Monday, August 31, 2009

Stuff about other stuff

Remember how I'm scared shitless of snakes? Right. Well, yesterday? I was trying to get some stuff down off the shelf in the closet and I'm standing on my tippy tip toes rooting blindly along the shelf when I feel something slither down my back and I jumped back, punched myself in the face, tripped over a shoe, whacked my shin on the bed frame and started screaming my head off. The dogs? DIDN'T EVEN MOVE and when I finally had the nerve to look at what just tried to kill me? It was a belt.

I can hear you bitches laughing.

To console myself from my near death experience, I bought some KILLER new shoes.

I got to see my Gigibella. She likes nachos, apparently. Also, her cousin Abbie who is 2 1/2 calls her "Baby Jesus". Which I find pants wettingly funny. Because I'm super classy like that.

My Old Man dog caught his toenail in the door frame when he was knocking to be let in and ripped his whole nail off. I? Am not a good nurse. With the blood and the bleeding and the blood. But I managed to suck it up and bandage his footy with a sock. You know, because it was his foot. Obviously.


Lastly, I've decided what to do about Lea. If I were to call CPS, right now, they would know it was me. And more than that my HUSBAND would know it was me and I just don't need that kind of grief. So instead?I did what any right thinking Atheist would do. I called the Mormons.

It will amuse many of you to know that I was raised Mormon. I know, right? BUT STILL. I was and they still come to my house and try to bribe me with cookies to come back to church. While I love cookies? I don't love them that much.

I know that y'all have your own opinions about the Mormon's already and so do I, so I won't delve into why I am no longer am. What I will say is while I disagree with many of their belief structures, I respect that they have them.

I called my "Home Teachers" who are a retired cop and a retired teacher. Perfect, right? I explained the situation to the wife and asked if she could arrange a sort of sting operation to get someone from their local ward to start "visiting" them. You can see the filth from the front door, so even if they don't get invited in (and chances are they won't) the cat shit a foot inside the door, the stench, the over flowing garbage visible from the doorstep, all of it is enough "probable cause" to call in CPS.

I specifically asked that they go during school hours so that they could also report that the children were at home. This should mean that the CPS case worker will look for school records (home or otherwise).

I am hopeful that this will work. If it doesn't? Well, then, fuck my husbands opinion, I'm calling CPS myself.

Friday, August 28, 2009


So remember that one time when you had a really shit day at work and you were all super stressed out about what to do about that one thing that was a really big deal and so then when you got home you took a Xanax and had a glass of wine and then you started feeling all mellow?

Then remember how you thought it would be a good idea to try and give yourself a "smokey eye" make over using that how to card you got from Sephora that said it was so easy? But maybe because your mom didn't teach you how to do make up or maybe because the "smokey eye" is only achievable by skinny jean wearing fifteen year old boys or maybe because you have to sacrifice baby penguins to the eye liner gods, but WHATEVER it totally didn't work and you just looked like you got punched in the face by Tyler Durden?

Remember how after that you thought it would be a good idea to have another glass of wine, because really, when ISN'T another glass of wine the answer? Then you tried to wash off that "smokey eye" only black eye shadow is no match for mere soap and the more you washed the more you looked like Rob Zombie?

So then after that you started rooting around under the bathroom sink, remember? Because there has to be some of that free gift with purchase eye make up remover in there somewhere, only instead all you could find was three pink foam rollers, a used Hannah Montana band aid and that home waxing kit that you ordered off of TV that time you got stuck hanging out at the United terminal for three days eating nothing but saltines and coffee and watching MSNBC.

Remember how you thought it would be a good idea to try it? Or maybe the wine thought it would be a good idea and totally talked you into because wine is a very fucked up friend and it has a sick sense of humor? But then, since you'd shaved your legs and pits that morning and that super evil eyebrowless waxing lady ripped out your Burt Reynolds on Saturday and so you have nothing to wax and then, you're standing there naked except for your Chuck Taylor's and you realize OMG! I'm going to wear a bathing suit in public in like three weeks, so I should start waxing my bikini line! Yes! Good idea! But, since you've had your hooha waxed before, you know that it hurts like a mother fucker so you take another Xanax and have another glass of wine and then you warm up the wax and smear in on your lady flower and press on the linen strips and


So then remember how you looked at that linen strip and you're all THE HELL MAN? there wasn't a single freaking pube stuck to it. But the box of wine was all, try again! So you applied more wax and pressed the strip more firmly and then ripped it even faster and


And you know what? STILL NOT A FUCKING PUBE removed because apparently you have SUPER PUBES who are growing straight out of your bones and then you get all stubborn because you're a)Irish and b) a little drunk so you decided to try it one more time. Then you drain that box of wine right into that 7-11 cup and keep sipping from the bendy straw and you apply the wax again and rip it off AND IT STILL DOESN'T WORK BECAUSE IT'S GARBAGE, that's why.

Then do you remember how you tried to use that eensy-weensy "skin soothing" wet nap that the evil hairless tv slut said would remove all traces of the wax and leave you porn star smooth? Remember how it DIDN'T FUCKING WORK? So you tried Vaseline and baby oil and nail polish remover and peanut butter and then you're all MOTHER FUCKER. So you pulled your clothes back on and drove all super careful to CVS even though you're pretty sure the bus driver who honked at you was the Terminator and was trying to kill you. Despite the fact that you just broke a shit load of laws you managed waddle into CVS and buy mineral oil only OF COURSE their credit card system was down and you had no cash so you had to pay with the dimes from your ash tray but whatever; you get it and you drive home and you don't even hit that big chicken that was wandering in the roadway.

Remember how after that you go back into the bathroom and take off your jeans and try to take off your Hanes Her Way only they are TOTALLY FUCKING STUCK to your cooch? Like, permanently bonded. Like, the harder you pull the more convinced you are that you're going to wind up on "Real Stories of the ER" and you're going to be that woman and someone will recognize you and you'll get on Oprah only not because she finally acknowledges that you're her best friend but because she's having a show about people who are completely incompetent. So you grab those panties and you give them a yank and every single freaking curly on your lady flower rips straight out by the roots and GREAT CESAR'S GHOST you have to grab the counter to keep from passing out?

Yeah, that sucked.

Thursday, August 27, 2009


I try not to judge the way other people parent. Unless, you know, they're really REALLY bad at it. For the most part though, I think that people are doing the best that they can with what they've got to work with. I figure that, as a general rule, you're going to the do everything in your power to make sure that your kids get what they need to succeed. If that means sitting next to a child who whines until you're ready to smother them with a grocery bag until they manage to complete those three math problems then that's what you do. If it means that you threaten to take a snow shovel to their room because OH MY GOD THE MESS, then that's what you do. Hell, if you actually take that snow shovel and start shoveling their treasures into giant Hefty bags, well, then I guess next time they'll clean their damn room, won't they?

I am a big advocate of letting your child test the limits of their world. I think that kids are probably a hell of a lot more capable than we think they are and if we just let them TRY then we're going to be pretty amazed.

I am also not a "helicopter" parent. I let M ride the city bus alone. I let her navigate connecting flights at LAX solo. I let her experiment with cooking and I'm all for her listening to and reading whatever she wants.

For the most part, she takes these freedoms and runs with them. I can honestly say, with the exception of her EXTREME laziness at school work M is ready to navigate the world. She reads at a college level, she has no fear of new things, she's excited to see the world because she's never met a stranger.

I'd like to take credit for all of this, but lets be honest, a lot of this has to do with the schools she's attended.

Which brings me to my point (and here you thought I didn't have one!). Lea, who you'll recall is ten years old is home schooled. The reason I was given is that due to her severe speech impediment her mom felt it was "safer" to keep her at home. I can see her point, kids are pretty cruel at times and talking to Lea is an exercise in translation. She's very bright but is about as comprehensible as your average two year old. Her comprehension skills are amazing though, if you show her something once, she's got it. Home school, in this instance, isn't a bad choice. Speech therapy is available through a variety of resources so there's no reason she can't excel.

I'm kind of on the fence about home schooling. On one hand, I think it's great. It gives each child the opportunity to learn what they need to learn the way they need to learn it. Something that's lost in most school scenarios. On the other hand, it's hard for me to believe that any one person is capable of excelling at teaching every subject to the same standards as a teacher who specializes in a single area would be. Home schooling is also pretty labour intensive for the care giver who provides it. You're the everything. It's up to you to make sure this kid gets everything they need. It's got to be exhausting and I'll be the first one to raise my hand and say there is NO WAY IN HELL I could do it. Knowing that, I wouldn't even try. That's called being realistic, right?

As we sat in the car waiting for D to deal with the car repair place Lea and I fished through my car for us something to entertain ourselves with. I found a book that M had left in there probably some time in 2004. The reading level is listed right on the cover as 4th grade. A little young for Lea, who should be entering fifth grade, but anything to do is better than "eye spy" for the 500th round. I hand her the book.

"What does this say?" she asks, pointing at the cover.

I'm pretty used to M being as lazy as humanly possible and I'm a chief bud-nipper.

"Dude, you can SO read that" I tell her.

"No, I can't" she replies.

I'm still convinced she's screwing around and I tease her a little more and say something like "The elephant that stalks the clowns at midnight" or something equally silly. I fully expect her to call my bluff and say in that oh my god you are such an idiot voice that children use with adults "No, it doesn't".

But she doesn't.

"read it to me" I tell her

"I can't read!" she whines

"You can't read? Not even this right here?" I say pointing to the first sentence (it said "My name is Sam and I am a super hero, but don't tell anyone" if I recall correctly.)

"I know my letters though" she assures me.

Lea is completely illiterate.

She's ten years old and she can't read. At all.

"don't you read books for school?" I asked her, thinking maybe it was a learning disability.

"No, my mom says I don't have to" she tells me.


But, still, I think that maybe there is something else going on. Kids exaggerate.

A few minutes later D gets back in the car.

"Can I spend the night at your house?" she asks me a few minutes later.

"Don't you have to do school tomorrow?" I reply

"(her mom) hasn't really been doing that with them. She's (meaning the mom) on the computer a lot" D tells me.


I am trying not to be all high horse I am SO a better mother than you about this, but how to do you let your child remain ignorant because you can't tear yourself away from the Internet? What is so important about WoW or Second Life or whatever the fuck you're doing that you can't take the time to make sure your children are getting educated? Is it really worth failing them to make that raid on the Horde? And if the internet IS that important, if you can't be bothered to teach them, why not just send them to school? Oh, right, because that means you can't stay up until four in the morning and sleep until two in the afternoon. That means that you will have to make sure they have clean clothes and lunch and aren't running around eating raw Top Ramen (I'm not even making that up) and wearing underwear that might, once, have been light pink and a bathing suit top that probably fit when they were six and is held together with a PAPERCLIP. That might mean that they would make friends who would wonder why you have the pulled out seats of a van instead of a couch in the living room because the couch is in the driveway and that might tell their own mother that there is GARBAGE IN THE BROKEN WASHING MACHINE IN YOUR KITCHEN. It might mean you had to think of someone other than yourself for five fucking minutes.

How do you look yourself in the face every day and know that you are the reason your kid is going to suffer for the rest of their life? How do you not do everything you can to ensure that they succeed to the best of their ability? How do you reconcile not even trying?

Wednesday, August 26, 2009

Smack Down

My child, for some reason, LOVES WWE. Loves. I suspect that it has less to do with the actual wrestling and more to do with the boys. Men. Whatever. With the spandex and the sequins and the pulled punches and the oiled abs.

And because I am THE BEST MOM EVER, I bought her and her bestie tickets. Not good tickets, but tickets none the less.

M and Tobi decided that we should all wear "Wrestling Costumes". Right. So here's what they picked out for me.

Thats a red vinyl dress, fishnet tights and knee high leather boots. AHAHAHAH. No. I wore jeans and a...wait for tee shirt! Shocking, right?

I bundle up the chickens and we head down town where I pay TWENTY FREAKING DOLLARS for parking. To be fair, we were about 100 yards from the entrance, but still. $20 is a little over the top.

We got there an hour early and joined this line

It was totally sold out. Over 70,000 people were willing to shell out $30, stand in 100* heat and then suspend disbelief for a few hours.

Their sign says "Chuck Norris For President" on one side and "Ahoy, My Hardys" on the other. Because apparently we like someone called Jeff Hardy. I was also told we like someone called Finlay and we LOVE the Undertaker.

OMG! Jeff Hardy! OMG!

I'll save you a blow by slippery, oiled, blow by blow by no, really I'm totally going to hit you for reals this time blow review of the show because you can watch it yourself on Friday night if you give a shit. Which I don't.

What I do want to say is that at the very end, when half the audience thinking that the Jeff Hardy/(someotherdudeIdon'tremember) smack down was the grand finale had left, the lights stayed low. The girls started asking if we should leave, but I told them to sit tight, the house lights weren't up so it wasn't over. Sure enough the Undertaker comes out and puts the hurt on someone. Following his 3 minute show the Degeneration X guys came out and did a half hour Raw style show.

The crowd was MENTAL with the screaming. OMFG the screaming.

As the lights start to raise, the six remaining fighters start working the crowd. High fiving kids and posing for pictures. And then, the most awesome random act of kindness happened. HHH (who I'm sure you've heard of, since even *I* have heard of him) takes the hand of a 20-something man and leads him up onto the ring. The kid is going CRAZY, doing the DX thrust and as the camera zooms in on him I realize that this young man has Downs. Of all the people, of all the kids, and pretty girls and despite the fact that it was completely not necessary or expected, this star took the time to give this young man the experience of his life.

As the cameras go dark and the lights come on there on the big screen, bigger than life was the happiest kid on earth.

And that was the moment I became a fan of WWE.

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

Cranky Stabbington Rides Again

Remember how I said that the toxic people in my life were dead to me? WHY THE HELL DIDN'T YOU REMIND ME YESTERDAY?


A year ago, J's friend D was on vacation all the way over on the Arizona/New Mexico border (about 4 hours away) when his car broke down. After 19 hours of waiting for the Cochise County Sheriffs to fetch them, they gave up and called us. J drove down there and towed them back to their home (about 80 miles south east of PHX). Then, D stayed with us for three weeks until he could afford to get his car fixed.

Six months ago, J used his connections to find D a super cheap used car. That ran. Decently even. D now has three cars. D, by the way, is a mechanic by trade.

Friday night, D calls J. He's down past Tucson and his car is broken down. The only one of his three cars that runs, by the way. J leaves the house at 8pm, drives 2 hours and tows him back to his house. Apparently it was a blown water pump. He then stays over night, drives D into town to get the parts, helps him fix it and comes home.

Sunday, D's wife calls. Guess whose piece of shit car has broken down on the AZ/NM border again. NO SHIT. So, at 3pm on Sunday, I call every single rental place in the PHX area looking for a tow dolly. I finally find one in the town D lives in and J leaves to go get him. It's a four hour drive each way.

All of this would be merely an inconvenience, only D, as usual is dead broke. WE paid for all the fuel AND the trailer rental.

OH BUT IT GETS BETTER. Or worse, depending on your point of view.

J calls me at 10pm on Sunday and tells me that because he has to work, and D hasn't got a car that runs, *I* need to take off work early, drive 80 miles to pick up D, load up the trailer, drop his truck off at a repair place, then drive the trailer back to the rental place and OH BY THE WAY, all of this needs to be done by 4pm.

So, like a sucker, I leave work at 1:30, drive down and knock on D's door. He's not ready to go. Half hour later he comes downstairs. It's now 3pm. Despite the presence of 3 teenage boys inside, me, D and his 10yo daughter Lea hook up the trailer and load up the truck. Then, OH OF COURSE, D needs to dink around with the truck. It's 3:30. We have to go about 25 miles. I, as you know, am blessed with The Crazy. One of my symptoms is I get all panic-y when I'm late for an appointment. We manage to get the truck to the repair place by 3:45 but are still about 20 minutes from the rental place. I call them and explain that I live 80 miles away and won't be able to drop it off the next day, that we're on our way, are maybe 20 minutes from them could they PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE stay on site until we arrive? The girl assures me that they can.

At 4:03 we pull into a deserted parking lot. With a locked gate. And no one answering the phone.

AND OF COURSE in all his forward thinking J has rented the trailer round-trip meaning I can ONLY return it to this place. That is closed. That is now going to charge me an additional day and to where I will have to take ANOTHER 3+ hours off work to drive the trailer.

AND THEN, J calls me and chews my ass out for not making in on time. Because it's OBVIOUSLY all my own personal fault.


So I start calling rental places until I find one that will be open long enough for me to get there.

It's in Phoenix.

That's 80 miles away.

We haul ass and drop it off and you know what? In addition to charging me an extra day for dropping it off late the UnNamed rental company wants to charge me DOUBLE the rental price for returning it to a different location.

So let's add this up.

3 tanks of Diesel at $75 each = 225
1 Day of trailer rental = 60
Tank of gas for bronco = 60
Late Penalty = 60
Wrong location = 172.50

That's $577.50 kids.

Have I said OH HELL NO yet? Thought so. I, in my best cleavage thrust forward, big batting blue eyes, sweet helpless girl manner related with as much humor and chagrin as possible to the UnNamed rental men how frustrated I am with this whole situation. Luckily for me one of said UnNamed rental guys is the district manager and agrees that the other location has been a poor representative of their company and so he waves the late charge and drop off fees.

I thank them profusely and run to the truck in case they change their minds.

Then? I drive ANOTHER 80 miles to drop D & Lea off.


I left work at 1:30 and I walked in the door to my house at 9pm. I could have been at Disneyland in the time it took me to drive the same stretch of freeway five times.

To be told that I should have "used my time better".


Monday, August 24, 2009

Rawr, Baby.

Dear BJ,

I know that you objected to the last boyfriend I found you. Though I don't know why, as he was clearly a Klassy specimen of man flesh, but WHATEVER. I guess some people are just picky.

So, because I LUVS you like a fat kid loves cake...actually let's make that "like I love cake" I have been hard at work finding you a NEW boyfriend. Someone with real, animalistic sex appeal. The sort of man that makes you go all She Wolf up in here.

I KNOW, right? You're totally welcome.


PS. Don't forget I can perform weddings. Real, legal weddings.

PPS. As long as there's cake.

PPPS. I like chocolate cake, just FYI

PPPPS. It didn't say, but I'm pretty sure his name is Dwayne.

Friday, August 21, 2009


you know you have an internet addiction when the first thing you do after fainting and spilling a 20oz glass of grape CrystalLite all over yourself isn't clean it up or call for help but Tweet about it.

Thursday, August 20, 2009


As if there wasn't enough evidence of my mental illness, I submit to you the following evidence.

I am completely convinced that every time I lift the lid of the toilet, I am going to find a snake.


I can not pee in the dark. I can't pee if I can't see the water. I can't pee if I don't first look into the toilet to ensure that there is not, in fact, a snake coiled in the bowl waiting to lunge out and bite me on the hoo ha.

There is no basis for this fear. It's not as if I have ever found anything more malicious than an unflushed turd in the toilet. But still. THERE COULD BE A SNAKE IN THE TOILET, you just NEVER KNOW. It totally happened in that movie Snakes on a Plane and that guy got his weiner bit and then he TOTALLY DIED, y'all. DIED.

This isn't a fear that I admit to because my husband is an asshole who would find it terribly amusing to leave a rubber snake in the toilet just to hear me scream.

Just when I think I've talked myself out of it, just when I think that I am being irrational, I see this article.

Which includes this picture.

THERE IS A MOTHER FUCKING SNAKE IN THE MOTHER FUCKING TOILET. It swam up the pipes. A SNAKE SWAM UP THE PIPES AND INTO THE TOILET. A real mother fucking snake swam into the sewer and up the pipes and INTO THE TOILET.

For reals.

I'm never going to pee again.

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

Wordless Wednesday: The Odd Couple

Tuesday, August 18, 2009

14 is the new 4

(scene: My house, 10:30pm)

I notice M's bedroom light is on and open her door. She quickly stashes something behind her back.

Me: Bedtime, dude.


Me: Yep.

M: But I'm dooooing something.

Me: What?

M: Uh, not playing with my new school supplies if that's what you're thinking.

I close the door and wait silently in the hall way and then whip it open and scream

Me: A HA!

M: OH MY GOD. You made me color outside the lines!


Because there aren't enough pictures of me on the Interwebs.

Monday, August 17, 2009

Where you be?

Here's the thing. As previously mentioned, I am all hopped up on drugs. Xanax, Welburtin and Zoloft to be exact. With a side of Ambien CR.

This combination of drugs, while it makes me feel better....well it also makes me feel a little bit of nothing. It's good in that I no longer sit, knees pulled to my chest, rocking back and forth rubbing away the skin of my thumb as I worry a quarter, or a pen, or a folded up bit of paper. It's good because I no longer wake in the morning thinking that if I could just sleep more, if could just close my eyes, then it would be okay. I would be okay. It's good because the sounds of my husband chewing his food, that smack smack smack of his teeth coming down on his food, no longer makes me want to stab him to death with a fork. Wound him, certainly, maim him, maybe, but not kill.

I like to call this "progress".

But it also means my neurosis filled ramblings are a little less neurotic. My need to spill my guts to the world just a little quieter.

Sucks for blogging, right?

So forgive me, kittens, for not being around much. They (and by "they" I mean the legions of doctors who've assured me that I'm not broken, just a little bent) assure me that when I stabilize my ability to see The Crazy and laugh at it will be restored.

Until then, here's a picture CK sent me last night. Check out her chubby little knees! Do you not want to nom them? I distinctly recall that red, white and blue striped outfit that I'm wearing. I recall loving it. Which, I must say, is a vast improvement over one of my other favorite outfits, a cable knit, mustard yellow turtleneck and elephant grey bell bottom corduroy pants. With red shoes. Obviously.


I thought you'd also get a laugh (like I did) out of the note that CK included when she emailed me the pictures...

I asked dad to scan a couple of old photos I found when I was home. Here's a couple of you and I.

One thing I love about our childhood photos is that we seem to have similar expressions in each one. I usually look vaguely inquisitive/good natured (rather like the Far Side cartoon about the irish setter) and you look like "take the photo already! geez!"

Anyway, thought you might get a kick out of these
Yes, my Gram did use scotch tape and a ruler to ensure that my bangs were perfectly straight and 2" above my eye brows.

Also? My mother has a lot to answer for when it comes to my pig-tails.

Friday, August 14, 2009


I crave you
like air
like water
like sun
you are my heart
in your absence
I am lost

Thursday, August 13, 2009

Think on it Thursday: The Reason I don't have a donkey

The Greek stoic philosopher Chrysippus of Soli is said to have died after laughing too hard at his donkey, who was drunk, trying and failing to eat some figs. Given that it was his fault the donkey was drunk (he'd given it wine) he really only has himself to blame

Wednesday, August 12, 2009

Wordless Wednesday: The Queen of Beers

Tuesday, August 11, 2009

Not So Handy Annie

I am not so much about the whole "home improvement" thing. I blame my parents for this. My mother LOVES home improvement. She's always dreaming up things for my daddy to do. New decks, new flooring, finishing the basement and so on. My dad, who loves calculation and elaborate planning and reading instructions above all things, is happy to comply. Especially if it means concrete. That mans LOVES concrete. Dozens of my childhood weekends were spent "helping" with whatever grandious scheme was currently under way. You know as well as I do anything you're forced to do as a kid results in absolute avoidance as an adult.

However, as a homeowner, from time to time my standard technique of "ignore the problem until it either goes away or Daddy comes for Christmas" doesn't work. My husband, while very mechanical, is completely incapable of home projects. I don't know why. I suspect it's because he loves metal and the house is made of wood. Maybe it's just because he knows I'll do it. Because if I could get someone else to do it? TOTALLY would. I'd stand around and chat and bring lemonade and even give a back rub when it's completed, but the whole Handy Manny thing eludes me.

This weekend though, I had to go to Home Depot. Now, when I say "home depot" I mean it the same way I mean "any stick on bandage" when I say Bandaid. It's a generic noun meaning "giant building full of expensive things I don't understand".

I bought what I needed and headed home. Turns out I DIDN'T need it. Armed with the original package and the receipt, I swung by the HD closer to my office on my way home.

I strode purposefully up to the return counter and smacked my receipt down on the counter.
The bored looking pink haired, pierced lipped girl looks over the receipt and then says to me

"I can't return this."

Seriously. What the hell am I supposed to do with some stupid thingamagigie?

"Yes, you can." I inform her in my best I am a manager voice. You know, the same one you use with your children. The one that says, YOU WILL NOT ARGUE WITH ME, MISSY.

"No. I can't". She says again

"Why the hell not? I bought it YESTERDAY. I have the receipt, which clearly states you accept returns UNCONDITIONALLY. I need to see your manager."

She eyes me up and down and says

"I can't return it because you didn't buy it from Home Depot. You bought it at Lowes."

Soul Vampires

I like to think I'm fairly reasonable in my expectations of people. I don't expect you to do anything for me that I wouldn't do for you. When it comes right down to it though, in every relationship there is an element of what's in it for me. Let's face it. If you (and by you I mean
me) are not getting something beneficial from a relationship, what's the point of continuing it?

For the most part, in friendships that elusive "something" is just feelings. As my friend, you make me laugh, you listen when I complain, you call me and tell me some crazy thing you saw and I do the same for you. We make each other feel good. Sure, some times you need me to drive you to the airport and sometimes I need you to watch my dogs while I'm out of town. Maybe I always drive and you always pick up the tab for movie snacks. In the end, it's mostly equal. That's why it works.

However, it seems that there are some people who only take. Who, despite the fact that I find their company enjoyable, always seem to want MORE. To want something. I don't mind watching your kids, I have no problem helping you move, I don't even really get upset that I usually wind up subsidizing your meal when we go out Dutch treat for dinner. What I DO mind is that those times are the ONLY times that you call me.

Yesterday, a friend of J's called. This particular friend always needs something. Always. Which, like I said, wouldn't be a huge issue, if when I needed something HE could help with he was willing to do so. He's not. Ever. He's always too tired. Too busy. Too something. Last night he called to ask about a concert the company I work for is sponsoring. When was it? Who was coming? What time did it start?

I answered his questions and added tickets were $30, general admission. "Oh" he says "you can't just give me tickets?" "I figured you probably had VIP tickets or something that you could get for free".

Oh. OF COURSE. Silly me. Why ever would I think that he, of all people would call with out an agenda?

As I hung up the phone I got more and more irritated. Why do people, not all, but some, think that it's okay just to TAKE? Then it occurred to me. It's because people like me, people who say yes, of course when you call them at 3am on Tuesday and ask if they can come and pick them up on the side of the road, fifty miles away where they've broken down, ALLOW them to. It's because no one ever says to them, YOU ARE A BLACK HOLE OF NEED.

Well, I'm saying it now. People in my life, those of you that give me nothing, not happiness, not a shoulder to cry on, not even a forwarded email dirty joke, you are on notice. I am done. I am done allowing myself to be disappointed by you. I'm done giving you everything and having nothing left for myself. I'm done doing for you things that I wouldn't do for myself.

You can either shape up or ship out. I deserve more.

Monday, August 10, 2009

Thanks y'all!

Taylor made it to the finals of the Arizona's Next Top Model contest! Woot!

BUT now she needs your votes again! Click here to help her make it all the way through!

How can you say no to someone this pretty?

Thursday, August 6, 2009


You remember that one time when you were a kid and you were a little distracted and maybe kind of sleepy and you called the teacher mommy? And then you were so embarrased that if there had been a big boiling vat of lava you would have thrown yourself into in so that you wouldn't have to live with the shame anymore?

Well that's nothing compared to telling your boss that you love him at the end of a phone call.

Wednesday, August 5, 2009

Ouiser says

Enough, already. I'm not even kidding here, chickens. I'm at my wits end. If I had wits and I think we can all agree that at times that's debatable.

I've been treated for clinical depression off and on for about fifteen years. I was diagnosed with a chemical imbalance related anxiety disorder last spring. And now? Panic attacks too? Seriously, WHAT THE FUCK?

If I didn't drink so much I'd probably be really screwed up.

Tuesday, August 4, 2009


Can you kids all take a second to go vote for M's gorgeous friend Taylor in the Arizona's Next Top Model contest?

Monday, August 3, 2009

I know because I checked

J: are you eating cucumbers AGAIN?

me: (mouth full) maybe

J: I think that you might need an intervention

me: no way.

J: seriously, you have an addiction

Me: nope. There's no twelve step program for it so there's no way it's an addiction.