Friday, March 19, 2010


I am so giddy with excitement I can barely contain myself. It doesn't help that I've consumed my weight in m&m's this afternoon -- I can't tell if I'm experiencing a severe sugar rush or I'm seconds away from having a stroke, one thing for sure I am not missing my plans tonight. No siree!

Tonight is Family Date Night. Also known as The Perfect Excuse To Consume Double My Weight In Popcorn Night.

Big V and I are taking Dotter to see Diary of a Wimpy Kid. (The Jelly Bean can't be bothered with this silly outing. She has real friends. Very cool friends. They watch movies with PG-13 ratings or above only. And take pictures of the movie screen with their cell phones and send picture texts of Robert Pattinson to their other equally-cool-but-unlucky-because-they're-not-at-the-movies friends.) Truth be told, I could care less about this kid's diary, the only thing I want is my special salt shaker and an IV drip of butter. I'm extremely territorial when it comes to my movie theater popcorn - I have actually unapologetically slapped the hands of those who dare steal from my kernel treasure. It's my popcorn and I don't share. Ever. I don't care what you think of me.

For those who think I am mean and karma will come back to kick my rear, don't worry, around 4am I'll be wishing I had shared, stomach as hard and bloated as possible. I won't be able to sleep and I'll plead with God that if He makes this awful uncomfortableness go away and I promise I'll never eat that much popcorn ever again. I won't follow through, though. God knows this. That's why he leans back and lets me suffer the consequences of my gluttony. I can't wait!

Thursday, March 18, 2010

And the Guilty Shall Remain Nameless (ahem, Burger King)

Yes, I get that you need to eat lunch, too. I understand that it must be very difficult to smell that lovely charbroiled food you hand out through the drive-thru all day long. What I don't get is why you feel you have to eat at the drive-thru window where customers might be able to see you. What I don't understand is why you feel it necessary to lick your fingers while looking out the window at my car. You know there's a person in that car, right? I mean, the car wasn't there a second ago and now it is, so a fair assumption is there is a driver inside that car. The car you're looking at. While you're shoving food in your face. And lapping at your hands. Perhaps the driver could even be considered a valued customer. One who probably isn't blind. (Because she can drive a car, moron.) Meaning she can see you.

Yes, I know it probably goes on at every restaurant in America. Employees get hungry, grab something quick to snack on, slather it in sauce, and lick up the mess from wrist to finger before they quick tend to the customer. (Which, for the record, is incredibly gross.) But if I don't actually see it with my own eyes it's that much easier for me to pretend your establishment might actually be one of those where people don't lick their fingers seconds before handing me my food.

Perhaps you didn't notice my look of stunned horror. (That was key to the "gee, she probably thought that was really gross. Maybe I shouldn't do that anymore" realization you were supposed to have.)

I was hungry. Starved, actually, before I was privy to that total lack of cleanliness. Because of you I couldn't enjoy my healthy fish sandwich and apple fries no matter how many times I sprayed the bag with anti-cootie spray. I could only attempt to wash away my feelings of disgust by hastily eating the funnel cake sticks. I'm not even sure if that was enough to block this...this... episode out of my memory. I think the only right thing for you to do to fix this is to send more funnel cake sticks my way. A lot more. With frosting. Thankyouverymuch.

Wednesday, March 17, 2010

So close... yet so far away...

I promised Big V I wouldn't make disparaging remarks about the Devil Dog anymore. He was all like, "people think my dog is aggressive and destructive now" and I was all like "but your dog is aggressive and destructive" and he was all "yeah, but they didn't know that until you told them." Of course he was right. (But I still think eventually everyone would've found out anyway when there was a giant hole in the exterior wall of our home and we'd have to explain how the Devil Dog chewed out his escape route.) I asked if it were acceptable to speak in hypothetical's instead and he just rolled his eyes and sighed really loud and I'm pretty sure that meant he's okay with it.

So, hypothetically speaking, let's say someone came home and announced they found a home for their crazed aggressive, destructive devil dog. And that same person packed up dog toys and bones and food and the kennel.... and even put the dog itself in the truck.... one would assume the dog would be gone, right? Sure they would!

If it were me in that situation I'd do what any other loving partner would do: prepare for thank-you sex. First I would clean up the house, because, let's be honest, you can't have proper thank-you sex when you're thinking about the dishes that need to be done and wondering if anyone left a bottle of milk under the couch and if you have enough toilet paper to get you through the rest of the week.

And then I would shave my legs. With a new razor. Because a man who gives up his dog deserves smooth legs. Even if that dog was going to devour the baby the first chance it got.

And then I would go through the deep dark recesses of my closet wondering if I had anything remotely sexy at my disposal - hoping that it would be enough to cover the new weight distributed throughout my thighs and abdomen. And then I would remember that guys could care less about the size of your thighs if you just do most of the work so I could just about sport a chicken suit and he'd think I was a goddess, as long as I was moving.

And, then, what if, hypothetically speaking, he came back with the dog, mumbling something about having to pry open the dog's jaw and fax copies of proof of up-to-date rabies vaccinations?

Yeah, you'd be changing into oversized sweats and pulling wool socks up to your knees, too.

Tuesday, March 16, 2010

I am fortunate to get together with some really great friends on a regular basis to do the stuff women generally do together: eat, drink, and laugh. There's really not much to it at all. Easy-peasy. The most energy is spent trying to figure out which drink to order.

And then I got invited to Ladies' Night. At a gym. To climb a wall. Of rocks.

A rock climbing wall? I can just see myself now, grasping on for dear life by my fingernails, wine glass gripped in between my teeth, trying to find some form of footing...

I used to be athletic. Surprisingly so. I could run 7 miles without much effort on a regular basis. My arm strength was my best asset. (Which practically saved my life when I was in the Army. Do you know how many times snarky people get dropped by a drill sergeant? A lot. I have repressed memories of hours worth of push-ups, but that's a story for another day.) I used to run up and down stadium stairs because I enjoyed working out. That was years ago. Today I'm contemplating installing an escalator so I can carry laundry up and down from the basement without having to stop mid-staircase. I barely have enough hand and arm strength to grip a pen and sign my bar tab. Like I'm going to be able to climb a wall of protruding objects? And it's not like they give you enough room to heft your arm up and hang out for a bit. These "rocks" as they call them are like an eighth of an inch. I've bitten down all my nails so I have nothing to hang on with!

The other ladies? One runs marathons. The other works out on a regular basis and leads tours in countries where you have to walk like everywhere. And the third? The one who planned this little outing? She climbed Mt. Kilimanjaro. A freaking MOUNTAIN! That's like asking Octomom to birth a single child; she doesn't have to blink and she'll be finished.

It's obvious I'd be the one they choose to eat first if we were ever stranded.

Is it me?

Is it wrong of me to salivate every time I catch an episode of  The Real Housewives or 16 and Pregnant? Because, seriously, my life is so good compared to all that drama and watching those shows remind me of that little fact. And I enjoy that.

Sure, years ago a film crew could've followed me around watching me wipe my tears after my boyfriend who impregnated me (I'll just call him El Diablo) finished a mad rant about how horrible of a human being I was... to be certain I was just as foolish as the girls on 16 and Pregnant (except I was older) and I have managed not to behave like those fancy-schmancy rich-without-a-clue women on the Housewives. Watching these shows I can't help but think, "wow, I've come so far." So keep the disfunctionality coming! It makes me feel so normal.

Monday, March 15, 2010

Again with the Daylight Savings Time

Seriously. What is the point of this constant clock movement? Spring ahead. Fall back. Spring ahead again. Fall back once more. Hey, everybody! Let's Spring ahead one more time. How about KEEPING YOUR HANDS OFF THE CLOCK! Unless they devise a way to automatically change every clock and wristwatch that I might possibly come in contact with, I want no part of it.

I'm convinced Daylight Savings Time was created by some guy who experienced an unbalanced amount of bullying in his childhood. In order to "get back" and everyone who had wronged him, and in a desperate effort to feel "in control," he decided to make us endure time changes. Do you know what it's like to wake up and think its 8:00 only to find out the cell phone says 9:00 but the oven says 8:00 and the computer says 9:00 and the car says 8:00? It's like slipping into crazy, that's what it feels like. And just when you thought you got it under control you go to work the next day and think there's ten minutes until lunch time but then learn no one changed the big clock on the wall and you have a whole hour to plod through before you can take a much needed break.

So, Daylight Savings Inventor Guy: I'm sorry you were picked on but it's time to let go of the grudge. Let go and let the time stay.