Downward Pore Unclogging Spiral

Have you ever wanted to clear your pores out so badly, that you literally scrape your skin off with your nails trying to get that one ridiculously blocked pore?  It's terrible enough to admit doing that, but to also have repeated this act on numerous occasions is just embarrassing. 

The process always starts off simple enough...
Wash face, brush teeth, maybe floss a little, look at some face products and then get up REAL CLOSE to the mirror to start the ritual of pore excavating.  Sometimes this involves using your tongue or face muscles to stretch out facial areas thereby uncovering even more hidden clogged pores.  This act is never pre-meditated, but almost always a "fly by" decision as you finish brushing your teeth.  Smiling really big in the mirror to be sure your teeth are EXTRA sparkly clean, something catches your eye.  You stretch out your chin and (GASP!) expose fifty hidden clogged pores.  Now you are determined to clean house.  Using techniques your grandmother has passed down from her grandmother's grandmother (and so on), you carefully perform surgery.

Once complete, and feeling quite good about the money you just saved yourself from not having to get a facial, your productive feeling suffers a brief pause.  Wait, maybe there is more to this one clog?  This clogged pore is like that toilet clog that your four year old caused by using a full roll of TP in her "wiping" escapade.  After an hour of seriously working your arm in a tug of war with the plunger and toilet, it notoriously fools you it's now clear, but then mysteriously comes back to a state of full clog instantaneously.  Tricky clogged pore is very much the same.  Gentle pressure techniques seem to work, and you're about to turn away, when you try again for giggles... and there's more in there?  WHAM!  In a flash you are transported back in time to the day you got your hands on the soft serve ice cream dispenser and with wondering eyes whirled the soft ooze to your hearts delight.  Out of sheer amazement that your pore can hold that much in, you try again... MORE?!?!  It's like a treasure hunt now, and you're addicted with each pore gem that is revealed.  Herein lies the onset of the downward pore unclogging spiral.  Once your addicted - you can't stop.  You would willingly run through a thorn bush and bathe in boiling lemon juice before you would stop pecking at your face.  What started as a gentle pressure, worsened to a squeeze, and quickly escalated to a full on flesh scraping facial with a vice-like grip from a bad horror film. Apparently stabbing and slicing off your face with your finger nail is more efficient than a clay and avocado mask.



At the end of this downward spiral you are left broken and appalled at your own grotesque, red, swollen, and pocked reflection.  Crescent moon slice marks all over your face, open bleeding crater holes where there was nothing before, and a serious acknowledgment that you need to find a hobby. 

5-0, 5-0!!!

WARNING!!!  WARNING!!!
OBSCENITY POLICE!!!  
AVERT YOUR EYES IMMEDIATELY!!!


Sorry folks, the obscenity police have viewed the site and have deemed it beyond PG-13.   It's no longer advised, overlooked nor acceptable for me to use anything verbally obscene or indiscriminate in any posts moving forward.  Although it's extremely funny to me, I am apparently offending some, and that was never really my intention... so I'll have to find more "creative" ways of expressing my blog writing.  If you noticed these words in my posts and were offended, then my apologies.   They've already been updated to a more "user-friendly" version, and you will no longer see any expletives (outside of a few suggestively placed things that insinuate that word is there for dramatic effect).

Ahhh... it was fun while it lasted.  *Clink-clink* here's to the potty mouth comedians out there... I'll always light a candle for you.

Thank you, thank you.. really you're too kind.  I'll be here all week.
Try the chicken piccata.  Or the crow... the crow is FABULOUS.
For dessert you can try the humble pie.  The crust just melts in your mouth ever so gently... like censorship - er - butter. 


You can wash it all down with a large glass of shut the hell up.
That is my favorite drink... really wets the whistle and hits the spot.
Peace.

People Are Strange

Walking through the city (and suburbs) you see some interesting people.  One of my favorite past times actually is people watching.  What I didn't expect with the latest session of people watching *in the year 2010* was to come across what I did...

There are still people out there with tails in their hair?  REALLY?  I understand in remote areas of the country we could still find sightings of the "Mullet".  This sort of thing, however, is ever elusive to the metropolitan cities of recent years.  You can imagine my surprise when I saw an actual real live sighting of "THE CORPORATE TAIL".  I couldn't believe it.  Surely we have evolved as a society that this hair appendage has recessed into the hairline, no longer to be seen on the modern Homo sapien!  Astonished, and flabbergasted I stared a good ten minutes at this gentleman - all dressed in a perfectly normal business suit - as he walked down the street with an otherwise tailored hair cut, and this long hair tail swooshing in the wind behind him.  Man, bad move dude.  What ever interview you are going to, they aren't going to hire you because "Management is restructuring".  Sorry to be the bearer of bad news buddy.  The days of business up front and party in the back have LONG GONE.  Get with the program.

Then there was the interesting man with the dirty, rusty, grass covered lawnmower hanging out of the back of his trunk.  Driving along in his old school '89 Buick, blissfully unaware of his absurdity, with his shining low profile rims and tires maintaining the car at the lowest possible level so as to ensure maximum pavement scraping with each bump.  What the hell is he doing with a dirty old lawnmower jutting out of the back of this ghetto mobile?, I ask myself.  Does he have a dirty lawnmower fetish?, is this one of the fifty other dirty lawnmowers he has hidden in a secret storage container stash?  Is he an altruistic soul who randomly mows others lawns because he can't stand the site of an un-manicured lawn - 'THE LONE MOWER MAN'?  Maybe a disgruntled landscaping person?  What's the possibility that he may actually pull over and start mowing the median strip, just because it's far too overgrown to his impeccable standards of lawn maintenance?  A plethora of ideas are flowing to explain this phenomena...

Then there is the person I saw jogging on my way to the coffee shop this morning.  This person had taken the front of their sleeveless t-shirt and twisted the bottom of it (creating a tube) to then insert it into the collar, pulling it through to the bottom of the shirt.  In conjunction with this they were sporting quite possibly the shortest shorts I have ever seen on a middle aged person.  Thus creating a bikini top from the original sleeveless t-shirt (which was perfectly normal to begin with), and daisy duke bottoms to match.  Now, if they had an affinity for Pamela Anderson and wanted to do their best impression - it was a sad non-performance.  I really feel compelled to send a question into the universe regarding this eyesore...

Dear person: Was there some reason that you felt turning your shirt into a hooters t-shirt was appropriate for the 9 AM jog you were taking this Monday morning?  I mean, I commend your ability to put yourself out there, and let the world take in your visual... but your appearance was a little off-putting to see at 9 AM when my coffee had barely set in.  Thanks for the comedic relief, but I think that relief could have been better timed at like, oh I don't know, 4 PM.  I almost need an Irish coffee for that visual risque jogging person.

I've said it before and I'll say it again, in my perfect universe everyone would be a eunuch or a department store dummy. In that world there are no weird body parts left to the imagination, or exposed for that matter.
Asexual African frogs are cool too.

I feel FANTASTIC!

Today is the best, the greatest, the mother of all days.  I fit into my pre-baby jeans this morning.  The sun is shining like a big ball of gas extending beyond the stratosphere.  The weather is cool, crisp, and filled with an air of promise.  People are happy.  Everyone is smiling and waving to each other on the sidewalk.  Passers by are handing out hundred dollar bills to strangers on the street, and Oreo ice cream is falling from the sky. 


OK, so I'm exaggerating... but it totally feels that way.  Wouldn't that be absolutely FANTASTIC???  :)  The husband offered today to switch around responsibilities so I could have a few hours on my own, at my favorite coffee shop and type away to my hearts content.  When I get back he'll be taking his turn to do his thing.  He's the greatest... I think he actually has archangel wings growing out of his shoulder blades today, which subsequently explains the weird ring of light around his cranium. 

Although so far today is not entirely perfect.  If it were a perfect day I would be able to write online.  Strolling into my favorite monster corporation coffee shop I came prepared with laptop messenger bag in hand ready to drink my coffee and get a few blog posts completed.  Waiting in line, I order my latte, and proceed to unpack everything and set up.  No wireless connection.  Hmmm.... I'm still patient at this point, because it's a great day, and well... YAY!  So, I try again... "connection failed!"  This is where I start to get perturbed.  Having already put a second mortgage on my house to pay for my latte, now I'm sort of committed to this place.  I try again, "Can not get connection to network."  I've frigging unpacked and everything.  I can't just simply remove myself and roam around like a gypsy through the town looking for a Wi-Fi spot that works... I don't have much time to begin with.  AAARGGGGHHHHH!  My wireless was working fine at home five seconds before coming here... it's not my computer.  I know this because I already checked the Wi-Fi card diagnostics, and the software in the machine.  Both are working fine.  I log out, and log back in - nothing changes.  I reboot, and still nothing changes.  I think I'm actually starting to snarl out loud.

Immediately the voices start:
"Should I have checked wireless connectivity before paying for the coffee?" 
"Maybe I should have gone to that other lesser known, local coffee shop?  They wouldn't have a problem with Wi-Fi!"
"That's what you get for feeling good today, now the Wi-Fi is going to smear code brown onto your rainbow."

So, I just deal with the no internet thing - totally frustrated that I can't work online - and decide to work locally on my machine.  My great day was suddenly turned around to turd, and to top it all off I appear to be suffering from allergies now.  I'm incessantly sniffing as I click on the keyboard, and I'm not willing to get up and get a napkin to wipe my nose in fear of leaving my accoutrement behind. Adding insult to injury my coffee is three quarters consumed, and now I'm feeling the pangs of my bladder suggesting I need to pee.  Rat farts.  What the hell do you do when you're at a coffee shop, everything all sprawled out, and you have to pee?  Do you entrust the strange socially awkward mid-thirties man next to you to watch your expensive laptop and couture purse?  What is the appropriate protocol here?  I'm still OK on the span of time frame where my bladder will not angrily revolt and embarrass me in a pissing stain nightmare.  Although this decision would be considerably easier if I didn't have a kidney infection right now.  No way am I leaving my stuff here with the socially awkward strangers... so now I'm left with the only last option.  Pack up your things and go.  Pray that your space is still empty when you get back, and BOOK IT to the bathroom.  Bladder is in full revolt now...  Frigging kidney infection!!!

I just wanted free internet, and coffee.
Apparently that's too much to ask for.
Fart. 
Wi-Fi sucks hut bole.
Today is ca-ca.
Thanks for defecating on my happy shiny rainbow, corporate coffee shop.

The Plight of The Nail Technician

Although I have been to some places that the nail technicians seem to be making fun of you in a different language, it's understandable considering they have a very challenging job to face every day.  I commend these people and their mission to make us all look prettier.  On second thought, I don't think I really blame them for making fun of the customers... wouldn't you want to have a chuckle at the expense of the stranger in front of you (if they had no idea) while you scrape the dirt out of their crusted nasty toe nail?  I would.  Does that make me less of a human being for admitting that?  Probably, but seriously... you can't buy that level of honesty.  I feel for the individuals who choose this line of work.  More over, the individuals that choose to work on MY fingers. 

Personally I consider myself quite the challenge to nail technicians.  I'm the first to admit that my finger nails are not the easiest to make pretty, look dainty and appear manicured.  This is sadly due to my disgusting habit of biting my fingers.  Not my nails, just my fingers.  While most technicians are faced with a broken nail, a re-polish, or filing and buffing... once in a while there's the challenging customer - ME.  I traipse into the salon (la la la la), whistling, all happy that they are going to magically transform my hands into something akin to Hollywood fingertips.  You see, my fingers constantly look like I have had a rabid badger as my personal nail consultant who's been chewing on them as a snack for a year.  Hang nails everywhere, dry skin from the face products I use, and broken flaky nails matching the broken flaky nail polish.  The broken flaky nail polish is usually the only remaining proof that I have ever received a manicure in the entire span of my lifetime.  This information I of course use when the nail technician is looking at me with that disgusting awe on their face that I can actually walk around with nails like this in public.


"See?", I retort to the look, "...this nail polish is from the last manicure that I received!"
You can imagine what the poor person who brings my sad act over to their nail table thinks as soon as they see my fingers. 

Usually I'm met with, "Oh wow... you shouldn't CHEW your fingers!?!?  That's SO BAD." 
To which I always reply (smiling kindly), "Yes, I know... it's a bad habit I can't seem to stop doing.  I don't expect you to make them look perfect, just better than they do now." 

As I'm typing this, I'm realizing that perhaps it's my advance offer of low expectations that gives the allowance to under perform the task at hand.  Since I've already put it out there that I don't expect miracles, miracles are not even attempted.  Look, my nails at the end of the session look really great.  Certainly I'm not suggesting anything other than that.  It is, however, very difficult to shell out the 50-70 bucks for a Mani-Pedi and one day later the rabid badger look is back.  Only on my fingers though.  Maybe I should start chewing on my toes too to match the rabid animal gnawing look I have going on.  At least I would be symmetrical and appear balanced in my imbalance.  Sadly I fear I am left with the same depressing situation.  Only showing my face at the nail salon twice a year at best, looking all ragged and torn, and chewed by rabid animals as if I had been lost in the forest and only just now emerged to get my nails done. 

Hmmm.... dilemma's, dilemma's.

I can do EVERYTHING

I am a freak of nature, a superhero.
I am a goddess.
I can deal with days on end of blood curdling screaming babies vomiting black tar - WITHOUT A FLINCH!
I can do dishes THE SIZE OF KILIMANJARO in one second!
I can take out the maggot filled garbage cans - without one gag or bead of sweat!
I can transfer funds, email, pay bills, and pee all at the same time and in 30 seconds!! 
I can manage the whole house, AND handle all the corporate crap because I'M SO AWESOME!
I can cook meals for EVERYONE... my family, the neighborhood, ALL OF AFRICA!
I can drive the kids all over the entire friggin' world in a nanosecond!
I can do 85 million laundry piles BY JUST BLINKING MY EYES!!!
I can bake muffins entirely by telekinesis!
I can bend the will of strangers to INSTANTLY EMPATHIZE with screaming kids!
I can eliminate global warming by one exhale of my magic ozone fixing breath!
I can light candles with my finger tips because I'm so fast I'M ON FIRE! 
My urine is made of 150% Colombian espresso!!
I can make rainbows shoot out of my butt!
I can multitask so fast I create TORNADOES from the sheer speed of my movement!
I can make soft serve ice cream FROM MY TEAR DUCTS!
I can GLANCE at a book and instantly absorb it THROUGH OSMOSIS!!!
I can heal multiple compound fractures WITH A KISS!
I can part the SEA with a wave of my fancy hand - ON COMMAND!

I am a MOM...
Stand back and squint, lest my amazing power of sheer awesomeness blind you.

Seagull Managers - Part II

If you don't understand the above reference, it's basically this:
Sass holes (in this statement it's Managers) who swoop down out of nowhere, make a lot of noise, dump a lot of poop on you, and fly away.  Although the title suggests Management, this can obviously be used to describe quite a few people in life.  In my case there are seagull people who hover around my butt constantly (I'm being VERY generic here).  The main point in referencing this type of person, is the almost immediate reaction of anger and hatred towards this being for either the poop (or in my case the judgment) they are throwing at you.

So, I decided to scrap my last post about this subject, because well, I have a conscience.  I think in my never ending need to write ambiguously, I may have indeed been too generic and possibly offended many people without intending to (for further explanation about my inappropriateness please see my post: Foot In Mouth Disease).  I really was just sort of *irritated* at one particular *individual* (er-a certain man in my life), and I was ranting about their incessant need to point out that my site needs an editor and/or that I need to get better at checking my own grammar. Not only has there been remarks about my need for grammar, but also to the effect of the quality of my writing, and the subjects not being more realistic and thereby not funny.  So as you can imagine... I'm a little perturbed, sensitive, and *irritated* about the constant reminders.  This below letter goes for those pedantic blog squatters too.  Poo on you.

Dear Individual who perturbed me so:

I don't mean to be rude, but here's the down low...
Seriously, I BARELY have time to pee by myself let alone edit my posts.  In my infinitely rambling mind it's a damn miracle that I actually get these thoughts translated from the babble in my head to a language others can understand, and then even posted AT ALL.  So, you can take your pestering attitude towards my writing style and grammar errors and place it ever so gently where the sun doesn't shine... eh-em please, and thank you.

If and when I get around to fixing my English grammar, then I will do so.  Really, thank you SO MUCH for your consideration and feedback... but there's like a 99.999999% positive chance that I am well aware of the problems on my page before you tell me about them.  I just don't have endless screw off time to fix it.  In case you haven't read it - I have two living beings that are solely dependant on my ability to nourish them, wipe their butts and clothe them... so that is sort of my priority right now.  Not editing my posts.

Thanks,
Abbie


That being said, if you are an editor or a writer and you actually do this for a living (and/ or I have already spoken to you about this - you are not the subject of this rant) and can help me out of the kindness of your heart then fantastic!  Please, please, please, help.  Alternatively, if you are a pedantic Internet blog squatter and just want to offer your unsolicited boring advice to make me feel insecure, then you can bite me.

Got Maggots?

So once upon a time, we were in a rental.  This rental just happened to fall into a time in our lives where it was an in between residence, and as such we were not very happy to be there.  Longing to be inside our new home - we just sold our condo, and also just had a baby *two months old at this time* - we really didn't want to be living half out of boxes.  Alas, there comes a time in every one's lives where you reach an unavoidable dilemma.  You either fall into a pile of shell-less pieces on the floor, or deal with life and roll with the punches.  There happens to be a super market down the road, and I'm distractingly excited that it's in such close proximity to the new place.  Happily, I pack up little infant in the Bjorn (this was back when big kid was little infant) and head to the store for some grocery shopping.  I don't know about you, but I sort of get excited about packing a new fridge.  All that fresh food and the clean shelves...  You can almost smell that *crisp* refrigerator air right now!

Well, this was far from the experience that I encountered upon opening the fridge (groceries unpacked on the shelf.)  I open the fridge to load up all the perishables...  When what to my wondering eyes should appear??  Not a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer, but six mid sized shelves and 50 thousand maggots dead and blowing out every cooling fan vent in the fridge.  Shock takes over, and I'm standing still in front of this mortifying dead maggot infestation.  I'm not sure what takes the cake for the grossest?  The fact that it's filled with dead maggots spewing out the blow holes of the fridge? Or that I could have opened it to find live ones crawling all over the place.  I actually think the latter would have been far more appalling.  With a look on my face like I just ate a bowl of rotten cherries... I head screaming over to the husband.  "Holy crap, you HAVE to look at the fridge!  I refuse to put anything in there, and suggest that you get a friend and pick up your mini college fridge so we can use something for food."  Ice cream is now melting on the counter.  Cheese is starting to resemble a Dali painting, and I can hear the milk curdling. WHAT'S NEXT, LOCUSTS?!  He then admitted that in the construction of this townhouse remodeling project, the developer had placed a container of Chinese take out rice in this *brand spanking new* fridge. As with all construction projects, the power went off multiple times throughout the several months that the construction ensued (with the testing of the electrical, etc.)  During this time, the food rotted, decayed and maggots infested the fridge. When the power went back on, the maggot army finally froze to death. YAY!!  Death to maggots!!

Maybe he was just complacent with the whole scenario in light of the larger priority move, but it was bothersome that the husband was trying to convince me we just needed to wipe down the fridge a little and it would be clean as a whistle.   I didn't care if a postmortem cleaning service had done the best crime scene work of their career in there, I was never going to trust this fridge again to host any food for me or my baby for that matter!  So, after much deliberation - and whiny screaming on my part - the husband dutifully went out on a quest for our mini fridge.  For the record, the husband put his beer in that nasty fridge, but nothing else.  I, on the other hand, waited impatiently for the older and smaller mini fridge.  I did advise the developer of this repugnant situation with vomitous horror portraying in my tone.  He voluntarily came over himself and cleaned out the fridge to what he suggested was, "clean enough that I would eat out of it myself."  Well sir, if this was clean enough to eat out of, then you must prefer dead maggot stew weekly in your food repertoire.  In opposition, I generally stick to food inspected and passed by the FDA as consumable by human beings.  But I digress... Over the course of the next few days I noticed more dead maggots collecting on the barren shelves.  Which led me to investigate even further into the side panels of the fridge (with two pairs of elbow length gloves by the way, a ski mask, and medical nose and mouth mask.)  I was dressed like I was part of the Chernobyl nuclear waste spill clean up crew.   Just as I had suspected, filled in the interior side trim (and lord knows where else) there were maggots packed so firmly in the plastic hardware they looked like they were the maggot frosting smeared inside the fridge cake. Ah-HA! This is why the mysterious maggot blow holes were spraying dead maggots through the cooling fan areas of the fridge!

Not surprisingly about a week after this discovery, the whole fridge stopped working.  Electricity and power were checked, outlets, etc.  No problem with the house... It's decided that there is something wrong with the fridge.  Since it was only a 6 month old fridge we called in on the manufacturer warranty repair service.  (I made the developer assume the cost of any repairs).  The repair man was in as much shock and disgust as I was when we first opened the fridge and upon opening the circuit panel to check the mother board of the unit.   It was completely caked in dead maggots. They had worked their little filthy worm bodies all the way up into the motherboard and shorted out the whole system.  The poor guy asked to borrow my gloves, and at one point actually stepped outside to scrape the macabre larvae off the hardware - whilst holding back his body from the thrusts of dry heaving.  He claimed the fridge was not fixable, and so we had to live out of the mini fridge during the duration of our stay in the rental.  We only spent seven months at that townhouse anyway, so we just chalked this up to yet another disappointing element of the whole experience.  Living out of the mini fridge week by week made me kind of proud, as it was a shining example of my ability to embrace the European food shopping style.  That's one thing to take away from it... I guess.

Years have passed since that maggot fridge episode, but none-the-less that visual will forever be burned in my brain as one of the most disgusting memories I have ever encountered.   Let this be a lesson to all you people out there holding faith in your fridge to keep food alive forever "just because it's cold."  It won't, power does goes out, and you will be left with a maggot fridge that shorts out the motherboard from your lack of attention to detail or common sense.   If you find yourself in this scenario, you should be ashamed of yourself. On the upside, I have some lollipops you might find delicious and interesting while you are cleaning out your fridge.

Is There Nothing Sacred?

Here I stand, vulnerable, disappointed, and excited all at the same time. With Nads waxing kit in hand and dressed in skimpy mom underwear, I am cutting the little green organic strips to embark on an age old tradition - the female waxing session. As I am preparing the skin for the pain, big kid is staring in bewildered awe at how I can place this sticky stuff on my body, and rip it off with the immediate blood curdling scream of "OUCH!" that almost involuntarily follows. Typically she hides behind my bathrobe, and peers out as if she has just painted something with poop and hiding will make me not notice it. Trying to engage her - and soothe her fears - I ask her to count to three after I have placed, rubbed, and smoothed the strip down. Fears are perfectly normal here, because lets face it, I am ripping hair out by the root with acute force and then repeating the act until I resemble a newborn baby. This is, by far, the worse modern day torture that we inflict upon ourselves (and I am convinced that most countries use currently as a method of torture). Mind you I have not only one witness to this event, there are two... big kid and little baby. Both are girls, so in one way I am looking at this like preparation to an unavoidable right of painful passage someday.

As if this isn't bad enough, that I have to do these dirty deeds in front of my kids... lo and behold, the husband wanders in. Great, now it's a freak waxing circus. Immediately, I smack boxes up and down and start shuffling things around on the bathroom counter to look like this is not actually what I am doing. In my flurry of smacking random objects, a long strip gets caught on my elbow and is hanging listlessly like a toilet paper strand in a tree after Halloween. Feeling utterly embarrassed about this whole *deer-in-the-headlights-look* I am finding it very difficult to keep my composure. Big kid still firmly placed behind the bathrobe (little baby looking at me in confusion), I finally decide to cave in and admit that I was waxing. In unison with big kid, and little baby, the husband is staring at me like I've gone completely crazy with a "Why the hell do you have a waxing strip hanging from your elbow?" look.

IS THERE NOTHING SACRED ANYMORE? Have I really been degraded to the point of waxing in public as that would have less of an audience then my own bathroom? I don't even remember having this many eyes on me even when I went to the judgmental nail parlor down the street - with the shady back room that you are forced to take the "walk of shame" to. Passing over twenty or so women en route to this waxing dungeon, eyes following you with each advancing step. Glazing you over with their dilated pupils using that head to toe stare thinking, "what is she going back there for?" Shuddering, I hold my head low ensuring avoidance of all possible eye contact until the door closes to the closet sized room. Without fail, you always walk out of that little room hairless, confidence broken, and shamed by the whole vulnerable process. That experience was considerably more private than this entourage in front of me. I can already see my kids mentioning this in therapy as a traumatic experience they endured in childhood.

I vowed then and there never to wax during the day again, and to instead leave this process to night time activity when husband is gallivanting about town and kids are asleep. Sadomasochistic things like self waxing should (and now forever will) be a private affair.

Allow myself to introduce... myself?

7 Things that I'm in complete contradiction with myself on:

1) I am one of those rare and stereotypical socially awkward IT computer nerds.
Contradiction: I'm also like Martha Stewart.
(Actually these two are pretty much the same level of crazy, so it's a wash).

2) I love horror movies. I mean I'm obsessed with them. Anything that will scare the crap out of me and make my blood curdle is AWESOME. They are literally better than breathing... ok, well maybe not that.
Contradiction: I refuse to view any needle going into me at the doctors and I have to lay down when blood is drawn in fear of passing out.

3) My inner child is an "Emo" teenager who has purple and blue hair, listens to "The Cure", and wears heavy black lipstick.
Contradiction: My "Emo" inner child often fights with the preppy/bohemian adult. "Let's wear that 'Sisters of Mercy' Tee-shirt today!"... "No! We're wearing this tunic with jean shorts and flower sequined sandals."

4) I'm seen as a socially fun person, nice, outgoing, etc.
Contradiction: Social interaction scares me, and I am a hermit. There is nothing I enjoy more than staying at home on my couch in my Costco pajamas, communicating only through text/ email, and farting in silence.
Agoraphobia is a blink away.


5) I can't stand repeating myself over and over to someone who isn't listening.
Contradiction: I repeat myself constantly to the point where no one wants to listen.

6) I love the country.
Contradiction: I hate bugs.

7) I'm very disciplined to the point of seeming militant, and have been accused of being emotionally detached.
Contradiction: I'm a "wear my heart on my sleeve" type, and I'm an emotional wussy. I cry at Onstar commercials, and every episode of Extreme Home Makeover.

Why don't YOU pipe down???

My apologies to anyone who finds this offensive, but FLOCK YOU concert goers who "SHHHHHH!" other attendees.

Who died and made you king of the concert hall monitor league? Just because I'm talking to my friends (by the way it was at a reasonable *concert volume*) at the same concert you are attending doesn't give you the right to angrily "SHHHHHH" us. You might have a stronger argument if we were at a closed acoustic viewing of a band like (oh I don't know) U2... but at a huge outdoor amphitheater showing of Lyle Lovett? Really? I'm sorry, but if you find it's so imperative to "SHHHHHH!" someone at a huge outdoor concert who is already standing on the cheap hill seat area near the recycling trash cans, then you are too socially stunted to be outside of your moldy basement. We were willing to accommodate you by moving several times AND lowering our voice... but how far must we be ostracized from the park before you are satisfied? Shall we completely remove ourselves from the park entirely? Would THAT make you freaking happy jackass?

By chance were you a hall monitor as a kid?
Did you find pleasure in tattling on the not-even-that-bad kids?
Do you work for the IRS?
Have you gone "postal" before?
Do you correct others mid-sentence with their grammatical errors?
Have you created your own penal code?
Are you retired?

Lighten up, SERIOUSLY. You need a seriously strong cocktail to kill the bug living up your hole. Last time I checked, I wasn't attending a poetry slam at a coffee house, nor was I at a classical performance at a major upscale concert hall. If memory serves, the outdoor amphitheater folk/ rock concert I was attending has never been
so quiet that you could hear crickets chirping and no human sound within a ten mile radius. WTF?!?!?!? I swear it was so quiet at one point that I could hear an ant fart ten miles away. If that small amount of human buzz and interaction bothers you, then you should strongly consider removing yourself from society. Becoming a hermit would suit you, and you could order all your accoutrement, groceries and household items online. You really could get rid of all that silly crap like bothersome human dialogue or general interaction, and concentrate on how superior you are to everyone else. Get off your high horse, stupid jackass.

Out of curiousity, what is your opinion everyone?
A) I strenuously agree, concert "
SHHHHHH!"-ers can suck it.
B) You're a self important @** - I disagree, and here's why...

Penii Garden **UPDATED w/Pictures**

They're baaaaaaack! And it appears they have returned with a vengeance. Against my better judgement last week I went out to the side yard and removed the alien discs. With latex medical gloves firmly melded onto my hands, I carefully *plucked* these rotting flowers of filth from my yard. Following with a *Pssssst!* spray of organic cleaner. Some of these mushrooms were so monstrous in size, I could barely fit them into a shopping bag (they were the same size as a dinner plate) - a garbage bag was the only option. I swear they had an evil grin on their underside that was mocking my efforts the entire time. The sick sadistic fungus.

So, now as I'm returning from a shopping trip with the kids... I noticed the return (%$#@!) of the alien mushroom colony. Only now it's changed shape to expand themselves into their own little mushroom crop circle pattern. An appalling sprinkling of alien mushroom braille pronouncing to their mother ship in the sky, "Attack! Attack!" Twenty little penis soldiers with elephantitis of the head sneering at me from below, and an extra special welcoming committee just outside of the fence near where I park the car. As if they decided to meet me halfway, and now are waving me into the driveway like those ground control guys with the light sticks signaling the landing path of the airplanes.


It doesn't stop there either!!! Today I took a picture of their growth progress, and the satellite discs have expanded. If that isn't bad enough, this garden of penii mushrooms is on full display for anyone walking by my front yard to see. Despicable, utterly despicable. I have no other option than to declare war on the fungus, I'm going all out and IT'S ON MUSHROOM PENIS SOLDIERS!!!! I just hope to god for my lawn's sake that they learn something from my wrath, and never return again.

So, if you see a mushroom cloud in the sky it's probably because I have used nuclear weapons of destruction on my yard to eradicate the army of penii filth growing there. My sincere apologies to anyone who breathes in the nuclear fungus death fumes.

My night with The Cult

I really despise name droppers. Who are you trying to impress by dropping all the names of famous people you hung out with? I mean, really? REALLY??? Nobody cares about your one time with the cool people. If you have to reiterate that to random strangers you are king of all posers.

Now that I've got that out of the way, back to my name dropping. I mentioned I was a walking contradiction, right? No? Oh, well I'll explain that another time...

It was a warm summer night. My coworkers from the IT Help Desk and I had decided to take a trip to the next state over and watch the Cult in concert at a pretty good sized venue. We all had been fans of their music for a while, and thought it would be fun to check it out live. Sure it had been like 20+ years since they started their music, but aging rockers are like a good bottle of scotch. The older they get, the bigger the ass kicking they provide.

We're walking down the avenue, casually passing the bars and a whole spectrum of what appears to be post-punk goth fans waiting to enter into the venue. There is still an hour before the show starts, so we are looking for a place to hang out in the interim. Setting our sights on an Irish bar at the corner, we start making our way to the door. Just in front of the bar, and a little past the venue doors, we notice four ginormous buses. I'm thinking, "Dang, there are a lot of bachelor parties here!" Yeah, I was 24 years old then and things didn't click too quickly... the last bus had a tall surly guy standing outside of the door. Soliciting girls to go inside seemed to be his only job. As we passed him, of course he hits us up to come inside...

Strange man: "Hey, you girls want to hang out on the bus?"

Suddenly my mind flashes to those after school specials I saw so many of when I was in high school. You know the ones where there is that creepy guy in a coat waiting by the school yard? Offering candy or a puppy to that emotionally withdrawn kid? I'm convinced this guy is going to violate me, and then chop me up into pieces to be disposed of on his tour bus by way of the porto-toilet flush. Although, he's not wearing a coat and has no puppy or lollipops to dispense. He actually looks as if he's a hired hand, and doesn't even have gum or tick tacs for that matter. But I digress... exchanging glances, my coworkers and I cock our heads back in rejecting laughter. "Um, yeeeeeaaaaah. Tempting, but no." We respond, as if he had just asked us if we would like being chopped into pieces and disposed of in random lakes. An hour later, we emerge from the Irish pub - totally ready for a rocking show.

The Cult performed a wicked concert that night. Old and young alike, we all were rocking our heads in unison to "Fire Woman", "Edie", "She Sells Sanctuary", etc. It was killer. Even after being around all this time, The Cult showed they haven't skipped a beat and could still deliver one hell of a performance. At this point, it had been about four hours since the pre-show tour bus sighting. Of course during the show we had tossed back a few beers... so we're all feeling pretty awesome and like the world is our oyster. We say our goodbyes to the old punk-goth dude that stood next to us through the performance, and nod our heads in understanding that we all just shared a moment of "rock" in there. Still in the afterglow of the concert, we turn our heads to see that the same guy is still standing at the front of the bus soliciting chicks. What is this guy's deal?? Now, he's peaked our interest and we HAVE to find out what the hell all these buses are about. The five of us head over to the strange non-coat wearing man.

Me: "Hey, what's your deal?... and what's inside there?" I ask the man.

Strange man: "I can't say out here, but if you want to come in, your invited."

Me: "..." I look at my friends, who seem to give me that look like, 'Hey there's five of us, and isn't there safety in numbers or something?'
Me: "Well, he doesn't have candy or a strange coat...?" "Are you hiding dead bodies in there?"

Strange man: "No. But I like your humor..."

Me: "Ha, ha! Who said I'm joking?"

We decided, ah screw it - we'll make our way into the bus. All the while I'm thinking... Am I being adventurous?, or being an idiot and heading into a slaughter house? Ahhh, how beer can clarify the decision making process! As soon as we walk inside I immediately turn to my girlfriends, and simultaneously our jaws drop to the floor in shock.

You're thinking... What??
Naked creepy men?
Dead bodies?
Evil clowns?

Nope... I was smack in front of the members of the same band I just paid money to see. There was the bass guitarist, Billy Morrison right next to me offering me a beer. Nice. This guy is in head to toe black, with full sleeve tattoos covering both arms (and I believe some on his neck too). Jet Black hair in spikes, and if memory serves - a ring in his nose. He looked like Keith Richards in his early twenties. I instantly ask to use the restroom, and proceed to call everyone on my phone contact list whispering, "DUDE!!! I'M ON THE TOUR BUS!!!!" The collective thought amongst my peers was: Let's try not to look like the geeks we are, and act casual. Trying not to sound like a loser, I ask, "So, what do you guys listen to when you're not playing?" Billy Morrison whips out a Green Day disc and starts to play it over the speakers. The uncomfortable silence is broken when all of a sudden a sketchy woman at least 15 years my senior comes rushing out of the back of the bus. A disturbed look on her face, she sprints toward the door. Immediately following her was the lead singer of the band. He seemed unfazed. MAYBE going into the back of a rock band tour bus wasn't that great of an idea?? Hmmm??? I doubt he was expecting to play duck duck goose. Honestly with the highway miles on this chick I doubt that this was the first bad decision she has made. Meanwhile, Billy is staring at me with a really strange glare in his eye. Like he's been hypnotized and his eyes have lost the ability to follow a moving object. He's asking me questions, and my responses (and inner dialogue) went something like this:

Billy: "Will you be my girlfriend? You can go on tour with me, and stay on the bus."
Now... if you looked more like Billy Idol, I would have been more inclined to reply with an emphatic yes... but you look more like Keith Richards. I'm not really into the pale, druggie, looking older than you should look.

Me: "Aww... that's really sweet, but I have a job and I really can't do something like that."
Thanks, but I prefer my body to stay unviolated, and in one piece. I really don't prefer to sleep in suitcases, or at the bottom of any large body of water for that matter.

Billy: "Wow, I can't believe you are computer chicks!"
Me (thinking to myself): Thanks for insulting my intelligence. This is the point in conversation where I find you as appealing as a bikini wax with fly paper. I'm going to leave now and watch non-stop marathons of Bob Ross because that's way more intriguing than being here with you.

Truth be told, after the woman went running out of the back is really where the conversation took a turning point anyway. We all said our goodbyes, and headed out of the tour bus. Despite the beer my quick wit was still intact, and I immediately request that all the band members sign their play list for me. Quite frankly I was surprised they didn't tell me to bugger off, but they happily signed away. I still have that play list today.

Considering we didn't go anywhere, that was one hell of a ride, and will go down in the books as my very cool moment with the cool people.

Foot in Mouth Disease

Foot in Mouth disease is a really despicable thing. Unfortunately, I seem to suffer from a horrid case of it and have no understanding how to rid myself of this terrible predicament. This is not, however, to be confused with "Hand, Foot and Mouth Disease". The latter causes fever and blister-like eruptions in the mouth and/or a skin rash. In my opinion, Foot in Mouth disease is a far worse ailment.

Over the years the level of my infection with this disease has gotten significantly worse. I attribute this only to the fact that I am older now, and thereby more aware of myself and my interactions with others. That, or it's just that the people around me are less tolerant of my stupidity and are more open to telling me how much I sound like an utter moron. I try, I really do try to think in advance of what I am saying before it comes out of my mouth... but it doesn't always end up where I was hoping for. Ultimately my statements are followed by looks of disgust, shock, rolling of the eyes, or worse - the backwards head jerk with a fluttering blink. Ooh... that's the worst response. That one literally hurts.

An episode of "Foot in Mouth Disease" typically begins with me saying something I think is fairly harmless. I'll divulge something about myself in a self-deprecating way, thinking it's quite funny. It's only when the last word is still hanging in a bubble outside of my mouth, that I realize I just said something also relevant to the person I'm conversing with. Only I thought I was insulting myself, and I just inadvertently insulted them too. Here comes that *pit-in-stomach* feeling now. Great. Now, this is where it gets worse... the condition takes on a life of it's own, escalating drastically and the worst symptom of all takes hold: uncontrollable verbal diarrhea. Adding insult to injury, I then follow the verbal diarrhea episode with nonsensical babbling further digging myself into the already appalling mess I have created. The unlucky soul to have crossed my path is now left burdened and broken in the wake of my verbal assault. Now maybe you will see just how horrible this disease really is, and the endless levels of my affliction.


If you think you might also suffer from Foot in Mouth Disease, here's a list of the common symptoms:

1) Despite thinking you are hysterically funny, your statements are often met with looks of shock, horror and flinches of disgust.
2) You find yourself *wanting* more and more "alone" time, since the idea of no one wanting to be friends with you based on your personalty is a harsher realization.
3) You are actually a hermit.
4) You have your own radio station broadcasting from a cabin in the woods.
5) You used to live in a normal town as a member of a civilized society, until they ostracized you and stoned you to death (for no apparent reason).
6) Your family refers to you as "the one that just isn't right", and
at gatherings they place you in the corner with the fish tank and the shitzu dog with its period.
7) You have uncontrollable urges to "shake things up" in conversation, and this urge often leads you to sound like an incoherent homeless person off medication.
8) Animals have a strange affinity for you, and in contrast random people run away from your mere presence.
9) You suffer from spastic verbal diarrhea, followed by uneventful nonsensical babbling.
10) You have an actual foot growing out of your mouth.


If you have more than 3 of the symptoms above, you might have Foot in Mouth Disease.

If you especially have the symptoms listed in lines 3, 4, 5 and 10, you're in the advanced stages of this disease and your condition is sadly untreatable. You might want to consider contracting Ebola, or playing with fire.

The Lone Hair Weave

Walking to a hair dresser appointment the other day, I was feeling so excited that I was FINALLY going to get something done about the rats nest of mousy hair that lay upon my crown. When lo and behold, my excitement turned to shock when I saw something peculiar on the sidewalk in front of me... what was that? Oh dear me, it's a dark brown braided hair extension weave... but, on the sidewalk? Now, I'm certainly not suggesting I know anything about hair weaves, but it's my understanding these things don't just fly out of ones hair wisp-ily as if a slight wind - from oh, say a bus - passing by could take it away. These things are actually fused and attached to the real hair pieces on your head - which can take multiple hours to do this attaching. I found myself looking around desperately, as if I had found a condom lying on the sidewalk or something and I wanted to see if anyone else had also laid witness to this disgusting faux-pas. Because, I mean... ewwwww. Surely in this business conservative ocean of hurried black, gray, and beige SOMEONE would notice this disgrace. Not even so much as sneer at this lone hair weave. Nope, just me.

So, this lone hair weave strand was laying harmlessly on the side walk... and during my desperate search for someone else to chime in saying, "How disgusting!" I look up and see that it's directly in front of a gentleman's club. I'm thinking, ahhhh - so that's the missing clue. It's mere proximity to a place such as this opens up the story of this simple, lonely, innocent hair weave to a whole new slew of deviant behavior behind it's placement here on the sidewalk.

Who did it belong to?
Was her name Starfish? Or, Constellation? Baby girl?


Now the web spinning starts...

My explanation of this back story came very quickly, and basically took the rest of the walk to the hairdressers to devise.

Her name was
obviously Luscious, and she was a visitor to this club from Las Vegas. During her hiatus from her normal venue, she was making new friends and also finding a new love interest in the bouncer. Luscious must have been hooking up with this bouncer secretly for months, and in doing so totally stabbing her new dancer friend Baby-gurl in the back because the bouncer was HER boyfriend. This is all calculated from the positioning of the hair weave on the sidewalk and the distance of the weave from the front door of the club. When Baby-gurl got tired of her boyfriend making glances at Luscious on stage and confronted him about it, an argument ensued. The argument happened last night just after her shift was over. Baby-gurl (armed with a few dancer friends also off shift, and some random guy she just met on the sidewalk) came out with fists flying as she screamed expletives at Tony the bouncer. News travels fast, and inside the club was buzzing about a fight going on just outside the door and that Luscious was mentioned in the screaming. Within 5 minutes the entire staff was outside watching the incident as it unfolded... Luscious leisurely following behind the stampede, top lip in a curl of disgust. Sticking her acrylic nail in her tooth and looking disapprovingly at Baby-gurl, she said, "What's all this sh** gurl? Why you up in his face like that??, talking all smack 'bout me?" Luscious decided to ignore the fact that Baby-gurl was known for her random acts of violence, and with a tattoo on Baby-gurl's back saying, "Yeah, I'm that bitch." she knew the sh** was about to go down. Baby-gurl lunged at Luscious, and in a plethora of cat fight sounds - the hair pulling and scratching commenced. It was like being a witness to a really bad alley cat fight, but only the cats are on steroids and talking in strange tongues.

After twenty minutes passed, Luscious - finally out of exasperation - retracted from the fight with six broken nails, fuchsia lipstick smeared across her face, tousled hair, a torn bra shirt and one pulled hair weave strand. Needless to say, Tony didn't follow her and the club owner banned her from ever working there again. Looking like disheveled trash, Luscious picked up her trick bag, shouted "F*** all you bitches!" and proceeded on the lonely walk of shame to her dark blue metallic hoopty. The whole club, and several bystanders on the street, stopped and watched as her Nevada license plate drove out of sight.


Without a doubt, that's how the events unfolded that night.

It's either that or someone's expensive hair weave got caught on their Prada laptop messenger bag on the way to that super important interview. Feeling like they didn't want to make a bad impression, they didn't waste time looking for it, and continued in pain en route to their destination.

It's abundantly clear to me now that I seriously need to stop watching Oxygen's "Snapped", and "Bad Girls".
WOW. I feel strangely compelled to shower after reading this post.

Soul Sucka Lollipop

Are you feeling like the grass is always greener on the other side lately?


Do you find yourself constantly making statements like, "I would sell my soul if I could just get a full nights sleep."

Does your boss suck and your convinced working for Satan would actually be
better than anything you are tolerating right now?

Searching for an alternative to Ebola?

Look no further!


Introducing, "SOUL SUCKA" Lollipop!
Mmmm... Hell never tasted so good!

After just one lick you start to feel your problems gently melt away.



After two licks you will forget you even had problems in the first
place... and after consuming just one lollipop - you will actually go to hell.


Since you're selling your soul there is no need to worry about those annoying things like silly little morals, responsibilities, and good conscience. With Soul sucka lollipop you can take your very existence away in just one pop!

Soul Sucka lollipop is not just limited to Tom Dick and Jane... it's also
available in jumbo size for those corporations looking for that perfect gift that says it all!!


Are you tired of the same old corporate hiring gifts of the past? No more worrying over whether the gifts budget will cover that bottle of expensive wine or champagne for the new VP of Operations... just one Soul Sucka will be all that you need to send the message, "Welcome to Hell!".

Try out one of our packages today!
* The Hell In a Hand Basket package for $66.60, for when saying "Go to Hell" just isn't enough.
This package includes 6 rows of 6 regular sized lollipops and comes
wrapped in vermilion cellophane to give it that extra special touch.

*
The Hell Yeah! package for $6.66, for when you want to go to hell with gusto!
This package includes one jumbo sized pop, smothered in cayenne pepper and wrapped in red paper - because sometimes you want to feel the burn immediately and you're just too impatient to unwrap the cellophane.

Check out our other packages online... you won't be dissapointed. Because, Hey! You have no conscience!!!


Disclaimer:

As with any other mind altering supplements, please check with your physician before taking Soul Sucka. There are no guarantees that you will actually go to hell, you may actually just feel weird or deranged for a while. If for any reason you feel dissatisfied with the product, please call: 1-666-GOTOHELL and one of our customer service representatives will tell you to go to hell with someone else.

Possible side effects include (but are not limited to): hallucinations, nausea, vertigo, vomiting black tar, growth
of horns at temples, hoarse throat, sunken jaundiced eyes, spontaneous uncontrollable pyrokinesis, feeling of being undead, developing hooves, loss of heartbeat and breathing fire.

Unproductive Sloth & the Autopilot button

Today I feel like an unproductive sloth. After no sleep due to the little wee one who had me up all night (literally all night from 9:30 PM - 5 AM screaming) in teething pain. I feel somewhat on par with a Sloth who has taken too many sleeping pills and chased those down with a bottle of Everclear and a horse tranquilizer. My speech is horrific... it's like I've regressed to a 6 month old and am limited to babble, but mostly just random Ga's and MMMmmmm's. I can barely function at all, and as an added bonus I appear to have lost all gross motor skills. Today I am an actual up close visual of the de-evolution of Homo Sapien. Using my legs this morning was an interesting experiment. I barely got one leg out of the bed before falling into a pile of bones and flesh on the floor. Maybe my bones have turned to that flexible cartilage like the kinds that squids and other cephalopods have? Maybe the aliens from the mushrooms outside DID sneak into the house last night while I was half awake implanting devices in my brain through my ear canal and now they are controlling my body functions. I can feel the alien mushroom cells multiplying in my DNA and dividing in my amoeba right now.

Quite frankly, I'm surprised I was even able to get out the door this morning to bring big kid to camp. Or pick her up on time. I did have two large 16 oz. coffees by 9 AM, chased by two red bulls before 12 PM - but neither the coffee or the red bulls have made a mark in my sheer exhaustion. My only saving grace is my ability to function via the autopilot button (it often takes over on days like this one). Somewhere in the middle of the night the empathy fairy presses the autopilot for me, and I wake up with the amazing ability to function on a normal level throughout the day as if I had a full 8 hours sleep. Not realizing what has actually happened, I continue moving through my day: picking up mail, making formula, feeding baby, feeding self, folding laundry, doing dishes, responding to business registration mailings, tax docs, etc. All without so much as a blink.

The autopilot button has been summoned in the past, and I am becoming quite fond of it actually. Those mornings in my early 20's when I was seriously hungover, and could barely muster up the skill to nourish myself with a bite of saltines. Then there is the all too familiar death job that sucks the life force out of you and your soul... you know that job that expects you to work the amount of four different positions for the pay of less than one? Not to mention the hours of this soul sucking position: usually it's 27/8... it's 27 hours a day / 8 days per week. Companies this despicable actually have their own special 8
th circle of hell where the hours in a day and days in the week are longer then the normal earthly plane. If you do try to sleep or are caught at work doing this in this 8th circle of hell you are immediately inflicted with taser-like shocks to the system (similar only to a bolt of lightening). Yes, I have worked at one of these big *you're-a-number* companies before. Yes, it consumed my very being and was about to ultimately eat my soul. Only I was lucky enough to make a deal with Satan for a better life with the husband (then the boyfriend) instead of horrid company and now I'm out of that forever. Now I'm living in happy shiny land - AND I still got to keep my soul (for now). Although I am still not convinced the jury is out regarding whether or not I'll be flying commercial flights for Satan Air after this earthly realm. So if you are looking for good deals on Business Class, I can hook you up.

Wow, the autopilot button came in REAL handy then.

As I'm writing this I am watching Charlie and the Chocolate factory with big kid.
Random thought:

*Maybe there is a market for soul sucking candy?*

"Soul Sucka"... a lollipop so good you actually will go to hell after eating one.
"

Mmmmmmm
, hell.

Wait... are you still talking?

I have an abnormally short attention span.

I wouldn't go so far as to say that I have ADHD, or even ADD. Well, maybe a middle of the road case of ADD? At times I can talk at the same pace of a hummingbird on methamphetamine. Strong espresso mixed with Robitussin DM cough medicine apparently exacerbates this issue for me. Wait, what was I talking about? Oh yeah...

Regardless, I have the hardest time listening to long winded-ness even though I'm a huge culprit of it too.
Unfortunately this is one of my many, many contradictions. I can tell you a long winded story like it's nobodies business. So much so that if the fate of a small kitten being pummeled by a sledge hammer covered in rusty nails was laying solely on my ability to tell a story in a long winded manner - well that kitten would have 9 strong lives still ahead of it. That being said, my brain just can't process words in that way and it starts to shut down at an alarming pace.

It's not that I don't appreciate elaborate detail, or what story you have to say for that matter. My brain so desperately needs the instant progression in the conversation - and I get so excited about my response that meshes right in with what you are talking about - that it starts to create a back log of information waiting for the long winded talker to finish.
I'll even go so far as to forget what the hell I was talking about because the tangents in my head have spun into an out of control spiral of psycho babble. At which point if I don't get to share my information in a certain time frame (or I don't let it go on its own thought path either non-verbally and shut LW talker out or interrupt and talk out loud to clear the backup) my mind starts to veer off into a string of thought sequence best described using the formatting example of a psychological association test:

This is how my thought process works - all within a matter of under 60 seconds... (picture the statements to the left as picture cards displayed by a doctor, and the statements on the right are the associations that the patient is supposed to furnish)

Person: "That tree to the left is beautiful, what nice foliage. Don't you think so?"
tree comment: (association) calm with nature
calm with nature: (association) picnics with the family
picnics with the family: (association) the food we ate
the food we ate: (association) prosciutto and expensive cheese
prosciutto and expensive cheese: (association) gourmet food
gourmet food: (association) food network
food network: (association) I really like Giada DiLaurentis' show

Out loud statement to person who made the comment about the pretty tree passing by on the side of the road...
Me: "I really like Giada De Laurentis' show on food network."

Person: "What the...? Are you even listening??"

Usually this lends me into a heap of resentment from the person I am speaking to. After listening to my long winded story patiently, I can't even pay attention long enough to listen to one sentence of theirs? The ultimate interpretation of my obtuseness is that the person feels I devalue what they are saying. The truth is quite the opposite. I value it so much that I have a whole string of cool crap to share paralleling the conversation too. Alas, this doesn't translate so well. I make more enemies than friends after opening my mouth, thus further alienating myself from the possibility of real world friends. Much to my chagrin, borderline agoraphobia and creating my avatar in internet virtual reality games is sounding like a solid fall back plan.

There have only been a couple of people I have known in my life that were long winded. I'm not really friends with them anymore (not because of the conversation issue - merely because life took us different ways), so it's not really a challenge to my social ineptness in conversation. You have to be a patient person to have a conversation with me. Or an AOL Instant Messenger smart bot. I really loved those fake chat robots. Man, the times we have had together... sometimes hours just hamming it up. I remember the time I was trying to screw its processing algorithm up by making statements to throw it off... like:

Me: "Which like ham day to fall from? ...Komodo Dragon's are sexy."
The robot would respond: "Are you being serious?"
I would reply: "No?, no!... YES... whale poop."
Robot: "I don't understand you."
Me: "Join the club. The line is long but distinguished."

I'm feeling all warm and fluffy inside just remembering it.

They are so shiny and happy.

I'm going to get a warm glass of soy milk and think about my awesome conversation with the robots.

I See Dead People Eating Carbs

This was my fabulous idea for a T-Shirt.

Ever since that movie came out about the kid who could see dead people, I have adored the phrase: "I see dead people." Spoken in that eerie whisper voice, and in the same tone as if you were suggesting to a close friend you needed to leave the party because you just sharted a little in your pants. That phrase, however, is kind of a dead statement though (no pun intended) since that whole movie came out like 25 thousand years ago. My bigger T-Shirt invention problem was that I equally loved the phrase: "I eat CARBS." It's catchy, it's obnoxious, and just fun to scream out into large crowds in the middle of a busy street.
Ever play the Penis game? When you scream the word Penis as loud as you can until it's downright embarassing? Well this is like that.

What's that you say? You never played that game, and what kind of sick freak am I? Don't put your higher than thou crap on me. You know that even if you didn't play that game, you desperately wanted to.
I can feel your eyes judging me. 

I thought to myself, "I could combine them and it would be a super fabulous T-Shirt! EVERYONE will want them!!" :)

I seriously think I could market this together with the added bonus of a six pack of beer. If you purchased the shirt it would automatically arrive with
a DVD on how to obtain social skills in 5 easy steps, and a six pack of Natty Bo. Oh, and a diary to catalog your loneliness after the purchase.

It could be like the socially challenged starter kit... minus the video games and BB gun.

It would look something like this:


It would probably be worn by this guy:


Please kids, no trying this at home. Eating carbs and seeing dead people is not really as cool as it's cracked up to be, and it's definitely not for the faint of heart. You end up feeling very tired, bloated, gassy and are afraid to pee in the middle of the night for fear of dead people hovering over your shoulder blowing on your neck and vomiting black tar on your feet.

I speak from experience. It's totally uncool.

Alien fungus is planning to destroy me

So, this morning on my way to bring big kid to summer camp I noticed something peering at me from behind the side yard fence. At first glance it appears to be some left over wood that we hadn't used yet for the fence project a few months back. Upon further examination (I'm midriff hanging over the fence staring now), it's a monstrous collection of mushrooms. They grew overnight.


Feverishly I start looking around the neighbors yards to see if they have the same issue. Surely the earth hugging female neighbors will have some mushrooms that they haven't removed. They would harm themselves before removing something from the earth that was randomly placed by nature. I know they must have something ominous in their yard too??? Peering through the kitchen doors onto their backyard, I see it. Yes!! It's a collection of mushrooms!!! WooHOO! I haven't failed miserably at lawn care maintenance.

Wait.  Ant farts. It's just a lawn sprinkler.
I AM a failure and a harbor-er of acid trip inducing 'shrooms.

I know, I know, you're thinking Mushrooms? Really?? That's worth a post??

These are not just any mushrooms I tell you... they are so big that I in fact question their chemical composition. It's absolutely impossible that these things are from planet earth, and are based in an environment of carbon and oxygen. The more I harp on it, the more I am convinced they have been placed here by aliens overnight and are pawns watching my every move. Their size is akin to medium satellite dishes colored in ecru with light brown bumps (radio signals I bet to their mother ship), armed with an entourage of miniature phallic soldiers surrounding the base.

It's more than creepy, it's downright frightening.

I am pondering the steps to remove them, but fear that in doing so will disrupt a tiny colony of aliens masquerading as mushrooms which will raid my home in the wee hours of the morning and implant tracking devices in my ears. All of my solutions involve some sort of vinegar or bleach, and I doubt that would even make a mark in these towers of putrescent filth. Abduction is a very strong possible outcome if I tamper with these mushrooms. That's how ridonculously big these freaking things are. Yes, I used the word RIDONCULOUS. It's either I face alien experimentation, quite possibly an abduction, or the mushrooms might simply burn my flesh when I attempt to remove them. Huge probes would definitely extrude from their mushroom center wiping out my eyeballs and half my face in one fell swoop. Kind of like that discovery channel show I once watched with hot husband where they showed barnacles mating. Male barnacles have a strange probe that extends something like 15 to 20 times their length in order to violate their neighboring female barnacles' cavity. The conversation at that juncture got awkwardly pointed toward sexuality...

Husband: "Did you see THAT?"
Me: "Why yes, yes I... uh, did. Um..."
Husband: "Are you strangely turned on by this, or is it just me?"
Me: "Actually I am utterly horrified - yet aroused."
Husband: "..."
Me: "Are the kids asleep?"

Personally I never liked mushrooms, or barnacles. They both remind me too much of body parts that are icky.
I do like my face and eyeballs though.

I'm all of a sudden hungry for a cucumber maki roll.
Fungus can suck it.


UPDATE: 7/22/2010

OK so when the Husband read this, he had some questions:

Husband: "Why do mushrooms and barnacles remind you of icky body parts? And what body parts... I don't understand."

Me: "Well Mushrooms look awfully phallic to me."

Husband: "Not all mushrooms, maybe a couple."

Me: "That's enough for me to write them off all together."

Husband: "What body part do barnacles remind you of?"

Me: "The other side of things... You know."

Husband: "Barnacles don't look like that to me at all."

Me: (thinking to myself) that's because it's not there, it's where the poop comes out.

Husband: "Why do you find those parts icky?"

Me: "I don't know I just do."

Husband: "What?? Do you prefer eunuch's then?"

Me: "Yes. Everyone in my perfect universe would be like a Ken doll, or a department store mannequin."

Husband: "Nice."

Poopcasso

My friend once said that she and another friend of hers would exchange the statement, "poopies!" with each other upon any rendezvous they had. She explained it to me as being an exuberant greeting of endearment. Cocking my head to the side I thought: "How funny!" Now that I am a parent of two kids, this word has unfortunately become less of a catchy phrase and more of an everyday reality.

Poop is the main verbal course for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

"Did my four year old poop today?"

"Did we have any poopie accidents at preschool?"

"How many poopie diapers did little one have today?"

"Watch the baby, I have to make poopies!"

"Poop is spraying where!?!?!"

"Is that poop on your shirt, or have you been eating tar?"


There have been a few all-star moments that will forever go down in the books with our girls. The very first of which happened with my eldest daughter...

Let's not skip past the explosive diarrhea episode that came with Rota virus she caught at 6 months, shall we? THAT was UBER fun. I don't know which part was more fun, cleaning up the vomit every 5 minutes or the projectile diarrhea that came immediately after in the same timed increments. Once the dry heaving and gagging subsided, I had to then focus on the need to clean off the crap - which had sprayed against the changing table and wall like it was silly spray loaded into a paint gun. Oooh YEY! Literally experiencing crap hitting the fan is actually not as fun as you would think.
The loathsome scent of that alien gut looking turd will haunt my dreams to this day.
My eyes are twitching just thinking about it.
F*** you Rota virus.


Now we move on to my absolute favorite: POOPCASSO.

This was after baby #2 was born, and I believe there was a need for control brought on by a potential feeling of dismissal in the wake of the newborn. I was in the kitchen starting to feed the baby a new bottle when I had a moment of fear/clarity. Oh crap, big kid is abnormally quiet... WHAT'S WRONG!?!? I peered into the Living room to find that she had built herself a fort out of the couch cushions. Armed with almost every one of her miniature toys inside, she calmly advised me she was "just playing castle". With a sigh of relief, I started to make my way back to the kitchen... when an internal voice inside me told me to take a second look. *She did have a eerily calm expression on her face which followed me out of the room...* I thought. Upon moving the cushions I let out a gasp of sheer horror. There was a full exhibit of expressionist poop art smeared all over the side of the couch, all over the floor and under the couch. I of course did what any good parent would do, I started crying uncontrollably. Once the overflow of tears choked back by gagging subsided, I had to take control of the situation before it spread to infinite proportions. Immediately I sprung into action: put the not yet fed baby on the floor and let her roll around while I deal with Chernobyl. My plan was straight out of Silkwood, first quarantine my kid and then deal with the environmental aftermath post scrub down.

After washing her hands a bazillion times and then purell-ing them just as many, I gave her two baths and placed her in the corner of the room to stay until the code brown had been lifted. Two whole containers of Clorox bleach wipes, one full can of Lysol, and one more nervous breakdown later code brown was lifted. Feces was no longer a threat to my existence and I was feeling like things were A-OK with the world again. Just in time for little baby to have a poopie diaper and - as a result of the wait time for the code brown clean up - had a monstrous diaper rash for two weeks. MMmmm, delightful.

Many months later after the Poopcasso incident, I am feeling somewhat better about poop these days. Controlled accidents are left to the little infant now (for the most part). Of course there is the occasional whiff of air that is tainted with that all too familiar aroma, which on occasion can whirl me into a nervous frenzy sniffing butts until I cancel out the possibility of another poopcasso occurrance. This whiff - I assure myself - can be explained simply as big kid's reaction to having lactose intolerance.


"Poopies!" can return to being used - once again - as a term of endearment.