Things I Wonder About...

Things I wonder about...

What would carbonated chocolate milk taste like?

Why do artificially flavored raspberry products come in blue yet real raspberries are red?

Why do drive up ATMs have braille?

Why aren't words like temerity, vituperative, and antidisestablishmentarianism used more on a day to day basis by ordinary, everyday people?

What if Muppets really do rule the world?

What do other people wonder about?

I'm All Wise...and Stuff...

So I was sitting here this morning...after drinking my morning coffee and emailing a very old, dear friend...and was thinking...I should write a blog entry about that thought I just had....right after I get done going to the bathroom...

What can I say...apparently genius just sneaks up on ya at the one moment you are indisposed. Oh well.

So on to the thought...with a little background so ya don't get lost, and can follow my whacked out ADD mind train.

This friend and I have history. (And quite possibly an offspring.) We have been lovers and friends for about 10 years. He is currently dating a woman he met a couple of years ago. She recently found out that she has cancer. She is going through chemo. He doesn't want to be in a relationship with her anymore. He says that things just aren't working out and he just doesn't feel the same about her that he did in the beginning. She is pressuring him to marry her. She wants to try having kids when the chemo is done. (He has a 20 year old daughter and a 14 year old son...and then there is my daughter...) He wants out. Bad. He also doesn't want to be the asshole that left the cancer patient for his own selfish reasons. He is a good guy at heart.

My thought was, (and originally I was going to type, "a wise old friend once told me," but dammit I am going to take ALL the credit for this one, because it is really GREAT advice) DON'T STAY IN A RELATIONSHIP THAT HAS NO FUTURE JUST BECAUSE THERE IS HISTORY!

Now I know there are friends out there that are going to bash on me a little cause I am not following my own advice to a certain extent, and they have every right. (Cause they are all meanies like that.) But every person has reasons,(excuses) for why the do what they do(finances). I'm just going to be the best friend I can be, and do my best to keep my heart in check, cause I already failed that history lesson, and I don't want to have to do summer school.

My Friend, Furfa

I swear like a sailor. I admit it. At any given time in my house you can hear all sorts of expletives flowing out of my mouth. I stub my toe, drop something, get aggravated with the FCB, you name it....I swear at it. Well, seeing as my 4 year old likes to parrot what I say on occasion, and I have been very fortunate up until now that she hasn't picked up on the potty mouth habit, I have been trying to alter my vulgar verboseness. In order to accomplish this, I have been trying to use words that sound similar, but aren't commonly offensive.

The Sci Fi channel has a show called Battlestar Galactica and the writers of that show got really creative in using the word Frak. Knowing that they had a little creative freedom being a cable show, but also knowing that the FCC would have their collective asses on a silver platter if they used an unforgivable word...they decided to bastardize an old standard. Thus, fuck=frak in a distant galaxy.

So I have been trying to use the word frak...and sugar, and pickles, and goshdarnitall, and other G-rated expletives to spare my daughter (and all the children she comes in contact with) from getting an education in the art of swearing. The only phrase that I am having trouble with is "for fucks sake." I say it often. When I hurt myself, or get up off the couch, or get completely frustrated...out of my mouth it tumbles. In trying to curb this, I have shortened it to "Oh, Furfa!"

My daughter is so funny. She has this obsession lately with puppies and thinks they are the neatest animals. She has all kinds of puppy toys, and loves looking at pictures of puppies, and even bugs me relentlessly to take her to her grandmother's house so she can "see Grand's new puppy!" Well with my new usage of the word Furfa (I say it A LOT) my daughter has started asking with more frequency, "where's the puppy?" It took me a few days (OK, more like a couple of weeks, but hey, I don't want to make myself look denser that I am) to realize what she was talking about. Every time I say Furfa she thinks I am talking about a puppy. From a 4 year old perspective, I can see where she makes this connection...fur=puppy. So needless to say, if I ever get a dog, it already has a name. Can you imagine the look on peoples faces when I introduce the thing? This is my dog Furfa...short for "For Fuck's Sake!"

25 Ways To Improve Your Health...

1.) Brush twice a day.

2.) Dress right for the weather.

3.) Visit the dentist regularly.

4.) Get plenty of rest.

5.) Make sure your hair is dry before going outside.

6.) Eat right.

7.) Get outside in the sun every once in a while.

8.) Always wear a seatbelt.

9.) Control your drinking of alcoholic beverages.

10.) Smile! It will make you feel better!

11.) Don't over indulge yourself.

12.) Bathe regularly.

13.) Read to exercise the brain.

14.) Surround yourself with friends!

15.) Stay away from too much caffeine.

16.) Use the bathroom regularly.

17.) Get plenty of exercise.

18.) Have your eyes checked regularly.

19.) Eat plenty of vegetables.

20.) Believe that people will like you for who you are.

21.) Forgive and forget.

22.) Take plenty of vacations!

23.) Celebrate all special occasions.

24.) Pick up a hobby.

25.) Love your neighbor as yourself.

Do all these things and you will be a happier, healthier person!

I'll Have A Sweet Tea, Please.

Well, I am back from vacationing in Sarasota and I have to say that I had an excellent time. It rained most of the time and the ocean was rough until the last 12 hours of the vacation. At which time the sun popped out, the humidity vanished and the ocean was glassy and the most amazing shade of turquoise. Ah, irony...you are such a bitch. But on to the reason for this blog post.

I once visited the beautiful city of Chicago and had the pleasure to dine at many different places while I was there. Each time I would order a drink in the restaurants, I would inevitably order my usual staple of sweet iced tea. The first time I did, I was brought a glass of iced tea and three packets of sugar. I looked at the waiter with the most clueless expression I could muster, and he said to me (in a mocking southern drawl) "We don't do 'sweet tea' here. This is a glass of iced tea and you can add your own sugar to it."

FCB (Fat Cranky Bastard for the new folks) had to restrain me from slapping the mock right off the little fucktards face. I then went on to explain to the obviously mentally challenged waiter that you can't add sugar to iced tea because the sugar wouldn't dissolve due to the cold temperature of the beverage. He gave me a dirty look and walked away. (Betcha damn skippy that HE didn't get a big tip.)

Apparently in "The North" there is no such thing as "Sweet Tea." It is an aberration of unheard of proportions. Which brings me to the real point of this blog and the reason behind that little back story you just suffered through. Brace yourselves...

The South has been invaded.

Here in Florida, there is an imaginary border somewhere around Tampa where The South becomes The North. Seriously. Be.Afraid.People. No matter what establishment you choose to dine in, you are shit out of luck when it comes to ordering sweet tea. You inevitably are going to get the dumb looks and the packets of sugar if you even try. I was lucky enough to be able to meet one of my Internet friends while on my vacation this year, and went to a restaurant in Sarasota where I sat down and ordered a sweet tea. The waitress promptly told me they don't serve it. Luckily, I was able to order a Coke before she offered me a "pop." (Don't even get me started on THAT subject!)

In honor of this whole South vs. North post today, I wanted to share with y'all this hilarious email that someone sent me sometime in the past that I decided to hold on to in the unforeseeable event that I was ever going to need it so I could pass it on. That time has come. Enjoy.

Ways To Avoid A Good Southern Ass Whuppin'

1. Don't fake a Southern accent. This will incite a riot, and you will get your ass kicked.
   
2. Don't order Fillet Mignon or Pasta Primavera at Waffle House. It's just a diner. They serve breakfast 24 hours a day. Let them cook something they know. If you confuse them, they'll kick your ass.
   
3. We are fully aware of how high the humidity is, so shut the hell up. Just spend your money and get the hell out of here, or we'll kick your ass.
   
4. Don't order a bottle of pop or a can of soda down here. Down here it's called Coke. Nobody gives a flying rat's ass whether it's Pepsi, RC, Dr. Pepper, 7-Up or whatever...it's still a Coke. Accept it. Doing otherwise can lead to an ass kicking.
   
5. We know our heritage. Most of us are more literate than you (e.g. Welty, Williams, Faulkner). We are also better educated and generally a lot nicer. Don't refer to us as a bunch of hillbillies or we'll kick your ass.
   
6. We have plenty of business sense (e.g., Fred Smith of Fed Ex, Sam Walton, Oprah, Turner Broadcasting, MTV, Netscape). Naturally, we do sometimes have small lapses in judgment, if you keep reminding us of the fact we will kick your ass.
   
7. Don't laugh at our Civil War monuments. If Lee had listened to Longstreet and flanked Meade at Gettysburg instead of sending Pickett up the middle, you'd be paying taxes to Richmond instead of Washington. If you visit Stone Mountain and complain about the carving, we'll kick your ass.
   
8. Don't laugh at our Southern names (Merleen, Luther, TammyLynn, Inez, Billy Joe, Sissy, Clovis, etc.) or we will just HAVE to kick your ass.
   
9. Don't order wheat toast at Cracker Barrel. Everyone will instantly know that you're a Yankee. Eat your biscuits like God intended with gravy, and don't put sugar on your grits, or we'll kick your ass.
   
10. Don't talk about how much better things are at home because we know better. Many of us have visited Northern hellholes like Detroit, Chicago, and DC, and we have the scars to prove it. If you don't like it here, Delta or US Airways is ready when you are. Move your ass on home before it gets kicked.
    
11. Yes, we know how to speak proper English. We talk this way because we don't want to sound like you. We don't care if you don't understand what we are saying. All other Southerners understand what we are saying, and that's all that matters. Now, go away and leave us alone, or we'll kick your ass.
    
12. Don't complain that the South is dirty and polluted. None of OUR lakes or rivers have caught fire recently. If you whine about OUR scenic beauty, we'll kick your ass all the way back to Boston Harbor.
    
13. Don't ridicule our Southern manners. We say Sir and Ma'am. We hold doors open for others. We offer our seats to old folks because such things are expected of civilized people. Behave yourselves around our sweet little gray-haired grandmothers or they'll kick some manners into your ass just like they did ours.
    
14. So you think we're quaint, or losers, because most of us live in the countryside? That's because we have enough sense to not live in filthy, smelly, crime infested cesspools like New York, Baltimore or Boston. Make fun of our fresh air, and we'll kick your ass.
    
15. Last, but not least, DO NOT DARE to come down here and tell us how to cook barbecue. This will get your ass shot (right after it is kicked). You're lucky we let you come down here at all. Criticize our barbecue, and you will go home in a pine box...minus your ass.
    

Cause I'm All McGuyver Like That!

So we set off on vacation Saturday (4 hours late...my family is allergic to motivation) and we stopped at the outlet mall so I could get yet ANOTHER pair of Crocs as well as some new ones for the punk. (For those that have strong feelings against Crocs and feel the need to share...this is not the place. Between my daughter and I, we own 8 pairs and we love them. So kiss my grits and get over yourself. Moving on...)

So we are in the car and I was fighting the usual epic battle between the seat belt and The Boobs. See, what happens is the seat belt slides across the girls and ends up choking me. I keep meaning to get a clip to use in FCB's (Fat Cranky Bastard) car, but just keep forgetting until it is too late. (Don't need one in my car.) So I was frustrated and choking and thinking I don't want to hold the seat belt for the whole 5 hour trip, when it dawns on me to use the ponytail holder from my hair. I unbuckled, slipped it over the seat belt and voila! Problem solved. Richard Dean Anderson would be SO proud. I pointed out my accomplishment to FCB and told him, "Look! Fixed it! I'm all McGuyver like that!" (He laughed)

Then I'm thinking...hey! Blog fodder! I should write this down!

So I do. I took out a pen and a little notebook I keep in my purse and I started writing. FCB asked me what I was doing, and I replied, "blogging, of course."

He asks me why I was going to share this story and I told him because it's really funny and I like sharing my opinions with the world. Besides...other people think I am funny too...(or at least y'all lie convincingly to make me feel better...either way, it's all good.) I ask him if he has ever actually read my blog, and he says...

"I live with you all day. Do you really think I need to go out on the Internet and hear your opinion all over again?"

(Can ya feel the love, people?)

Now, if only I could figure out a way to tie him up and beat some sunshine into him with a green pen, a notebook, a plastic bag, 2 pairs of Crocs, a ponytail holder, and a turkey baster.

(I don't really have a turkey baster handy...just threw that in for comedic effect...did it work?)

Do Not Contemplate The SpongeBobness

So just we were just relaxing and goofing off today (I slept in till 2pm for the first time in months...yay!) and the Punk (my daughter) is watching cartoons. FCB (that's Fat Cranky Bastard...the guy I live with) is kinda half heartedly paying attention to what she is watching.

He looks at me and says, "How can a sponge take a bath under the ocean?"

I have to say here that the laughing hysterically at what he said was making him turn lovely shades of magenta in complete anger. He asked me to explain the logic of the SpongeBobness. I told him I would get right on that as soon as he explained exactly where "under the ocean" was located.

He wasn't happy. I got called a smart ass (but of course!) and he demanded an answer. I just looked at him in my most patronizing tone.

I then went on to explain that taking a bath, grilling a hamburger (Where does the meat come from, anyway?) having a campfire, electricity, going to the beach, gas powered buses, boats in the sea, and many of the other idiosyncrasies that happen on the show, are what makes the cartoon full of "spongy goodness."

He called me a child and walked away into the other room. I called after him, "Don't hate just cause you don't understand!"

I think that man was born old.

A Special "Mother's" Day

I thought about posting yesterday, and after the resoundingly bad day that it was, I figured it was better for y'alls delicate psyche if I just didn't put that energy out there. Instead I watched the season finale of my favorite TV show (with multiple interruptions) and then retired early (for me anyway) at midnight.

So it's a new day, and I am upright and breathing this morning. I was thinking about what to post as I drove my daughter to school. I figured since it was mother's day yesterday, and everyone has a "Mom" story to tell, I would share a story about my becoming a mom. There is a lot to this story, and I can tell it in five minutes or five hours, depending on who I am talking to or how much I feel like sharing. I don't want to bore anyone nor do I want my fingers to bleed from excessive typing, so I am going to share a condensed version today.

It starts with the year 2003. I began the year by leaving a very bad man and a very bad environment. He and I had been together for several years, during which I had several miscarriages. He had cheated on me constantly, and was mentally and physically abusive, as well as a chronic drug user. Let's just say that cheers were heard all over the world when I left him. In January, I moved in with a guy that I had met on the internet. (Insert groans of many who think that was a bad idea here.) He offered me a place to live that was drug free, in a good neighborhood, and closer to where I was working at the time. He asked nothing of me other than to be a responsible adult and pay my bills and live a better life than what he just helped "rescue" me out of. I moved in, got back on my feet, got my life together, and started healing from my past.

In May of 2003, as I was getting on with my life, my roommate was neck deep in a nasty divorce from his wife of 25 years. He was depressed and moody and generally just miserable. I had been "seeing" someone occasionally, and was contemplating moving out, but I just felt guilty about leaving the roommate after all he had done for me. He was at a very low point in his life and needed a friend. (Guilt+Sad Guy=Pity Sex...'nuff said.) So the roommate planned a vacation to lift his spirits, and invited me along. I had never been to Sarasota before, so I agreed to go. Wouldn't you know that the week the vacation was planned, I was scheduled to have a visit from "Aunt Flo". Well, I went on vacation, had a great time, and not once did I bleed. Got back home, one week later, still no period. Since regularity in bleeding has never been my strong suit, I just figured I would wait it out and it would happen eventually.

I should take a minute here to say that the last time I miscarried, I was about four months along and the bleeding was so bad that the doctor told me I was probably never going to get pregnant again. He also told me that with my heart issues, getting pregnant was tantamount to suicide. That doctor was a real prick, by the way.

So, thinking that pregnancy wasn't even a possibility at this point, I just waited a couple more weeks before I started to worry. Month late. Worried. Pregnancy test with *Bonus Test!* So I am sitting in my bathroom, having already taken one test a few days earlier that turned out negative, and have the second test in my hand while I am chanting "oh shit, oh shit" over and over again. Positive. Great. I have managed to turn one positive and one negative. Guess it's time for a doctor visit. I went to see my roommate's doctor, a very nice Guatemalan woman, and got a blood test. She of course tells me that I am definitely pregnant, and congratulates me. (Picture that deer in the headlights look on my face at this point.) I tell her that I can't be pregnant due to my heart and all, and I need some direction or help in terminating the pregnancy. She looks at me with a stunned look on her face and tells me that abortion is illegal. Uh...OK. Not in this country, lady.

I of course am in complete turmoil as to what to do, so I decide to start by going to see a cardiologist. His advice? Having a baby not such a great idea for me, but if I really wanted it, there would be ways to proceed. Like finding an OB/GYN first of all, and getting to bed for the duration of the pregnancy. I would also need to be followed by a cardiologist relentlessly, only not the kind of cardiologist that he is, I would be needing an electrophysiologist. (That would be a really long word for a cardiologist that has had his personality removed and replaced with an overwhelming instinct for acting like a complete asshole.) I started calling doctors. The conversation always went the same. I would tell them about my heart, and my possible need to end the pregnancy, and I would be told politely and coldly that they couldn't take me on as a patient. On call 53 I finally found a doctor's office that was willing to take me on. They told me that they would evaluate me, and if necessary, help me end the pregnancy to save my life. I had an appointment and really liked the doctor (bad hair plugs aside) and thought that no matter what the outcome, things would turn out alright.

I was driving a motor scooter at this time to get back and forth to work, and one morning (about 2 months along) I got into an accident and had to lay the bike down in order not to hit a truck that was backing out of driveway without looking. (idiot) I was scraped and bruised, but decided to head to work, anyway. At work the pain started, and then got worse. I decided to head to the ER and told them I was preggers and about the accident. They did an internal sonogram (my first sonogram) to check things out and see if I was still pregnant. I am laying there, watching the screen, and see this little blob...with a heartbeat. I made the tech hold the position so I could watch for a minute, and what I saw was a tiny little perfect heart, beating exactly how it should. I was hooked. I really wanted this baby.

I was 27 and I wasn't getting any younger, I had a great job with good insurance and I was in the most stable living environment I had ever been in in my life. I figured, I was already 2 months into the pregnancy and had all kinds of doctors on my case at this point, so why not just let things develop and see what happened. I had never carried any pregnancy to term, and I figured, if this wasn't meant to be, then nature would take it's course like it had in the past. I just couldn't bring myself to voluntarily end the pregnancy at this point. My OB/GYN was thrilled (being all pro-baby like that) and my electrophysiologist (Dr. Personality or asshole or perv...he was really a piece of shit with a diploma) was absolutely PISSED. I was sitting in an exam room telling him I was going to try to keep the baby and he screams at me, "You stupid bitch! Are you trying to kill yourself? You need to go get an abortion or you are going to DIE!"

At this point, nurses are running in to rescue me from this idiot. I am reduced to a weeping puddle of snot, and he is yelling at me and the nurses and just generally trying to make everyone in earshot feel bad. Lots of meetings with office managers and lawyers take place and eventually, the little fucktard doctor is put in his place, apologizes to me and we continue to rotate around each other in a very strange and uncomfortable doctor/patient relationship. This same doctor, just to give you an idea of how low of a human specimen he is, would flirt repeatedly with my VERY married and very pregnant at the time also, sister. He would act like a little schoolboy whenever she brought me in for a visit. What a fucktard.

Anyway. My pregnancy progressed week by week with constant doctor supervision and many, many sonograms. I was fortunate enough to watch my daughter grow weekly because of this. I knew it was a girl before I even got the little picture to confirm it. At 5 months along I was ordered to go on bed rest for the remainder of the pregnancy. My roommate thought that a small vacation to the Florida Keys, one last "getaway", would be good for me before I spent the next 4 months on my back. I agreed. We both knew that with the doctors' prediction of me probably not surviving the birth (I was given a 10% chance of surviving, my daughter was given a 50% chance.) that this was really going to be the last vacation of my life. We went to Key Largo and stayed in a beautiful hotel on the gulf side. During the trip, I was "leaking" amniotic fluid. I thought it was just me losing control of my bladder. This went on for a week. We cut the vacation short, and drove back to Jacksonville. I went to bed. Two days later, on a Sunday, I woke up and my bed was completely soaked. I thought I had wet the bed in my sleep. I called the doc, and they told me to get to the hospital immediately. I called my sister and she showed up to take me. Even made me sit on a plastic bag so as not to ruin her car seat. That's sisterly love for ya.

As we were driving down the off ramp that lead to the hospital I had my first contraction. I was 23 weeks into the pregnancy. I knew I was in trouble, and was really upset that it seemed this pregnancy would end in a miscarriage as well. When we got in the lobby the admitting clerk was asking me questions and typing when I had a second contraction. She asked how long it was between contractions. When I told her it had been 4 minutes, he fingers started flying faster than humanly possible as she registered my info into the computer. I was impressed...in pain...but impressed. I was wheeled up to a room and told to get undressed and pee in a cup. For what? Going to check to see if I am pregnant? I think the ship already sailed on that one, folks....

I was about to pee in the cup..when I noticed I was bleeding everywhere. I screamed at the nurse and told her what was going on, and she made me get into the bed immediately. Then they turned me upside down at an almost 45 degree angle. The told me it was to counteract gravity. Guess they thought I was going to drop that bowling ball right there on the floor.

They did the checking of the nether regions on me, and told me that I was trying to have a baby. No way! Ya THINK? What? The contractions weren't enough of a clue? At that point, being upside down and all, I was starting to get a little cranky. And panicked. I was only 23 weeks. I was FIVE MONTHS ALONG. My daughter's due date was my birthday, February 6th. It was only the middle of October.They gave me drugs to stop the labor, but my amniotic fluid was leaking fast out of a rupture in my placenta. The medicine they gave me made me extremely thirsty but nauseated so they wouldn't let me drink anything. Only ice chips occasionally. My mom was there and was feeling helpless. She thought she was going to lose me, and was more worried about that than anything else. After all, I am her baby. So she did the only thing she could. She fed me ice chips. Lots of ice chips. I threw up. And my water broke. I thought I had popped the kid out right there on the bed...after all...it felt almost exactly like the last miscarriage. I was screaming at anyone to come get the kid...she popped out and was somewhere in the sheets. A nurse came in and looked under the sheet, told me my water broke, and there was no kid yet. She then went to go leave and as she was about to walk out the door, she turned to me and said, (quoting her verbatim here) "You know, babies born this early don't live."

I.SWEAR.I.WANTED.TO.HOP.OUT.OF.THE.BED.AND.BITCH.SLAP.HER.

They prepped me for an emergency C-section by sending in a 12 year old cardiology resident that looked like he was about to shit himself or pass out, an anesthesiologist to give me an epidural that didn't take, and my OB/GYN Dr. Hairplugs. They smiled at me with that look on their faces like they knew this wasn't going to end well. I was wheeled (still upside down) into the operating room with my sister beside me. (Mom wasn't dealing with reality very well at this point.) I felt them cut me sideways, then vertically, then felt my daughter being ripped from my body. The doctor held her up with one hand (she was the size of a Barbie Doll with a head the size of a small apple) and she was all blue.

He said, "Say hello to your daughter!" Then they swooped her over to the other side of the room and weighed her before they started working on her.

"One pound, five ounces," someone said.

I remember saying, "I have chicken in my fridge that weighs more than that."

At that point, I died. So they did what they do and they brought me back. At the same time they were working on her because she was basically born dead and was slow to come around.

A few days(?) after I gave birth a nurse came into my room with some paperwork. She said she needed some information for the official paperwork. I asked her if it was the death certificate. She looked at me funny and said, no, it was the birth certificate and some hospital stuff that needed her name on it. I just sat there blinking at her. She asked me why I thought it was a death certificate and I said, "Because she was blue when she was born and I haven't seen her since."

Well she wigged out on me. She was SHOCKED that I had not even been taken to see my child, and told me that not only was my daughter alive, but breathing on her own without any help. She told me she would be right back, and was, bearing a Polaroid of my daughter. Then told me that as soon as I felt up to it I could go visit her in the NICU. I wanted to go at that moment, but she told me to rest and they would get her all ready and then come back for me in a little while. The first time I saw my daughter she was already a few days old. I had to reach under a little plastic tent to touch her and my finger was bigger than her whole hand.

This was at 5 weeks old. Still very tiny at that point.

They told me that babies so little generally don't live and have lots of problems if they do. I will say that the journey up until now has been long and trying (and a whole other story or ten)...but so very worth it. My daughter is now 4 1/2 years old. Most of the problems due to the prematurity have been resolved, and my daughter has all the potential to be a true smart ass just like her mom. I am blessed.

Hellooooo? Anyone Hoooome?

OK, y'all. I see ya now. I got me one of them fancy tracker devices and have officially Lo-Jacked my blog. I see you folks are stopping by, and I appreciate it. A few of you even manage to wipe your feet by leaving me a comment or two. But for the love of all that is monetary!!! Click on a Google ad or something if you don't plan on leaving a comment. It shows me how much you care...or something. I mean come on people. You don't have to actually buy anything. Just click and I get paid. Gimme a break here, folks. I am going to spend this money on my daughter's education and at this rate all I am going to be able to afford is Sideshow Bob's Culinary Clown College. (Just love their motto..."All our sidekicks are now Deep-fried!")

Don't get me wrong, I love that my blog is even getting read. I figure, I crack myself up so much, I might as well share...and I do enjoy sharing...being a giver and all...So come on in...make yourself at home. Leave a comment or two and if you aren't as annoyingly wordy as I am just click a Google ad and make my day? Pretty please? (At this rate in this economy, the only other way I am going to get by is by going down the street to the strip club and start blinding pervs with my fluorescent white spare tire and my cantaloupes in socks that pass for tits.)

So save a perv, click an ad. This concludes your public service announcement.

Y'all can go back to your regularly scheduled lives now...sorry about that nasty mental image I may have inflicted...you'll get over it. Cheers!

Brightness

Today my child pointed out and correctly identified the milky way in a picture dictionary without any prompting...I'm sitting there thinking...wow...what a huge mental accomplishment! Especially since I haven't taught her that...and then...she unrolled a brand new roll of toilet paper all the way to the cardboard just to see what would happen....

So close, and yet...that Nobel Prize is just out of reach. Damn.

Random Crazy

I had a dream that I was an American Idol finalist that had just won the game of Survivor and was attending a live taping of the Broadway hit Wicked in the city of Orlando with my current boyfriend Sylvester Stalone while we were sharing a bucket of KFC legs and thighs.

All this and I am not even on any mind altering drugs. Dontcha just wanna be me?

Oh, and we were in the front row. I so ROCK!