Pretend Like It Never Happened Part Deux

8 PM on Monday. The husband has just returned from a bike ride one of which you will find me glaringly absent from as I was trying very hard to get moi's electrolytes back into zen. So, shut it. M'kay?

moi: the last time I worked out was on Thursday. Ihaven'tworkedoutinfourdays. *groan*
the husband: just think of how many calories we consumed last night drinking. *mean, mean evil husband*
moi: but they were liquid calories and I pee'd them out, of course. *duh. who doesn't know that*
the husband: - - - *[blink, blink] followed by the infamous you-are-so-totally-caught-and-so-totally-guilty look*
moi: just let me believe this to be true even if it s'not. . . . *whimper. . . please let it be true, please let it be true, pleaseletitbetrue*
the husband: - - - that's not how it works.

Dammit. Foiled again.

**********************************************************************

Later that night at 9 PM. Whilst waiting for dinner.

the husband: I have to pee and poop.
moi: you have to pee and poop?! *that's fantastically disgusting*
the husband: I said, "Rick-eeeeeee Boob-eeeeeee. . . ." *oh. Talladega Nights; how did I miss that in his very cute in da face French accent*
moi: oh. I thought you said you had to pee and poop, which was, you know, kinda weird.
the husband: . . well, I guess it sort of sounds the same. . . . *note to the husbands' self: get wife hearing aid for upcoming anniversary*

Yep. I'm thinking my electrolytes had yet to still balance out.

Pretend Like It Never Happened

Here's what I know.

It was Sunday night. The husband and I shared 2 bottles of red wine, which in looking back, is no good. On empty stomach's nonetheless was really no good. 2 bottles of red wine; however, consumed with a drink of Godiva liqueur as well as "sit-on-my-face" drinks was really, really no good. The husband did a shot of Drambuie, looked at me while I looked horrifyingly at him and announced, "I don't know why I just did that." Which in turn turned out to be really, really, really no good. Amaretto turned up sometime in there too. Amaretto was a bit sneaky, just like tequila normally is and this was really, really, really, really no good.

It is safe to say that we were pretty hammered. We had to use our wall in the hall to stay in the upright position to get into our room. Somehow, I managed to wash my face, but forgot to brush my teeth. That was definitely no good. I even tried to read my HP & the Goblet of Fire. I think I read the same paragraph 20 to 30 times before I gave up. This, clearly, was no good too.

We paid a nice visit to IHOP at 11:45 AM today. Grease, nausea and salt. Yummy.

Guess who is now going back into the horizontal position to try and balance out their electrolytes?

You'll Have to Speak Up I'm Wearing a Towel

I was going to blog about how craptacular my day was yesterday, but completely decided it was unnecessary. I mean, plenty of people in this world have sucktastic days, why should I be the only one to complain about it? My 7 readers deserve more than that. So, I give you what I hope is laughter, if not a smile:

A couple weeks ago, my friend SPaco decided to call me from her cell phone on the way home from "church." This place is always referred to as "church" as a dedication to my friend, Ian, who so named it, because a few years back on every Friday night at happy hour. . . .er. . . . I mean, 5 PM, this is where you might find him. At church. It. definitely. was. not. a. pub. It was church. Thus, Friday night church service was born. Thank you, Ian.

Anyway, back to moi story, it was 10:30 PM on a Friday. She was on her way to meet her boyfriend at her house from being at Friday night church services. I think it was a fun sermon, because while not impaired enough to not be able to drive (thank the gods that be), she was a bit giggly. Well, add into the mix that she's newly in love. (Love, especially new love, can make anyone giggle if even just watching water boil. That is if you can get it to boil. . . ) While in the middle of such a story about said new boyfriend, she stopped dead. . . . No sound. No breathing. Nothing.

Until:

spaco: - - -
moi: - - -
spaco: OHMYGODJENNIFER! WHERE'S MY CELL PHONE?! *panic*
moi: - - - *is there sand in my bra?*
- - -
- - -
- - -
spaco: *laughter*

Well, it was supremely funny at the time. . .

Anyway, ya'll have a mighty fine weekend. Don't forget, go to church.

There's My Little Enchilada

So, I realize I've been ignoring this here blog for the last 2 weeks or so. I haven't found any wittiness on my part for quite sometime. Perhaps nothing funny has actually been done or said to me, which I find very hard to believe. Or maybe this blog is getting on my nerves. Are we losing one another? Blog relationships are tender and must be lavished with love, happiness and held ever so gently. I have done neither for quite some time.

I don't know what's going on here and frankly it does bother me.

Have I lost touch with the great blog-o-sphere? And why? Am I bored? I always know when one of my dogs, um. . . . so as not to incriminate her supreme damn cuteness. . . . um. . . . them. . . . , let's just say the name rhymes with "pixie". . . . is bored. She brings me a sock. No, she doesn't chew it, she'll just walk around the house with her most prized possession until one of us notices and takes it from her. It's usually the husbands, because for some odd reason his socks don't seem to make it to the dirty clothes hamper. It's another of his unexplained phenomenons, which I can't go into right now, but the husband also cannot deny this fact. Although he might try, it's the truth and nothing but the truth. I would never make up stories about him to get a laugh on my blog. Never. Anyway, when we take the sock from her she gets pretty melancholy. It's damn cute. One just can't resist the cuteness powers of Dixie. You have to play with her.

Unfortunately, I don't have such a behavior. Especially one that can so easily be remedied as a throwing a ball in a game of fetch. I mean, at least I haven't found myself walking around the house with the husbands dirty sock in my mouth. So, I can't say for sure that it's sheer boredom keeping me from blogging to my 7 readers. But it's not to say that I'm not keeping up with my 7 readers' blogs and I must mention here that theirs have all been good as of late. So, why can't I blog lately? This mystery is even astounding to me.

I got to thinking. . . .

Here's what I consider what might be the situation up in my hizizile.

A few weeks back I was asked through the husband for my resume. So, I spent a week putting that together. I spent another couple of days trying to do some recognisance detail on this here company who asked for my resume. If I was going to send someone my detailed work history, I'd best be armed. For example, where is it - what is it - why is it - who is it - how is it? You know, all the important stuff. Plus, I needed to know what position I was applying for. Sometimes beggars need to be choosy. I wouldn't do very well on a street corner or dancing with poles. I'd like to use me brains and me edumication too. So, with some information, albeit small information, I was armed to write a cover letter, which took another few days. And sent it on to the person who originally asked the husband for it.

Not really thinking that anything could come of it, I went on with my life by continuing not to blog. But I received a phone call that same day asking me to come in for an interview. Now, let me explain my work history as of late. Officially, for the last year, I've been known as the housewife. That's it. I have no clock, no boss (no, the husband doesn't count as I am the alpha here - Amazonian Princess, people. Duh!), no deadlines (okay, maybe the paying of the bills), no assignments, no reporting to duty on time, no nuttin'. And, no, it is not as quaint as it sounds. People have often looked at me with jealousy, but also with disdain. I have received a lot of, "I would love to be you and not have to work!" As well as, "so, you don't do anything?" accompanied by a look of disdain as if I just caught the Ebola virus and fully plan to pass it on to said perpetrator by planting a full on kiss right on their mouth. People have even suggested that I give birth to children in order to give me something to do. Seriously? I should have children so that I am not bored? What a fantastic idea. Why didn't I think of that? Bring the kid on, I need amusement here in our Longhorn city!

All this to say, it is a catch .22. It is boring not being productive, contributing, dealing with only things that have to do with all-things-housely or getting out of the house and doing something for society. (Volunteer work doesn't cut it either - that's a whole other can o' worms that I'm not opening right now.) It also is hard to give up some acquired freedom. You know, the whole by-product of not working. Freedom has its perks. One such benefit revolves around the morning. I'm not - nor have I ever been - a morning person. It's nice not having to wake up to an alarm clock at 5:30 AM; okay, so maybe it's 6:30 AM - whatever, it's the morning and all the same to moi. It is nice being with my dogs all day - but even they cause me crazy-time too. It's so freaking hot in this Longhorn city of ours that staying outside all day is not awesomely feasible. A person would melt trying to do so - just as soon as they burnt their nose hairs off as well as all remaining bodily hair. I don't have a beach where I can spend my days slurping dirty martini's while swimming lazily in the ocean. *I wish* It is also nice to know one can jump on an airplane for a bit of reprieve; a vacation, if you will, without having permission to actually be able to go on vacation. Another perk of freedom.

***To bring some of my newly acquired 7 listeners up to date on the work history of moi, before this past year I worked very part-time in our old apartment complex, which in turn covered our rent each month. It was a pretty sweet deal if you ask me. Anyway, if you want to be totally bored you can just read here to find out the rest of my Greek tragedy. . . . er. . . . history. It's uninteresting. I'll leave that up to you. But you can't say you weren't warned.

Now, since I believe I have fairly given you notice, let's get back to the subject at hand. Moi! And my non-blogging status. Yes, I went to the interview, which resulted in a 2nd interview, which resulted in a job offer. It is a job I can do and would most likely enjoy doing. I liked the people I interviewed with and I like the company's philosophies. I'm pretty sure I'd like the job if even to just get back into the work world once again. Upon my hesitation at the job offer, more money was offered. Who doesn't like money? But this isn't the point. This is.

I sit here now realizing that some of my lack of sleep (take last night, for example, I have a total of 4.5 hours of blissful nothingness under my belt) and lack of blogging are to be blamed for this job thing. I know most people do it and I myself never thought I would not work (it just kinda happened), but I have to say I am a bit apprehensive about the whole situation. Back to the daily grind, schedules, appointments, research and alarm clocks. Hello to new friends, new brain power, new money, new clothes (of course!) and new endeavors. Goodbye lazy mornings, lazy daytime gym workouts when no one hogs the machines, lazy pajama wearing (all day - good sirs - I. do. not.), lazy freedom, lazy blogging and lazy walks with the pups. And yet, there is something to be said for making your own paycheck and using your own brain as well as doing something for myself for a change. Something that is just mine. Something of worth. I'm not really skilled in the art of nothingness. After a year at home, I know this much about me.

Finally, I've made a ton of pro and con lists. I don't think I have anymore. I've talked, debated, bullied (okay, not really), conversed, bantered, rapped and tete-a-tete'd with the husband over this entire situation. He, obviously, wants me to work, but more importantly, he wants moi to be happy. He even started helping out more around the house just to prove that the house will not collapse or implode upon my absence from it. But regardless and on top of that, I have to make the decision to work or not to work by next Monday by either accepting or not accepting the position? I am at some losses here. I need some sage advice.

Shall we take a poll?

Young David Copperfield Does Another Rotation Around the Sun

I have nothing to say today.

Other than, on a completely irrelevant note, Young David Copperfield. . . . Harry Potter. . . .er. . . . Daniel Radcliff. . . . whatever. . . . turned 18-years-old yesterday. He legally now has access to $40 million dollars that was just sitting in the bank waiting for him to become authorized. He, apparently, celebrated by going to a cricket match with his buddies.

The kid was born when I graduated high school.

Why is it again that I feel so old lately?

12 Publisher Rejections

Friday night, July 20th, 2007: moi dramatically searching for receipt for reserved copy of soon to be released book number 7. Search ends in exhaustion and receipt, distressingly, is not detected in this Longhorn city home of ours. Sad night resulting in one Michelob Ultra consumed.

Saturday morning, July 21, 2007 finding myself at the bookstore after calling to find they kept records and have my Harry Potter and The Deathly Hallows copy all the while observing the over flowing garbage cans outside the front doors [must've been some party], copies of book 7 strategically placed in displays at each entrance [why was I worried] and approximately 80 people in the place of all things bookly [party still rolling]. One lady, while I was standing in the checkout line, asked me where to find a copy of the new Harry Potter. I was considerate and all, but slightly wondered if she had gone completely mad or blind. How does one miss the enormous yellow Harry Potter and The Deathly Hallows displays at each entrance?

Anyway. . .

moi: did you work last night?
checkout gal: no.
moi: do you know if it was crazy?
checkout gal: well, it wasn't. . . . welllll, it was about as crazy as it's gonna be with 600 people in the store at the same time.
moi: 600 people?! *this must amaze even God*
checkout gal: yeah. . . *very tired*
moi: hopefully it doesn't get that nuts for you today. Thanks so much and have a good one! *turning to leave*
checkout gal: hey! Do you want a Harry Potter poster?
moi: Yeahhhhhh!!!! *eyes widen in awe - as if I just met Lance Armstrong himself*

I haven't turned a page yet. I still have to get through books 2 on up. So, ye-aaaaah, I'm a late bloomer. I know. I know. Say what you will. . . I just only read Harry Potter and The Sorcerers Stone. Where I fell into the Harry Potter abyss and smacked my noggin' straight in the middle of J.K. Rowling's family room. I haven't been able to come out of this coma I now find myself in. I want to be her. Or Harry or Hermione or Ron or Hagrid or Dumbledore. . . . I don't care, just to be one of them! If even vicariously. But that's how I roll.

My book buying resulted in happiness, a sweaty workout and 2 Rahr Beers consumed at the brewery tour. [Totally recommend The Ugly Pug, by the way.] Okay, only 1-1/2 beers consumed, as being the designated driver is great power with great responsibility. Or with great responsibility comes great power. Or. . . . Whatever. You catch my drift.

Finally, just so you know, I'm not totally out of the loop, I have seen each of the movies. More than once.

And there you have it, my little bit of geeky goodness.

It'll Be Good For Me. Help Me To Grow. Whatever.

This is what you need to know: only in this Longhorn city, Texas, when the husband and I finally get our new sprinkler system installed and fully functional does it rain here. There is one primary reason for this, the gods that be are literally messing with us. This is not awesome. Understand that we wanted to install this system back in April, but somehow the universe decided that we shall have rain for 47 days in a row just after we laid 7 pallets of sod in our backyard.

In turn our nicely coveted and very posh sod turned to swamp. Complete with urban business people, nightmares, prehistoric alligators, giant mosquito's and creepy rednecks where lives and souls alike were at atrocious risk. Kind of like our very own Deliverance of 1972. But hey, that's the gods' doing.

So, upon final checks, agendas, statistics and checklists the sprinkler system worked. Efficiently. And was set to run every other day at 5:45 AM for either 10 or 15 minutes, depending. This is a science I cannot speak of, because you're talking to the one person in the world who actually mowed the monkey grass. Back in April. Which still has not grown back.

In my defense, let me just put it out there to all my web readers - all 7 of you - that I had never mowed a yard in my life. This is my wonderful, over-protective mother's fault. She did not want us children - her children - touching anything that could mortally wound us. Or easily take an arm off. Things with blades were bad. So, she mowed the yard herself . . . . and 37-years later, she is still mowing the yard. [Not mine, hers.]

Anyway due to this teeny-weensy fact of the madre not letting us play with moving blades, I was too scared to even touch a lawnmower. So totally terrified of the grass-cutter that I actually thought I would lose my fingers just by looking at the choke button. My toes would be sucked into the lawnmower blade abyss as well. Never to be seen again. Ever. I just know this to be true as my mom told me it was so. And we all know, mother knows best. For God's sake, she has eyes in the back of her head, people! I was doomed by just looking at the choke button.

When these tragedies did not befall me, I wasn't exactly sure what to do. So, I mowed the monkey grass.

Which is neither here nor there.

This is what brings me to today, Friday, July 20, 2007. I awoke at 4 AM today. Yeah. I know, not pretty. But what I noticed while lying in bed staring at the clock, was that at 5:45 AM the sprinkler system started up. Heavenly music to my ears. A soft rain misting our yard ever so gently for 15 minutes. Rednecks be gone. And so it was.

Fast forward 7 hours. Where it started to rain. After 3 weeks of drought-like weather without an ounce of natural preipitation, it rained. For 20 minutes. We had already watered our lawn.

Shake and Bake Part II! "Is That a Catchphrase Or Epilepsy?"

Texas skies are sunny with a high around 92-degrees.

The husband is taking moi, against all advice and better judgment, on another bike ride today. Any takers on whether or not the she-devil will appear again? Or whether or not I'll burn off whatever I may have left of my nose hairs and eyebrows?

May God have mercy on his soul. . . . or mine. I don't know yet.

Imagine That

You want to know what is gross?











This is gross:

I keep finding them under things in my garden(s). At first I was a leetol bit freaked out. I mean, they're slimy and have a flat head. So, I thought "worm." But then the thing moved. And moved fast. Like a snake. So, I thought, "snake." And as snakes go in Texas, I thought, "holy crap! What if it is poisonous?" Plus, it has stripes and a weird flat head. So, I thought, "poisonous snake." And didn't touch it. But then I dropped a flagstone [by accident - heavy thing that rock is] of which one happened to be attached to and the thing disintegrated. And I thought, "I don't think snakes explode like that?"

So, I did what every sensible red-blooded American does. I came into the house to complete a Google search. . .

And found out it was a worm after all. One that devours earthworms [sad], slugs [yeah baby], insect larvae [saa-wing batter] and are cannibalistic [that's messed up] as well as will eat itself for its own food [blink, blink. . .]. Disgustingly gross. It seems the slime is more like a "holding station" for struggling prey than poison. But still gross. It eats and poops out of its same mouth. Once more, gaaaw-roooooss.

I don't want them in my garden anymore. But they have no known natural enemy - besides moi. And I do not like the way they explode, so you won't find me stepping on them. I won't even touch them. If they were the cute little earthworms we all know and love who do good things in gardens they would not be a problem. But these worms? They are just mucus. And that is just plain gross.

. . . . so, now you know.

Shake 'N Bake, Baby

1 Sunday afternoon. 1 cyclist racer. 1 normal mortal. Two bikes. 94-degrees Fahrenheit. 3.5 hours. 45 miles. 30 SPF. Abundant water. No Alexander Vinokourov. No doping scandals. No team car support. No schloogus maximus'.

the husband: *pulling of to the side of the road while pointing north in the direction of a galaxy far, far away* I wish I could show you where we live from here, but the hill is blocking our view. . .
me: wow. We are that far from home? *utter astonishment*
the husband: yep. And we are heading that way *pointing south *
me: *turning my head ever so gently* BUT THAT'S A HUGE HILL! And,it'stheoppositedirectionofhome! *on the plus side, death is one of the few things that can be done just as easily lying down* [Woody Allen]

the husband: *laughing* I know!
me: that's so not funny. *grrrr*

*********** 5 minutes later ***********

me: *pedaling up previously mentioned hill* my heart rate is 175 *can't. find. air.*
the husband: I'm not even going to tell you mine. . . *laughing again*
me: what? It's . . . . like . . . . 130 . . . . , isn't . . . . it? *kill. me. now.*
the husband: more like 125 *still laughing*
me: that's . . . . just . . . . wrong . . . . on . . . . so . . . . many . . . . levels . . . . of . . . . wrongness. *it's impossible to experience one's death objectively*
the husband: *laughing - he's still laughing on a hill*

The husband even put his hand on my bum, no, no not to cop a feel, but to help push me up that hill. And, while I'm pretty sure it was a category 200, as mountain categories go, it felt like it was a cat 1. Or even an HC. In the Alps.

I'm not kidding.

[I hope the tour has a good rest day off on Monday, I know I will.]

Like, Explaning Ethics to Angelina Jolie & Billie Bob

A few weeks ago - almost 4 to be exact, the husband and I hired a dog trainer. And, I'm sure you are all screaming, "but Jen, you have 4 dogs how have you not had a trainer all this time!" Without the question, because only an insane person would have 4 dogs and not have hired a trainer. So, it's not a question but an exclamation. And I will answer, because things were fine until 2007 hit us smack in our butts. I'm telling you it wasn't a "good job on the field smack" either. Nor was it a "I love you so very much your butt is cute smack". It was a "mom caught us stealing a big wheel & wait until your father gets home where you pick the switch smack***" in the ass.

A few months passed and another wham-smack landed us with a trainer.

It was either try this or get rid of a dog or two or more. And that was like I'd jumped off a cliff into an abyss where there was no bottom. If anyone who knows me at all, knows that getting rid of a dog is not even an option for me. I crumpled into a heap in the backyard crying. I wasn't even crying as it was more like I was sobbing. Sobbing so hard and so long that there was a puddle of cry. And snot. The husband could only hug me, pick me up, carry me to the patio, provide some tissue and tell me to call my sister.

He full well knew that she was the only one who could console me. Secretly, I also think he knew I wouldn't yell at my sister - I haven't screamed at her since we were teens, but he knew we were on the most ultimate dangerous territory with me and she was the only one I could speak to at that very moment. Besides, she could decipher my zombie-atic mumble as that is what I had reverted to by losing all self control, snot, tears and complete thought patterns while lying in a lump in our backyard. I was not in a good way.

So, after the husband brought me my cell and a box of tissues, I mustered what I had in me (because let me tell you sobbing is exhausting) and dialed my sisters number. Being that she was the only person on the planet who could think straight or even get me to speak clearly, she told me to call a trainer. It sounds simplistic, but I needed it to be a Mack truck that hit me full on in my face before I thought of it. My sister became my Mack truck.

And call a trainer I did. The husband didn't think that would work, but I insisted with the promise fingers, toes & shoe laces crossed that if the trainer does not work, I'll look at finding a home for the dogs.

Indeed, I found a trainer through my wonderfully awesome vet. Just so you are aware, we have the best vet on this here planet of ours called earth (he's mobile and comes to our home. I've seen him perform surgery on my dogs, suture, clean their teeth and give them shots without any ounce of hesitation on animals behalf. It's a completely different experience than taking them to the clinic. They love him! We appreciate him!) Anyhow, he suggested a trainer through Bark Busters.

I could not be more grateful to our vet and our trainer.

The husband and I, due to Bark Busters, have a completely different pack of dogs. In our first visit the trainer spent 4-hours with us. That same night, by the time the husband came home from work (at midnight), he woke me up to say he couldn't believe how different our dogs were. They actually sat when he walked in the door instead of jumping up to see who could lick his face first. This is not an easy task for any of our four legged furries as the husband is over 6-feet tall! But on this night they sat immediately when he said sit. And that was only after the first lesson. . . . To use the words of Katie Holmes, "It's amazing!"

Three more weeks and the trainer returned, but only for an hour this time. He was happy to see a completely different energy in our dog pack as well as how well behaved they have become. I'm not a big braggart, but regarding my dogs, now that is a different story. So, you'll now suffer through my tales of doggie achievement as if all four of them were of the human kid kind. Hey! I listen to your stories as to how awesome your "real" human spawn are, you will listen to mine about mundane four-legged furries. [Ahem. . .] Where was I? Oh yes, my list of supreme doggie benevolence:

• they now sit outside our foyer when someone comes to our home and rings the doorbell. We are still working on getting them to not bark when the doorbell rings, but let me tell you it's progress to get all 4 of them to just sit and stay while I open the door.
  
• They sit outside the kitchen while I cook. They don't even put a paw inside the room while I cook. With food.
• They no longer jump onto our bed without being asked. Luckily, the husband and I have decided not to buy a bigger bed, because it is just us in our bed now. No need for anything larger than our queen!
  
• They sit and stay waiting to be invited outside or inside, as well as most rooms of the house.
  
• They tend to lay around more inside the house instead of wrestling inside the house as if it's "Live: Smack Down on WWE" or something like that.
• Finally, I can throw treats of doggie goodness (greenies, dried chicken breasts, food, etc.) on the floor right by each dog without any one of them eating. They sit and look at me asking to be released from the torment of having to wait for their treats that are lying right next to their feet.
  

It's awesome stuff going on here in our Longhorn city, I tell ya.

Even though they've become an awesomely different dog pack of whom are much more fabulous, don't be fooled, we still have much more work to do, as we are far from being perfect. The training can never ever stop or stray as it would then become broken and start over again we would. No longer will we experience any more smacks in the ass though. And that's a blessing in an of itself. Believe you me, you don't want to go through what we've been through.

On a more fantastically positive note, the trainer even suggested that we could work with Dixie to become a therapy dog(!), we only have to work on her "greeting disability." You see, she likes to jump on people to say "I love you, I can lick your face to prove my love for you. If you won't bring your face to me I'll bring mine to yours. I love you, I can lick your fact to prove. . ." Therapy dogs(!), apparently, cannot jump on people. Seriously? C'mon, where's the love, people? But it's always been a dream of mine to have a therapy dog(!). I cannot wait to take her to see children in the hospital - you cannot get more precious than that! And, maybe some nursing homes here and there, 'cos you know, old people scare me. That's only because I'm becoming one.

To date, this therapy dog(!) is the most exciting news I've received. Now, to train the husband to train the Dixie with moi to not jump up - I don't care if she's so damn cute when she does it. . . . Okay. . . . Yep, even the trainer became victim to Dixie's wily ways of supreme damn cuteness. More. Than. Once. While. He. Was. Here. And he called her "sneaky." That she is. Suffice it to say there is loads of work to be done here before Dixie can graduate to therapy dog(!).

________________________________________________________

***I would like to put in any sort of disclaimer here protecting moi parents, because this never happened in my family. It's not to say, while rare, that I didn't earn a spanking now and again while in my youts. They were completely justifiable, they just didn't happen to be completed with a "switch". Usually it was one pop on the arse (that didn't leave a mark) and I knew I'd been a bad, bad kiddie. In fact, I am not from the Longhorn city state itself and didn't even know the word "switch" existed in the sense that it is a form of a branch that you get to specifically pick to hit your own bottom. When I heard about it I thought it was mythical in it's own proportion, because how twisted would you have to be to make your kid pick their own branch for their own corporal punishment? Though, when I think about it, I can totally understand. It's mind-warfare when it comes to children. You have to terrorize scare them or they will run all over you like Michael Schumacher in his F1 Ferrari. So, I get it. Kids need controlling these days.

Go pick your "switch" is very prevalent and does exists here, as does the "belt", which I would just like to say for all those children's bums, "ow!" I feel for you and your pain, but stop doing stupid things and be a good kid. Your ass would then be saved, so really it's your very own fault. I would also like to say, "I'm glad it's you and not me though."

In any case, please don't send hate mail. I really do love children contrary to my belief in producing them. Also, my parents are peaceful loving people and I was angelic as a kid. I didn't need a good beating 'cos I wasn't stoopid like the children today. They raised me to be the delicate flower that I am.

The Last Smegma

what I would want to say if I ever speak to you again: your millipede overly-exaggerated. So much so, that I know your millipede is dishonest to even you. He does not have 750 legs. That's rare. More likely he only has 400, but he is a creature who is known to be lying to you. However, I'm not in the business of breaking anthropods' legs, especially since he's your anthropod and not mine. This is why I understand you would believe him. He told us your glacial and, yet, he prefers slimy dirt, well. . . as you once said to me, and I quote, "that's your problem between your millipede and you." Hateful, isn't it? Anyone who knows me would know that I would not speak such things and if you had given me the chance you would also know that I would never speak what the millipede said I did. Millipede's a liar. You threw without even asking if that was really me. Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to go hang out with the birds that are my friends - who eat millipedes like you for breakfast.


what I would really say if I ever speak to you again: *nothing*

Okay, Crazy Time Begins at 5:30 PM

This past April, I celebrated my 7th-Anniversary-of-My-29th-Birthday. This is significant. Why? Because I need to remind myself that I am no longer 21-years-old. How do I do this? By attempting to complete two cardio gym classes in a row. Let me reiterate: Two. Cardio. Gym. Classes. In. A. Row - with an emphasis on cardio. Which completely proves to me that I am a young-un no more. I am a brick. A stationary brick. I think I like being a non-moving brick. It suits me just fine.

Even as a brick, I thought I was Queen of Cool, but it turns out I am only Napoleon Dynomite with a fuzzy 'fro, moon boots, tater tots and a llama, but even he has dance moves. I don't have dance moves. I can't dance; I thought I could, but it's really pretty crude bordering on inapt incorrectness.

Seeing as this white-girl cannot dance, I should have known when at the tender age of 12 I tried to take break dancing classes and failed miserably. Why oh why did I not stop there?

So, tonight, I went to my 2nd "step & strength class." I can do the weight strength training, but I am a 2-lefter on the step. Literally and figuratively. Add in squats, intervals, lunges, jumps, hips, legs all completed on or around a step and it's as if I am on invisible fire just like Ricky Bobby doing windmills across the race track in his underwear. I think you're supposed to look like some sort of gliding pretty in pink ballerina, but not me. I am a brick. Add some sweat and it's not pretty. In fact, it looks like I'm in pain. Lots and lots of pain. It cannot even be categorized as bopping. How the rest of the class did not fall into gales of whopping laughter is a very scientific mystery to me?

In trying to get beyond the qualified, but concealed amusement, the class that followed was a "cardio kickboxing class." Easy enough. I was a blue belt in kickboxing and took 3 months of boxing lessons and. . . .uh. . . . So, what are you trying to say? Whatever. So, I took kickboxing over 5 years ago and boxing only a year ago. I'm only a little out of shape, I've been working out for, like, forever. Duh. I can still punch. And kick.

Or so I thought once again.

Little (oh so very leetol) did I know it was successive bag punching for 30 minutes. Um. Ow. Is all I have to say about that. I do need to talk to the husband to drill him find out as to why I did not barf out a lung. It would have given me the excuse I needed to quit.

Finally, I'm out of the shower. I am indubitably and evidently not 21 anymore. Classes ended at 6:45. I can barely lift my fingers to the keyboard. All I can stomach is water. I have a nice tuna steak in the fridge waiting for human consumption and all I want is water.



. . . . kill me now.

C'mon Nigel, Mama Wants to Shake It

I've been sitting here for an hour now trying to come up with something to blog about. Truth be told, I have much to tell, but cannot find the words or the wit. My mind is a tabula rasa. This is a new phenomenon for moi. Like, when I actually stop talking - something of a rarity for me. Scientists usually study me for how much I can talk away to complete strangers and friends alike. And in case you were wondering, I don't self-implode while doing so. But finding me with no way to type is also excruciating and difficult for me. What to say with all that I have to say with no way to say it?

I guess I can start with the fact that I actually went to a Texas Ranger game on Thursday night with some friends of ours. Yes, I did. I have pictures on my new cell phone to prove it, because I know at least one of you who knows how deeply I do not heart baseball and knew I'd need to prove it. Yet, I cannot figure out how to download these pictures from the phone to the computer - I think it has something to do with setting up some sort of system to do so, but as you can tell I'm far too lazy to do it. Herein lies the problem. Thus, the pictures are held away in some trusty pixel phone compartment holder and will do so until the user error is solved. This may be never, so don't hold your breaths. But I did go to a baseball game of which the Ranger's lost (oh, like that's new news. . . .). I would have much rather have been living and breathing margaritas on the beach, but the 4 tickets for $8 total just couldn't be matched in airfare. Now, the price of ballpark beer, cotton candy, kettle corn and hurricanes, well, that's a whole other story as one could potentially pay their month's mortgage with those types of incurred fees.

Aside from fat guys trying to hit balls with a itty-bitty aluminum stick to run around bases, I also had one of my best friends come up from H-town to visit me over the weekend. We stayed in and watched movies with our dear old friend, Captain Morgan. In keeping with following the Captain's orders, we drank responsibly by being in the house and not driving. I think I'm just getting old. The pub scened doesn't do for us what it once did for us. We also ate responsibly, so as not to risk the waistline we work so hard to maintain. She more than me, but, whatever, I like to think I'm doing the body good so let me believe it.

Furthermore, I had to leave my gal pal behind a few hours on Saturday while I attended another baby shower. In case you were wondering, I was not asked when the husband and I were going to produce our very own spawn. Vindication! Finally. . . . However, I almost wanted to be asked, because, thanks to in part to my six readers, I had an arsenal of responses prepared! D'oh.

Not that the husband was invited to the baby shower (how do men get out of all things showery?) so he wasn't in attendance either, but he is back on the graveyard shift once more. Let me just put this out there, I hate that shift. I hate sleeping alone. In fact, I'm terrible at it. I only sleep well when he's lying next to me. I tend wake up a lot and try to keep the dogs on the bed with me. Only two out of four will complete my recommendation. Don't get me wrong, it is not the same as having the husbands arm around me, but beggars cannot be choosers.

Furthermore, it finally stopped raining. I believe the TV news reported 47 straight days of rain for us here in our Longhorn city. People visiting might get the idea that we are some sort of "Southern Seattle." Don't be fooled by such Tom Foolery. Things are starting to die due to the mass quantities of water they are receiving. Even I, a famous lover of thunderstorms and lightening, need to wring out now and again to avoid becoming all pruny-like in the fingers and toes. The dogs as well are bored beyond being disenchanted and have begun to make up their very own indoor games. They have not broken anything yet, but they are certainly getting on moi nerves more times than not. The 47-days is still young though - or is it the 2-days without rain, uh . . yeaaaaaah . . . whatever - as we heard loads of mumbley rumbling thunder in the distance today, thus meaning rain cannot be too far behind. So they say. Great. More rain. I think I'll take up rowing.

Pan's Labyrinth is worth watching. You just need to see it. It categorically and unquestionably earned its 3 Academy Awards.

Finally, and in any case, my wit has failed me today. I have no funny. Maybe tomorrow I'll wake up without my brain saying, "if you try to make me produce one more witty sentence that I do not possess, I will climb out of one of your ears, if not both, and drown myself in the pond you try and call a backyard. Hmpf. Do not test me."

Are You on Medication

Oh.

And because I am a techno geek of whom has not the time to blog today and being one that practices the vein of embarrassing the hell out of myself by not minding the shame, I'll leave my 6 readers with the 25-top most played songs on my iPod Nano (try to remember I use this at the gym - motivation is the key word here, people. Motivation). Besides, it is well known that I like to revel in my own shamefacedness (if that's even a word), so I thought I'd put this out there on the world-wide cyber space for all to enjoy a laugh or two at my very own expense.

Here goes nothing:

25. Pride In the Name of Love - U2
24. Gone - U2
23. Why Should I Cry For You - Sting
22. When Love Comes to Town - U2
21. If You Wear That Velvet Dress - U2
20. Do You Feel Loved - U2
19. Dreams - The Cranberries
18. I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For - U2
17. Do Somethin' - Britney Spears
16. I Will Follow - U2
15. Where the Streets Have No Name - U2
14. Sunday Bloody Sunday - U2
13. You Still Touch Me - Sting
12. Holler If ya Hear Me - Tupac
11. Discotheque - U2
10. Yeah! - Usher
9. Afraid - Nelly Furtado
8. If - Janet Jackson
7. Toxic - Britney Spears
6. Mofo - U2
5. Shake That - Eminem
4. Stronger - Britney Spears
3. I'm a Slave 4 U - Britney Spears
2. SexyBack - Justin Timberlake
1. In Da Club - 50 Cent



Et tu, Brute?

Now I Have To Go Wash That Off

I've been doing a lot of shopping lately. Mostly comparison shopping and let me tell you that you can find most things akin to Pottery Barn elsewhere and at much better pricing. Honestly, who knew that [Cost Plus] World Market has such great furniture? I purchased some leather chairs, an end table, couple lamps and a trunk. Happily, our bedroom is finally coming around thanks to World Market and Pier 1. I'd been everywhere for months now and the vision is coming to fruition. Give it a few more months and a couple coats of paint and we'll be good as new. This depends on when I can actually settle on some color schemes. I'm pretty ADHD about this and won't argue over how ADHD I am about it. I just am. One day I'm with chocolate browns. The next day it's slate with a hint of blue or green. Then, I hit my chocolate brown and blue/green phases. Sometimes I'm totally off the chart with purple or red. Lots of wall = lots of colors. Mostly I come back to brown and blues. I'm a color person and I'm not afraid to use them. Just coming to a solution is a bit tedious and most likely annoying to the husband. I have to admit that he's got the "whatever you think, honey" bit down perfectly. I get no arguments there. Awesome! How can painting your bedroom be so panic at the disco distressing? It's just paint. I need Prozac, obviously. Or is it Ritalin?

Furthermore, I have found my next dinning room table. Actually, I found 2, but the husband is being mean and saying I can only get one. What?! Only one table?! Who lives with only one table? "But we can switch them out whenever we want and we now have a dining room that also needs a table . . . and one has a bench, so sometimes we can have a bench, eat with our hands and pretend we're, like, in medieval times and then others, when we have to be more formal . . . Well, one can be my work table and one can be the food table . . . Plus we are still paying less for two tables than we would for one Pottery Barn table. It's only fair . . . I have a table fetish that needs feeding . . . No, really, I. need. two. tables." I've thought this through very thoroughly and no matter how I've done so, I don't believe I'm going to win this one. That's a bummer. As you can see, I've tried every angle.

But this isn't the point of my post. This is.

I pseudo-destroyed my Treo 680. My red Treo 680. I loved that phone. Loved it. So much so that I almost fell into a deep depression when I crushed the LCD screen in the trunk of Coco Chanel. It was an awful crunch of a sound. I looked at the top of the car to see what had actually fallen on the roof to make such a noise, because it was so undiscerning, yet disturbing. I didn't see a thing and became a bit bewildered with a tilt of my head, like dogs do when they hear something they don't understand, until I saw a light and then absolute nothingness from my what was my mobile phone sticking out of the crack between the trunk and the back window. Utter panic ensued. How to live without my cell phone? This can't be! The screen is not cracked. The screen is not cracked. The screen is not cracked, as if repeating that mantra over and over again would make it true. Nope. No amount of CPR could save it either. Lord knows I tried.

I managed to get a few calls out, but had no idea what numbers I was dialing. How in the world did we manage back in the day when it was only rotary dialing? [Yea. So? I'm aging myself a bit here. Whatever.] Anyhow, I have to see the screen to be sure I am hitting the right number keys to be sure I'm dialing the right person. So, I went through a bit of a panic attack having hit numbers without a caller ID letting me know who I was actually calling. It worked after a few miss dials. The screen is toast though, which upon further discovery lead me to an even deeper depression, because a greater thought hit my little brain. . . . how am I going to text(!), [*gasping for air; cannot breathe*] which everyone who knows me, is the life force of my existence. It's charming really. Aside from bargain shopping, my other obsession is text messaging. I'm good at both - master of none. And now the life force has been sucked out of me by the cell phone vampire. I'm empty inside.

A trip to the mobile phone store did little to ease my pain. I left only to return a day later. I outright bought the phone this past May this time around so I would not have that stoopid upgrade contract to contend with whenever my phone died. Those contracts are crap. The phone always dies before your contract is up for a new upgrade. They get you for two years and believe me when I say, I am not going to switch providers. It costs too much to quit and start over. I've been with you for over 6 years I'm not going back. I'm lazy and that is entirely too much work for me. So, even though you buy the phone outright to avoid contracts, one still ends up with one. Yep. You do. Apparently, since buying outright in May my new upgrade isn't due now until January 2008. "Huh? But I didn't sign up for. . . what do you mean that doesn't matter? This is treacherous." Long story even longer: I do not qualify for another phone. I do not have insurance on the phone, because they wouldn't sell me insurance on the phone. Why? Because, to use their words, "the phone is too expensive of a cost to us to carry insurance on it." So there. I am screwed. The words of Leo Getz rang out and echoed through my head:

"They #*@$ you at the [cellular store], okay? They #*@$ you at the [cellular store]! They know you're gonna be miles away before you find out you got #*@$ ! They know you're not gonna turn around and go back, they don't care. So who gets #*@$ ? Ol' [Godiva Jen]! . . ."

It was either buy a new phone or try to repair the screen.

I tried both options. Even trying to repair the screen went awry. It still cost more than it should and the salesman was just creepy-McCreepster. A few hours later the husband half-mentioned, "Did you notice how that A***o T*k guy just kept staring at your boobs?" Seriously? What was that all about? "I noticed, but I was hoping it was just me being overly freaked out by shameless sleazeball of a guy." And I don't even have a chest that is worth mentioning in print. "Am I wearing a revealing shirt? Oh my God! I'm wearing a shirt that makes revolting men stare at my chest!" The husband, chuckling, retorted, "You're not wearing a revealing shirt. He's just a guy." "Well, he's not getting my business that's for sure. I'm not going back there. Ewww. Gross." I said it just like that with the italics and bold in the appropriate places too. And with a hmph, I was said and done. The husband just laughed and drove me to the cellular store where once again I am pretty sure I got the short end of the stick.

I now have a Samsung BlackJack and it's nothing like my Treo. I miss my Treo. RIP Treo you're sorely missed. The husband says I'll eventually love my BlackJack just like I did my Treo, but the skeptic in me just refuses to believe.




*** If you're wondering why I didn't just buy the red Treo 680, it's because I couldn't bring myself to do it again. That's a lot of bills, people! The same phone within two months time frame? Naw. That's just not right. Besides, with the cost of that phone I could buy a second dining table! Well, I have yet to buy the first, but the point is, it is the same cost as those 2 tables and I can't eat off my phone. So, I spent less bills this time around, which most likely is why I'm still kinda hating on the BlackJack. And it's not the BlackJack's fault, really. It's mine. I can't watch out for my own preciousssss phone, then I don't deserve it. I suppose it's the whole "cut off your nose to spite your face" kind of deal. I must live with my mistake.

So there.

Happy Independence Day!!!