamb and tuna fish

Remember that time that I caught the paper towels on fire in the kitchen and you just smiled said, “let’s eat out”?

Remember when we went to Charleston and saw the wooly mammoth that was really a pigmy pony but was seriously the dumbest looking animal on the planet?

Remember when we ran out of oil and huddled together with our hats and mittens on watching Sex and the City?

Remember when the crazy old couple that lived downstairs tried to attack me and you threatened them with a broom?

Remember when my flight got delayed and I spent the day in the airport lounge drinking cosmopolitans and you had to guide me through the terminals over the phone because I was so lost?

Remember when you took me to the Rocky Horror Picture Show when I had pneumonia and sang all the songs and did all the dances for me because I couldn’t?

Remember when I told you I wouldn’t ever forgive you, and you jumped in the snow bank in your underwear to prove you were really, really sorry?

Remember when you tried to put an ice cube down my shirt and you totally missed and it hit me in the nose?

Remember the cockroaches and “deadbolts” at the Master’s Inn?

Remember when I farted and told you that I had been especially gassy and you laughed and asked me to marry you?

You’re still the most fun person I’ve ever met, and make me laugh like no one else can. So here’s to all the “remember whens” we’ve had and all the ones we will have. Like lamb and tuna fish, baby.

July 1 marks the time that Chris and I got together, neither of us know the actual date, just that it's in July, and that it's been 5 kick ass years.

I'm the Rainman of cooking

So I don’t know if I’ve ever admitted this publicly, but I’m a horrendous cook. I can burn water, and I mean that literally. You know those people who can look in their pantry and grab like 5 ingredients and make the most delicious meal you’ve ever tasted? It’s like that show on Food Network, Chopped, where they get a basket full of stuff like pepperoni, grapes, veal liver, yogurt and hot dogs and they make some world class meal totally suitable for the Waldorf-Astoria. I’m exactly like that, only completely opposite. I can take lobster, filet mignon, and black truffles and turn into world class shit. Like I tried to make something simple like kielbasa and rice. Easy enough, right? I mean hell, I even used boil-in-bag rice. Really hard to screw up. Not for me! The rice got stuck to the bottom of the pan and half of it was crispy and the other half was mush, and I burned the kielbasa to a crisp. It’s not like I’m not paying attention, I really am, I just get sidetracked and before you know it, the smoke alarm is going off. The kids like to say that when the smoke alarm goes off dinner is ready. Chris enjoys telling people that my specialty is “blackened” food, like Cajun-style without the spice. I think they’re mocking me.

I suppose I can follow a recipe, but even that I usually mess up. There is one thing that I make really, really well: apple pie, from scratch. I make the crust from scratch, the filling, everything. It’s perfect every time. Now, why I can make something as complicated as apple pie and I can’t make fucking instant rice, I don’t know. I can even make the fancy lattice-work top. I’m a cooking idiot savant. I saw this ad for a contest for the best desert, and I’m actually considering entering, and I totally think I could win. As long as I don’t have to boil water, I should be ok.