Mother of Cluck

Alright Poodles, I should have KNOWN that promising y'all booze would bring me amazing comments!

I tried to make a clickity poll, but after the third web site gave me a fatal error message, I gave up. So we're going to improvise! In the comments you may vote for TWO answers but answering with the numbers of the words that you like best.

Comments will be counted on Monday morning around 9 or 10-ish Mountain Time. Or maybe Pacific time. Or MAYBE Island time. You just never know. Well, you WILL know, because I'll post the winner (based strictly on number of votes received) then! SO you can promote this contest on your Twitter or your own blog to pimp your answer.

If I get more than 50 comments I'll send out a prize to the second place winner too!

OOOh, are you ready?
Let the EXCITEMENTIFICATION begin!

1) Frickity-frackity-fruck-face

2) Pancake

3) Muffelufflelophogus

4) FUDGE

5) Othermay foay Uckfay

6) Frappin

7) Dadgummit

8) Pig Trucker

9) Sweet Mother of Pearl

10 ) Mother Goose

11) Potato

12) OR should I just keep swearing?

And a late suggestion from the Lovely Megan of Smartini, allowed because she said I have a nice rack,

13) Oh My

14) Heaven Help Me (as in Heaven help me if you don't knock it off)


There you go! NOW VOTE. Don't act like you're busy, I know your not, because if you were you'd be working instead of reading this. And you're not, are you?

This is the most important vote you'll cast this week.

A contest about cuss words! With a REAL prize!

Late at night, when I lie in bed thinking random thoughts I like to think about what I'm going to blog the next day.

Most of the time, in my head at least, these late night mental bloggings are really, really insightful and funny. Sometimes, they're even profound. Like really profound, not Thystle-profound. Usually, as I mental blog, I'm all "DAMN! This is like the BEST BLOG EVER" and then I go to sleep all smug and filled with my blogging prowess.

Do you think I ever, even ONE TIME, remember the next day what the hell that wicked awesome blog was about? NO I DO NOT.

Last night was no exception. I even giggled out loud and startled the dog. Who farted and then ignored me. Much like most of the Internet.Then, this morning, I wake up and feel all bright eyed and bushy tailed and I'm all "I've GOT to log on and blog that....SHIT MOTHER-OF-FUCK what the FUCK was that blog about last night" and then I started thinking.

For an Honorary Southern Belle I've got a damn foul mouth. It's not very Truvy of me to say MOTHER-OF-FUCK and it's really not at all Scarlett O'Hara to say it in all caps, as I'm wont to do (aside; don't you like how I worked "wont" into a sentence? It's way more challenging than slipping in a "hence"). So I got to thinking, what can I say instead? What kind of signature phrase can I parlay into "Fiddle-dee-dee" status? What will be my "Sweet Nibblets"?

I need something more sarcastic than "Snap!" and something more biting than "Bless her little heart" and something that will rival "Lord Love a Duck!" but not slide too far into "Great Cesar's Ghost!" in it's cutesy folksy charm.

Now, to me "Cheese and Rice" has always sounded a little to like the ill thought out response to "WHAT DID YOU SAY YOUNG MAN", so that's out. "Heavens to Betsey" is just a bit to Ouiser for me and "Jumped up" while flexible, has probably got it's basis in something racist.

So here I sit, alone in my office, saying possible F-word substitutes out loud. Which isn't even the craziest thing I'll probably do today and to be honest is preferable than what I usually do at my desk, which is examine my chin for errant hairs and try to speed dial radio stations to win contests while surfing eBay for random items like human eyes and pig guts . Isn't being middle management AWESOME?

But, despite my strong work ethic, I am no closer to solving my sailor mouth issue.

Which leads me to you!

I KNOW! I can feel the air around me buzzing with your excitement!So, what, Invisible Internet Lovelies, do you suggest I say instead.There's an expensive and illustrious prize in for you. And by expensive I mean "cheap" and by illustrious I mean "alcoholic".

What KIND of alcohol? Well, I haven't really thought that far. But it will be tasty and you will love it and it will fit in the SHINY flask that I'll send along with it!

Awesome, right?

So here's how we'll do it....leave your suggestions in the comments before midnight on Wednesday and I'll post a post a poll on Thursday or Friday.

Then, we'll vote. And if I don't like the results of the vote, I'll totally pad it. You know, to make it fair and all.

The Underside

The problem with explaining the reason that I posted the quote earlier this week is that then I will be telling not just the glossed over part, not just the Disney-fied public consumption version of the truth, but the actual truth. The parts of the story that are ugly. The parts of the story that make me ugly.

Therein lies the rub.

I tell you guys a lot. Everything, it would seem. But do I really tell you anything at all? I wonder sometimes. The truth is, it’s somewhere in between, I suppose. Somewhere between what really happened and what makes a better story. Somewhere between the truth and what makes me look least like the really horrible person I probably am. What I post here is likely to be heavy on sitcom and light on Lifetime Movie of the Week.

I’m just not good at that. While I have zero problem with you knowing that I was thrown out of a bowling alley as a result of my cleavage or that I suck heinously at Pilates or even that I once wound up kissing my neighbor when he used a shovel to save me from a lizard, writing about the time my kid almost died isn’t going to be the first thing I go to.

I tell myself that it’s not why you guys come here. I convince myself that y’all expect profanity laden high-jinks. But that’s not entirely the truth either.

The truth is I don’t tell *myself* the truth, either.

The truth is I prefer the candy coated version of what really happened.

The truth is I prefer to forget.

The truth is supposed to be cathartic though, right? You’re supposed to feel great weight lifted from your shoulders. You’re supposed to let it go and move on, right?

Well I guess we’ll see.

Here then, my friends, is the candy coated version;

Once, I had a boyfriend. And another besides. BF1 never knew about BF2, or perhaps he did and looked the other way.

I did it because I was young. I did it because it was exciting. I did it because I could.

Even the candy coated version is sordid, but not nearly so much as what lies beneath. The tarry smear, indeed.

For that, I suppose, it’s best to start at the beginning.

When I was 19 I had a baby.

When I was twenty I lost my shit.

I lost my shit in the kind of epic way that makes a good coming of age movie. Only instead of the plucky heroine triumphing over adversity with a weepy realization and an uplifting soundtrack, I left.

I walked away from my job. I walked away from my home. I walked away from my boyfriend, my family and my friends.

I walked away from my child.

I walked 785 miles away.

Well, to be fair, I drove. But either way, I left.

My best friend from college gave me a couch to crash on and a friend of a friend found me a job. Weeks went by and I remember none of them. I woke, I ate, I worked, I slept.

All through the winter, it snowed. Each blanket of white insulated me from myself. Each frozen breath lulled me closer and closer to the edge. The farther I moved from my life the more I believed that my life didn’t really need me.

I swallowed a handful of pills with a 1/5th of Gentleman Jack.

I did it on a weekend I knew I would be alone. I didn’t want to be stopped.

When I awoke cotton mouthed, my head was pounding and 39 hours had passed. I had vomited in my sleep. I couldn’t even master suicide.

Days passed and weeks followed them and I marched blindly through them.

Until one day.

It’s funny how, in memory, things take on a new light, isn’t it? It’s funny how, in retrospect, you can pin-point. HERE. This is where everything changed. THIS was the fork in the road. At the time it just seems like Tuesday.

I was alone in the shop. Alone with my thoughts. Alone, completely.

It’s not that he was handsome. It’s not that he was charming. It’s not even that I liked him. It’s just that he was. It’s that, right then, that moment, a tiny crack appeared and he walked right through it.

It’s that, I suppose, I was ready.

The second day, he brought me a rose in a cheap grocery store vase.

The third day he brought me a sandwich.

The fourth day I fucked him on my kitchen floor.

I remember thinking that I should pull out the fridge and clean behind it.

Three or four times a week for the rest of that winter and spring he would come to town with a trinket or a wildflower or a sly, knowing smile. Three or four times a week I would look up and see him standing in the door brushing snow from his Carhardt and kicking it from his boots. Three or four times a week, I would smile. Three or four times a week I forgot that I wanted to die.

Then, one day, I realized living didn’t suck.

Not the sort of AH HA! realization that you might think, but rather one day I wanted to cease to exist and the next I realized breathing wasn’t a chore any longer.

Now I remember those days with a sort of haze around them. Like a movie with a soft focus filter that gives it the quality of a dream, they stretch before me so that I can see now where the corner was turned from darkness back toward the light.

A month or two went by and I began to realize that it was time to go home. Time to go back. Time to try to piece back together what, if anything, was left.

It wasn’t all sunshine and roses. It wasn’t all forgive and forget. There was no do-over.

There were only shards of before left to pick up. Some of them were broken, some were missing.


Some I’ve never found again.

It would seem when you come undone there is no way to mend. The scar will always remain, standing out, ruining the perfect weave of what was with the dropped stitch of despair, the huge black stain of fucking it all up.

There is no forgiveness.

What is left is the memory of how things went pear shaped.

What is left is the stories; the one you tell and the truth.

An unsolicited blogmercial

I am a slacker. I almost never pack my lunch and as a result am left to frequent one of the three or four restaurants in my industrial work neighborhood. Because this is Phoenix, more often than not, that means I eat some flavor of Mexican food almost every day. Only, here we don't call it "Mexican Food" we just call it "food".

Yesterday, true to form, I had brought no lunch and found myself at a local greasy spoon taqueria called "Filiberto's". There are about 123 places in the PHX called something-berto's, and they all serve moderately decent food for the most part. They're the sort of place you don't eat if you have a choice, but would murder Santa's elves for at 3am after a night of Corona & Patron shots. Or, you know, when you forget your lunch and your belly button is rubbing a hole in your back bone.

Anyhoodle, it was lunch time and I was starving and that chicken burrito was calling my name, so I eschewed my normally above reproach manners and rather than delicately cutting each bite, I tore into that burrito like a lion on the Serengeti happening upon a delicious dead zebra.

Now, anyone who has ever had the pleasure of my company at a meal know that my twins get hungry. Apparently yesterday they were hungry for burrito.



Now, that doesn't look to bad, right? Well get a load of this



That's right, it shot right past my mouth, down my chin, down between my creamy, heaving bosoms and INTO MY SHIRT. WTF? Who gets food INSIDE their shirt? Moi, that's who.

Not just a little either, a big, massive bright orange greasy stain



It kind of looks like a wiener. Like the ghost of Miss Manners squeezed out a big ol' mushroom stamp to teach me a lesson about not using silverware.

Tres classy.

Because I am prone to dropping things on the girls, I own very few white shirts. To make matters even BETTER I'm on a strict No New Clothing budget right now so it's not like I could do what I usually do and just buy a new shirt, change in a parking lot and get asked never to return to that store ever again. But also? I'm a little vain, so it's not like I wanted to sit in a stained, peppery shirt all day either.

Then, like a ray of light streaming down from the Heavens, my eyes happened upon an ad in Glamour for the Tide Pen. For the most part I tend to think things like that are snake oil, but that adorable Kelly Ripa looked so smug cleaning her central-casting-daughters pinafore, I thought, Why not? Sure, I'd have to brave Super Ghetto K-Mart. Sure, I haven't had a tetanus or rabies shot in a while. But I had rubber gloves in my trunk and close toed shoes, so why not be brave?

And I was, chickens! I was brave! I got my Tide Pen and headed back to my office to strip down and do laundry at my desk. Because that is what professional women do; they multi-task topless.

I took my shirt off, placed a folded paper towel behind it and followed the direction on the package. At first, not a damn thing happened. Then, slowly, the stain began to fade. I rubbed and blotted, rubbed and blotted and was rewarded with this



WILL YOU LOOK AT THAT? The stain is almost gone! I'll be damned. For the low, low price of $1.99, my shirt went from being garbage to salvageable. It's like a beautiful miracle of science.

So Miss Manners? Go Fuck Yourself. I'll eat my burrito and wear it too, because Tide Pen is the bestest thing EVAH.

PS - Dear Tide People, that will be $25,000 please. While I may be easy, I'm NEVER cheap.

The Hamster story; edited and with a moral at the end.

Okay, so for the record I AM WARNING YOU RIGHT NOW. You do not want to read this story. For reals. You should leave. Like now.

Are you still there? OMG. You people never, ever listen.

M, despite being an avid bird hunter, is wildly in love with every animal ever. If there is an animal, she wants it. I am asked daily for things like kittens, birds, fish, monkeys, lemurs, puppies, hippo's, sea lions and all manner of things that are either cute, fuzzy, cuddly, smooshy or all of the above.

My husband, having had caged pets like mice and guinea pigs growing up thought it would be a good idea to get her a hamster. I, for the record, do NOT love anything that lives in a cage. I put my foot down. The stepped on in their way to PetCo and came home with a fuzzy yellow rodent called "Carl".

Carl was a boring ass animal. He lived in his cage. He ran in his wheel, he shoved shavings everywhere and peed on you if you picked him up. Much like many of the dates I went on in college, he smelled perpetually of feet.

But M loved that little guy. She kept him in her room and told him stories and staged plays wherein he married Beanie Babies and even gave him a theme song (inexplicably "Mambo number 5"). It was frickin' adorable.

The problem was the dogs. Our lab, Buddy, excelled at opening doors. Locked doors. Doors both locked and held shut with a hook and eye. And Buddy, well, he wasn't smart. But he was affectionate. He loved everything but cats with an all consuming passion that resulted in everything he touched being "loved" to literal pieces.

Do you see where this is going? You should leave now.

WHY ARE YOU STILL THERE?

Fine.

So, while we were at work one day, Buddy broke into M's room and "freed" Carl. You know, to play with him.

Days and days passed and we were examining piles of poop for Carlness, when lo and behold the little fuzzy bastard wandered out from under the t.v. credenza, missing a few toe nails but otherwise unscathed.

The bedroom door was give additional fortification, was always locked and Carls cage moved to a shelf about 5' high.

Which worked. For about a day.

And then, Carl was missing again. The cage looked like a hamstercide had occurred and M was inconsolable.

But, sure enough, two weeks later, there was Carl; alive, though barely.

Only, this time, well, lets just say, 6oz hamsters are not good playmates for 80lb labs. Like at all.

Before M could see poor little Carl I snatched him up and wrapped him in tissue. But six year olds? They're smart. She knew exactly who I was trying to spirit away in a Kleenex shroud and demanded to see him. Figuring it would be a good time to explain the Circle of Life, and since Carls head wasn't really too mangled, I decided to let her say goodbye and uncovered his head.

Reaching out her wee little finger she lovingly stroked his head and whispered goodbye.

Then, he tried to bite her.

She shrieked like a mad woman, "Oh, MAMA! He's alive! We must take him to the vet! We simply MUST!"

Uh. No. No way am I spending $85 for a $6 hamster to be put to sleep.

So I told her, no. Carl was in pain, but Mommy would give him a shot herself. That way he could go to heaven from his very own home.

This seemed reasonable and she flung herself to the floor sobbing as I carried the wretched little mite away. To the garage. Where I gave him a shot. With a...well, let's keep this PG-ish and say that it was quick and painless and the only option.

For a moment I felt very Laura Ingalls Wilder in my practicle farm girl resolution to the situation. Then, of course, I thought; WHAT THE FUCK? Why the hell do I have a husband if I'm left to do things like hit hamsters with hammers? Oh. Wait. I wasn't going to say that part. I did warn you to leave though. And it's not like I LIKED doing it. Or even had a choice. The poor little smudge will probably greet me in Heaven with a big sign (well big for a hamster, so like 1"x3" and attached to a toothpick) that says "THANKS FOR PUTTING ME OUT OF MY MISERY".

Then, of course, there I am standing in the garage with a recently euthanized hamster wondering what the hell one does with a dead hamster? It's not like Chipper the fish, or Jimbo the fish or any of the other fishies that found their final rest in the municipal sewer system.

Back in the living room, contemplating what to do with the victim I go to find M, holding a tea-light box coffin lined with scrap of satin and a cotton ball for a pillow. Her grief apparently overcome with arts and crafts.

"Let's have a funnel" she says.

"A funeral? For Carl?" I ask, and she nods, all big eyes and barely contained excitement. I agree and perform my duties as funeral director while she summons the neighborhood kids. ALL OF THEM. I swear to God there were 15 kids in my yard. You'd have thought I was giving away ice cream covered bicycles or something.

Solemnly, yet gleeful at the spectacle, they lowered the casket into the earth, covered it with dirt and placed a headstone over it. It read "Carl. Wus a gud hamper". When the eulogy was over and each child (many of whom I'd never even seen before) said a nice little bit about Carl's wonderful hamster contributions to the world, they demanded snacks.

Because children are macabre little beasts with no souls and never ending stomachs.

But they're resiliant, and that's something to be grateful for.

The truth

“Everyone has two memories. The one you can tell and the one that is stuck to the underside of that, the dark, tarry smear of what happened.” ~ Amy Bloom

Wordless Monday - WTF, Wal-Mart?

So I rushed right home to tell you about it instead

I have always driven the sort of car that required frequent mechanical attention. The kind of car that would be able to unironically sport the bumper sticker "At least it's paid for!"


As a result, while I am not mechanically inclined (because that would render my boobs almost useless), I am at least not illiterate in the ways of cars. I can check and add air, fill the oil and the coolant and even check the transmission fluid with out requiring a lie down when I'm done.


So this afternoon, as I was filling up my tank with delicious $2.89 a gallon gas, I thought I'd do a bit of routine fluid checking.


Sure enough the Juice was low on oil and transmission fluid. Now, because I'm a self sufficient kind of girl, I had both fluids in the cargo area. I retrieve them, find something to stand on (because I can't reach), open the oil, insert the funnel and top her off. No biggie. I'm feeling very smug and modern as I head over to the other side of the engine compartment to top off the tranny fluid.

Now, here's the problem, the transmission fluid is filled through a wee tiny spout way at the bottom of the engine. And my truck is tall. And I am not. But I am clever, so I climb up and stand on the tire. I can now both see and reach what I'm doing. I am not, however, very stable.

I have no problem inserting the tubey-thingy from the funnel, but it doesn't stay in unless you hold it, so balancing precariously, in flip-flops, on the tire, using my boobs for balance, I hang onto the funnel with one hand and unscrew the lid of the fluid with the other. With the sort of one handed skill that only comes from years of opening condom wrappers one handed, I remove the lid and slide my hand down the bottle to get a better grip.

Only, the bottle is warm.

And pliable.

And a little slippery.

As it starts to slide from my hand, I clamp down.

In slow motion transmission fluid erupts like a fountain. All over the engine, all over the hood and all over my arm.

AWESOME.

So there I am, ass in the air, half inside the engine compartment, one arm dripping red and the other perilously close to being severed by moving parts. Defeated, I put down the bottle and hop down.

Now, do you think any of the fifty men at the station come to my assistance? No, they do not. Having no time and lacking the Spanish skills to rant loudly about the lack of chivalry, I decide the most prudent thing to do is clean up. But the towel dispenser is empty. And I have no napkins in the glove box. No tissues in my purse. No too small tee shirt in the trunk. No junk mail even.

Nothing but a package of panty liners. Fresh scented, even. Awesome. Really, though, what are my options? Drive home with an arm looking like a prop from a low budget slasher movie or bite the bullet and give myself a once over with individually wrapped lady diapers?

I only wish I had a camera, so that you could have seen the look on the face of the guy next to me as I discarded 12 bright red feminine hygiene products into the communal trash.

Wordless Wednesday Visits The Puyallup Fair, circa 1987

(me, KL, CK)

It's always 1983 on the midway

I'm fairly certain that the state fair exists somewhere in a time warp. There is no other explanation for the proliferation of Bolivian Cowboy Hats (tm). And people were buying them.



People who do not seem to understand the ironic glory of an airbrushed trucker hat. People who intend to wear them. On their heads. While sober.

M had a good time though, eating foods that don't exist anywhere but the fair. Things like deep fried mashed potato lumps and turkey legs.



Making out with farm animals

Risking life and limb on rides that may have been safety inspected some time in the Nixon administration







And trying on ridiculous glasses.



which I didn't buy, but now I kind of wish I had. Instead, for my souvenir, I got a sunburn.



(Which goes SUPER AWESOME with my robot hickeys from my sleep study that I redid on Friday night.)

And then, there was Jeannie. I don't necessarily believe in fortune telling and all that, but I also don't not believe. So for $2, I thought, what the hell? And this is what I got



I know it's hard to read, but HOLY CRACKERS is it spookily on target.

Prediction one - "An emergency situation will only be a minor inconvenience" - J had a tire blow out like an hour before. It should be covered by the tire warranty.

Prediction two - "Your stubborn manner will lead to physical problems" - I REFUSE to pick up J's mess. It's part of my campaign for clean. And by that, I mean; I WANT A DAMN CLEANING SERVICE. A few hours later, I tripped and kicked one of his abandoned boots and fractured my baby toe.

Prediction four - "Beware the unexpected" - I had to unexpectedly reduce my staff at work by a third on Friday.

Prediction nine - "Offense will be taken by another to offhand remarks you accidentally make" - Oh, Jeannie, it's like you read my soul. How, I ask you, HOW do you know that I have no filter on my mouth?

Now I'm pretty sure she's some relation of Zolton and I'm glad I didn't wish to be big, because if I had, I'd be typing this using my cane while drinking Metamucil through a straw, hosing down the neighbor kids and wondering wear I left my "good" teeth.

You're Welcome.

Do y'all feel like I've been phoning it in a bit? Yeah, me too. Here's the thing though, this blogging? IT'S WORK.

Saying that kind of makes me feel all Vanna White. Remember that time she interviewed about how HARD it was to smile all the time? And how turning those letters meant SO MUCH to people and that's why she pushed through the pain? Like that. Only with out the sparkly dress. And more typo's.

Basically, my life? Not that interesting. I'm an accountant, people. And I sincerely doubt you guys want to hear about how WICKED awesome it was that I finished my quarter reports in 8 days. Or about how totally hilar it was when I discovered that I'd accidentally changed the year to 2009 and had to re-run 78 checks! OMG. Aren't you just, like, rolling on the floor clutching your sides? Did you know you can make your adding maching type "8008" and it looks like "BOOB"? And then, if you hit repeat, it will type BOOB forever? Scintillating, right?

Which means that I have come up with things to tell you. And you know what? My kid? ALSO not interesting. Likewise, dogs & husband. Pretty much everyone in my life is actively thwarting my attempts to amuse you by doing only normal, reasonable things.

In fact, the only vaguely interesting thing that I have to tell you is that my mother in law, having recently discovered Facebook, is now able to read all of the wall post from my friends that make it look like I'm having virtual torrid, Canadian, pseudo-lesbian love fest, on a pig farm, wearing flannel and keeping tasty young men captive for my own amusement. Where later on, I will make them braid my leg hair and feed me hazelnut gelato from a chocolate spoon.

And that my poop looks like chicken fries from Burger King.

Or some wicked awesome shag carpets

Why do news stories never tell you the really, really important things?

Like did he use the money to buy a new toilet? Because I bet you could get a pretty kick ass toilet for $40,000.

My Helicopter Crashed

Another red headed non helicoptering mom, Laura Bennett of one time Project Runway fame, has at last given me reason to revel in my lack of parenting!

IT'S A DISEASE.

SEE? TOLD you I wasn't just a lazy drunk. I'm sick!

I wonder if I can finally get that Social Security, Disability and Medicaide I've been paying for now?

Also, but *totally* unrelated, do you know if you can use food stamps to buy wine? Anyone?

Ouiser says....

When I see a really unattractive girl out on a date, I feel both happy and sad.

Happy that, you know, ugly girls can find love.

Sad that I immediately assume it's because she gives good head.

Rocka-my-baby

Couldn't sleep again last night, and I've got nothing to blog about today. So I decided to make y'all a list of the various, insightful and thoughtful things that I thunk about as I was laying there thinking.

* You know what sounds super dirty, but isn't? The word batter. As in "oh, whip that batter, baby. Whip it until STIFF PEAKS form. Ooh, you know how Big Daddy likes his batter sweet. You want to lick the batter of my beater, don't you?". See? DIRTY.

* I bet the debate would have been more watchable if Joe & Sarah had consented to the pudding-wrestling round. That's how all elections should be run. Once you discover who is most willing to shove some one's face into a kiddie pool of Kozy Shak and shout, "TAKE THAT, BITCH", that's who you should vote for.

*I really like the way the Brit's use slang. I should start saying "nutter" and "wanker" and "brill".

* What do you call those little dots in the middle of the time? The ones that look like umlauts, except sideways? I should get up and Google that.

* Right now, it's 5 side ways dot-dot one five am on Saturday in the Philippines.

* Is it FILL-a-Peens or PILL-a-peens? I should call a random number over there and ask.

* I wonder whatever happened to the chick that played the robot on Small Wonder? What the hell was that robots name? Vicki. That's right. I've had three bosses called Vicki. I wonder if they were robots? I bet at least one of them was. That would explain why she never peed one time in five years. That show was good. I like shows that suspend belief. Like Pushing Daisy's. I should start dressing like Chuck. I love that era.

* But that would require wearing nylons. And we all know where THAT leads.

* Damn. I could totally eat some waffles right now.

* Did I remember to put the clothes in the dryer?

* WHAT THE HELL IS THAT SMELL. Damn, dog, you are NOT RIGHT.

* Seriously, you can TASTE that stink. I still want waffles though.

* If I stick my legs straight up in the air, my thighs look really good. Wonder if it works for my arms too? Totally does. I bet it would look weird if someone saw me right now. I totally look like a cartoon dead guy.

* z-y-x-w-v-u-t-s-r FUCK. I would be SO FUCKED if I got this as my sobriety test.

* Should I dress up for Halloween this year? Or is it too tarty? HA! I just stuck a brit-ism into a sentence! That rocks. Anyway, Halloween...hm. I COULD be Mrs. Roper. I bought that wicked cool mumu at the Sal that would totally work.

* NO! MAGDA. I'll be Magda.

* I should totally trick or treat.

* Ah, rember when M was a baby and she called it Trink or Treat? That was so cute. It's only a matter of time before she stops saying "Balentimes" too, I bet.

* And when she thought the moon was a cookie? And she was jumping up and down in the yard trying to get it? That was cute. Almost a cute as when she used to yell "I WUNNERFULL!" when she was pleased with herself. Or run up and down the halls calling for "Drama Dulie". Or stamping her little foot and muttering "Damn it, damn it, damn it."

* Kids are so cute!

* I hate kids.

* Oompa, loompa, doompadee do, I've got a-nother message for you....

* Dude. This cell phone is wicked bright. How the hell did I get three voice mails yesterday? No. I do not want to refinance my house. Are you kidding me with this shit? Yeah, yeah, pay the cable bill. And a hang up. Nice. No one ever calls me.

* I should be a phone sex operator, people would totally call me then.

* Ah, that makes me think of college. Good times, good times.

* Wonder whatever happened to Janice. Remember how she used to steal my clothes. That sucked. I hope she got that acne cleared up. Her face looked like hamburger.

* That was mean. Am I a mean person? Probably.

* I'm such a wanker.

* HA! DID IT AGAIN!