Apr 30 2008


We’re back.


If you’ve followed my twitterings, you already know that my blog done got broked by being moved to a new host. HOWEVER! It is now back and shinier than ever thanks to my brothafromanothamutha, Elex. Word.

It was good timing and bad. I was gone so he didn’t have to listen to me bitch (my husband had that pleasure), but it was broken still when I got back so I had no place to say “Hi! I’m back!” and have nobody care.

I have been busily PhotoShopping my travel photos so that they look on screen like they did in my head when I took them (goddamn non-mind-reading camera). Except I was gone for a week and a half and work kinda didn’t stop while I was away, so I still have catching up to do. So this is all you get for today.

Well, except I can’t NOT show you an example of the big, beautiful c0ck action that was happening there.

He may have been hot, too. I didn’t ask.

Apr 09 2008

Random in 18

I keep thinking of things to write about while I’m in the shower, but by the time I get to a place where I could write anything down, I’ve forgotten them.

I woke up singing Huey Lewis songs the other morning. I haven’t heard Huey Lewis in YEARS, and my clock radio is set on a mariachi station (I have told you about Cole’s fascination with Mariachi music and the Spanish stations in general, haven’t I?) so I truly don’t know where it came from. Perhaps I just really wanted a new drug…?

I still like Huey Lewis, despite every reason why I shouldn’t. It is, like D&D; and The Gummi Bears, nostalgic.

I just slammed out a meeting agenda outline in, like, 5 minutes. Go me.

I was supposed to have done it… ummm… a while ago.

Mmmm… Three Musketeers Bar…

Ughh… Three Musketeers Bar…

Perhaps I don’t look terribly “cool,” (yeah- when DO I?!) but I prefer the full-ear headphones (I mean the REALLY big ones) to ear-buds. I feel like ear-buds stretch out my ears. They hurt! And, somehow, I manage to destroy them in about a second.

I have SO much to do in the next 4.5 working days (OMG! 4.5!!) before I leave for vacation, yet I can’t seem to settle into actually doing it. My brain is already on the beach eating Thai curry leftovers from dinner the night before and watching Cole stuff sand down his bathing suit. Ahhh… Good times…

I’m now on Twitter (though I prefer to think of my messages as “twitterings” rather than “tweets.” “Tweets” is somehow too reminiscent of “queefs,” which, if you do not understand, I recommend not looking up. If you DO understand, my Mom’s the one who taught me, so you can’t effectively tattle, AND it probably explains A LOT about me. AT ANY RATE! “Twitterings” just sounds more delicate. Like me. For I am a delicate flower. Or a little fluttering bird.) and I feel like a freshman in high school- awkward, stupid, and lost. Where’s the band room again?

But it’s fun, too. Y’all are hilarious NON-STOP. When do you breathe? On your pee breaks? Do you even take time out of the hilarity to pee? Is that my problem? Too many pee breaks to effectively be funny? Because I’m really working on getting it down to one pee per day.

Or something.

All this tea doesn’t help.

Fat dog with gravy veins is very sad. No more treats! She couldn’t even get her butt back into the car when we left the vet. I had to lift her hind-end in.

(No, I’m not talking about myself!!) (Yet!!) (OMG- More Three Musketeers Bars? For me?!)

Everyone at the vet kept saying that she’s an “old dog,” yet I don’t think of her as old. Perhaps it’s one of those things where you’re too close to it to see it happening because it happens by degree, kind of like kids growing up or baldness. I guess, now that I’ve really looked at her again, she IS getting rather old. She’s got white all over her face and her eye condition makes her look blind (and it nearly makes her blind, so I guess that’s appropriate). She’s roughly 9 years old now, though we don’t know for sure seeing as we adopted her as an adult. While we were at the vet, a woman came in and gave her a scritch on her ears before going to the desk and breaking down in tears. When she left she was holding a small wooden box. When will the day come when I’ll leave holding a similar box? The damn dog bugs the shit out of me, but I somehow still love her to pieces. Stupid animals- making you care about them and shit.


Does anybody have more Three Musketeers Bars?

Apr 08 2008

Dear Co-worker

How can I even begin to describe how much I detest your nasty, passive-aggressive ass? I realize that you are a worthless ho-bag, and that you must recognize this in yourself, but must you be so horrible to me (and others) in an attempt to make yourself feel better?

I know, from your smugly superior attitude, that you must think you are better than me. I beg to differ. Your suggestions and comments are, like you, trash. Take, for example, your most recent email about a DRAFT design I sent around for review:

“It looks like [the phrase] isn’t quite centered as it should be, is that my imagination? (too far to the right?)”

Why yes! It clearly is! That is a part of why it is a DRAFT. Did you not get that it’s a DRAFT? Did the big, bold “DRAFT” mark on there confuse you? Are you unable to think abstractly enough to get past the slight off-centered-ness of the words? And, finally, did you really think that your comment was HELPFUL in any way?

I know that you have nothing to do all day, what with being worthless and all, but STAY OUT OF MY WAY. Yes, I AM countering passive-aggressiveness with aggressive-aggressivness. What of it?

Do we need to take this outside?

Cheers, Bitch!

Apr 04 2008

Just along for the ride…

I usually avoid memes (meaning that nobody ever tags me so I feel like a tool for just doing them randomly), but when Pammer says type, you freakin’ type!

Da Rulz:

1. Link back to the person who tagged you.

2. Post these rules on your blog.

3. Share six unimportant things about yourself.

4. Tag six random people at the end of your entry.

(This is hard, because EVERYTHING about me is important. Obviously!)

Numero Uno: I wear a lot of black; not because it’s slimming, but because it’s the only color I don’t get bored with. And it hides toddler-caused stains really well!

Numero Dos: I used to have NO PROBLEM paying $200+ for a pair of shoes. Now I balk at $20. I don’t know if I should be ashamed or proud of myself.

Numero Tres: I hate MySpace, but I CAN’T LET IT GO!

Numero Quatro: I love the taste of Traditional Medicinal’s Pregnancy Tea, even when I’m not pregnant. I crave it.

Numero Cinco: I can’t stand it when people confuse they’re/their/there, your/you’re, its/it’s. At heart, I know it’s not a big deal, but it still bugs me. I guess I just don’t understand how hard it is to get it right!

Numero Seis: I have a really nice window at work, and I was excited when I was able to move to this desk specifically because of the nice window. However, now that I’m here, I hardly EVER open the blinds. The glare on my monitor is too bad! SUCKS. I might as well not even have it.

I tag:


…because he hasn’t posted in a while


…because I have no idea what he would list


…because he needs to write more, no matter the subject

the princess

…even though I know she has a few arms and moments too few these days


…because SHE needs to write more


…because she’s awesome

Apr 04 2008

My Paranoia: Let me show you it!

Perhaps I have some “‘splainin’” to do regarding the whole shark/plane crash/Hawaii thing.

I have a paranoid fear of fish. It might be easily confused with a fear of large-ish bodies of water (into which category you’d have to include pools and hot-tubs, but not puddles or sinks) (unless you mean sinks full of dishes and soapy water where I would surely get sliced by an errant knife should I stick my hand in, which is totally why I don’t do dishes) (totally!), but that wouldn’t be true. No- it’s a fear of what could be and, if I am there, SURELY IS hidden in that water. It doesn’t matter a whit if I can see to the bottom and all sides- there is something in there that will hurt me or eat me. For this reason, I can’t even swim in pools alone- my fear gets the best of me.

And the plane crash thing? I don’t know- I guess I just feel so out of control on planes. I know a crash is unlikely, and I’ve successfully flown all over the world, but I get nervous every time. I’m not the person who is white-knuckled and gibbering, though. I keep it together just fine. It doesn’t stop me worrying about it at night, though.

As for all of your kind concerns about Hawaii: We are going to Kauai, which is one of the older of the islands and isn’t quite so active anymore. I’m not afraid of lava for some reason. Maybe because the last time we were there (on Hawaii proper) I walked on it while it was still pretty fresh- fresh enough to melt my sneakers anyway. It was stupid (apparently, I’m still stupid- it just took me 3 times to type stupid correctly there. First it was “tupid” then it was “atupid.” Actually, I kind of like “tupid.”), but it also wasn’t like we meant to. We also spun fresh lava into little pots, which was totally awesome. So lava? Not so much a fear.

The sunburn thing IS a fear, but one I can do something about. I have some of the palest, Irish, white-girl skin you’ve ever seen, and I sunburn like a mo-fo. Last time we were there, I DID get a horrible sunburn; so bad that I was ill and stuck inside the house. But I am 7 years older (holy crap- it’s been 7 years?) and a mom now. I’ll never let Cole out without sunscreen, and putting his on will help me remember to put mine on. I think we’ll be okay. Do you think our 55 spf will do the trick? I don’t want any chance of a tan. I embrace my cracker-ness.

So, while we’re at it, what else do I need to be worrying about? Do you have irrational fears? Of what? Do tell!

Apr 01 2008

Nightmares of Sharks and Vomit

This morning, as I was trying to get back to sleep after being woken up by Cole’s Cars pillow narration, I started thinking about our upcoming trip to Hawaii. At first, I was relaxed; dreaming about warm beach naps and delicious food, but then (as my brain often does) I started thinking about all the bad things that could happen. I dreamed of sharks eating us as we were swimming in the clear water; the plane crashing and sharks eating us as we treaded water in the middle of the ocean; the plane crashing and Cole sinking to the bottom of the ocean because I couldn’t get him out of his car seat and the sharks eating his poor little drowned body (are you sensing a theme?). So now, the whole trip will be ruined just a little bit with the shadows of these nightmares hanging over me, because once I’ve thought it, it can’t be un-thought. Especially when it comes to sharks.

So- the cat vomit. Cole did not mean to eat cat vomit. Some generous neighborhood cat (DON’T EVEN get me started on roaming neighborhood cats: HATEHATEHATE!!) had deposited a pile of vomit on top of Cole’s (new to us) slide/climbing set thingy (technical terms- don’t let them intimidate you). Then it rained just a little- not enough to wash it away, but just enough to make it spread out all nice and disgusting-like.

Cole and I were outside doing a little yard work. He decided that he wanted to go play on his slide. Sure, Son! Go! Enjoy it while you can! This summer it will be so hot it’ll melt the skin off of your heinie! Instead of just sliding, though, he thought it would be fun to put some dirt on top and smear it around. He’s into the distressed look, I guess. At some point, the smear of dirt joined with the smear of vomit, and THEN he somehow got something in his mouth and had to stick his fingers in to wipe it out or something. Fingers that were covered in vomit-dirt. I turned around to the “pleh!pleh!” sounds of him “spitting” (he makes the noise, but doesn’t really know how to spit) and went over to investigate. Upon discovery of the noisome melange, I picked up the frustratedly struggling Cole (No! Don’t take me away from my vomity-dirt! I was just getting the consistency right!) and whisked him away to the sink inside to wash out his mouth and scrub his hands. I did consider if cat vomit or soap would be more harmful in his mouth, but eventually decided that he probably didn’t get much vomit in there anyway, and that soap would probably be harder to wash out. I figured I’d start worrying for real if he started vomiting. He didn’t. He’s fine.