It's All About Me. Somehow.

My friend's 30th birthday ended up being all about me. And I don't exactly remember if that's my fault swear it's not my fault. It didn't start out that way. It was a lovely surprise party, perfectly executed and held at an elegant, historic hotel in my hometown. (And I swear to God there is not a picture of me hammered anywhere on that site) But as the evening wore on, and several bottles of wine were mysteriously emptied, it became about me. I was sitting at a table with old friends from high school, gossiping talking about those glory days, and waxing drunk-o-sophical about how some people refuse to let it go and live in the now...when suddenly we're discussing how fabulous I am. I shit you not.


A woman I was, well, not exactly friends with, but was not rejected by in high school, told me when she walked in that she told her husband I was "the most brilliant girl in school". Am I at the right party? What just happened? And then she told me I've turned into a "beautiful woman" with something something something (the memory is a little vino tinto-colored there, if you know what I mean). Whatever. Point is, people think highly of me. I think they even respect me a little. Tee hee! How little they know! I am a moron, people. Complete and utter. I can barely string 2 words together to express basic human need -- 'I'm hungry', 'I'm thirsty', 'I'm poopie' -- let alone remember the things you are giving me accolades for. I was quoted in a newspaper at the age of 11? Really? You'd think I'd remember that shit. I won an Emmy? AHA! Gotcha there! I didn't win an Emmy, and I know that shit because the sting is just 3 years fresh. But thanks for ripping the scab off that one. Appreciate it.


Here's the thing. I was smart. I was creative. I was a total nerd. But brilliant? Well, brilliance would be taking what you have and running with it. Brilliance is overcoming your fears and insecurities to accomplish your dream. Brilliance is actually knowing what the hell your dream is, or at least doing everything humanly possible to figure it out. Brilliant, I am not. I've never been able to overcome my insecurities and fears to reach whatever possibility was out there for me. So I guess as we gossiped and griped about those people at the next table who need to grow up, we were talking about me, too.


See? Told ya. It is all about me.

An Open Letter to That Punk in the Red Suit

Dear Mr. Claus,

You suck. You are the center of every child's Christmas world. They adore you, dream of you, look to you for approval; then one day you up and vanish like a drunken father off to "the store" to get Pop Tarts. For a while the child waits at the window, nose pressed to the glass, waiting for those Pop Tarts. But they never come. And neither does Santa. Not anymore. For a while you're missed. But then we all come to grips with that fact that you're nothing but a deadbeat that owes a hell of a lot of back child support.

Come to think of it, you never were that great, even when I believed in you. Fortunately my parents stepped up to the plate when you forgot my Optimus Prime. And that Barbie corvette. Wait, did I even have a Barbie corvette? I chopped all the hair off my Barbies, so I'm thinking I wasn't the best Barbie mom. Maybe I just saw one on T.V. Do they even make Barbie corvettes anymore? Do they even make Barbies? Never mind. That's not the point. The point is, you always missed something. You were never perfect, despite all those sugarplum promises.

And so it is Christmas once again. I stopped looking for those Pop Tarts years ago. I've moved on. (Toaster Strudels are soooooo much better anyway)...and there you are, you shit. Strolling through the chimney door like you never left, cheeks so rosy and beard so snowy white, a box of vanilla frosted chocolate Pop Tarts in hand. Squeee! You remembered my favorite!! I see you in the eyes of my daughter. Just the way I remember you. Piles of presents under the tree that seem to go on for miles. Bing Crosby on the stereo. And that damn stupid burning log on T.V. You're in the way her eyes light up at the sight of all that wrapping paper she can eat. The squeal of laughter when she pulls ornaments off the tree, and her silly gibberish as she dances around the room with them.

I have just one question. Where the hell have you been for the past 20 years, you asshole?? I'm sorry, but if it took you that long to go to the goddamn store it must have been an uber-awesome Wegman's or something, and I expect a hell of a lot more than a box of crappy breakfast pastries. There better be a tennis bracelet in that bag. And maybe another box of vanilla frosted chocolate Pop Tarts. I've been a very good girl.

Love, Me

Thanks. I Think

You can't be thankful for what you have if you forget what you have lost. That's why this time of year is so hard for me. My miswired brain focuses more on what was lost. Don't get me wrong; I love Christmas. Ok no, not really. I hate Christmas. I love the idea of Christmas. I love the ribbons and bows, the shiny paper, the Christmas carols, twinkling lights in windows, baking cookies and drinking spiced eggnog while decorating the tree (oh come on, like you've never decorated drunk). I love the feeling of wonder that fills the air, the wide-eyed children, the "comfort and joy" of the season. It makes me feel comfortable and joyous.


Then Christmas comes. And I hate it. Family and friends come together for a big Christmas meal, and I hate it. Because it's over. The wonder of the season vanishes, just like that, and I'm left uncomfortable and...uh, unjoyous?


I remember sitting in the living room as a child, in the dark of the morning -- yet another reason why school sucks, getting up before the sun -- and squinting at the tree. Just so the lights blurred and the edges softened. I remember thinking I never wanted to forget that moment, the soft light and the sound of the fireplace. Well, I do remember it. So why do I feel so sad?

Catch Me on TV! Sortof. Internetz TV. That's TV, Right?

To my dear, sweet readers (hi Mom!), tonight, I am expanding my horizons and participating in Ladies Night on Taphandle-TV. What is this Taphandle-TV, you ask, and how can I get my hands on one? Well, my friend, just you wait. First things first. Taphandle-TV is a weekly show on the Internetz. What we in the biz call a "webcast". This "webcast" is about "making drinks" and "drinking". It's shot in a basement bar, the Taphandle. The bartender, Lordo, shows viewers how to make drinks, many of his own concoctions. Oh yea, and he drinks while doing it, so the later it gets, the better the show gets. Tonight's show will be on, LIVE, at 9pm ET. Check it out, yo:  http://www.ustream.tv/channel/taphandle-tv 


But wait, there's more! Here's how you -- yes, YOU right there in the weird sweater thingie, can actually be a part of the show. The site has a chat room function, so you can actually interact with Lordo and whomever happens to be in the bar that night. Tonight, it will be myself and 6 other lovely ladies. Should be a lot of fun. Stop by, make fun of the drunkies, join us in a few shots, whatever. We're easy.

His, Hers, and The National Weather Service

This is Hurricane Ike. He looks bad. Technically it's incorrect to call a named storm "him" or "her". So why the hell do they give them gender-specific names? Tropical storms and hurricanes are even (erroneously) given human attributes; they look "mean" or "target" a city. Why then, is it wrong to give those personifications personal pronouns? I think the National Weather Service should give storms sexless names, like last names. Smith, or Johnson, or Malkovich, for example. What do you think?

If It Weren't For Bad Luck, I Wouldn't Have Any Luck At All

I swear to God, my life is one big laugh riot. Just hilarious. Check out my latest adventure in stupidity:


First, a teensy bit of backstory. My family plans two day trips to New York each year to see a show and go out to dinner. There are about 25 people who make this trip. My uncle rents a bus. Like, a rock star tour bus, complete with a potty. The Saint and I live just outside the city, so I took the train in to meet them. The Saint could give two shits about Broadway, so he abstained, courteously. But, he agreed to bring Monster and join us for dinner after the show.


This year the trip was September 6th, the show, 'Mary Poppins', the restaurant, Tavern on the Green. September 6th just so happened to be the day tropical storm Hanna passed over the northeast. But with a rented tour bus, 25 show tickets and reservations at T on the G, you don't cancel. And thus begins my tale of woe...


I was supposed to meet them for lunch in Times Square before the show. But I missed the train because I am a moron, and went to the wrong station. (Why do there have to be two train stations in my town? Why?) So I had to take the next train an hour later, and just meet them at the theater. Catch that train, and as we're coming up on the tunnel heading into the city, the train lurches to a halt. The conductor informs us that they are one-tracking into and out of Penn Station, so we have to sit and wait for several west-bound trains to pass. Brilliant. 5 minutes later, we get going again. I arrive at Penn Station with about 17 minutes til showtime. No sweat, it's just one subway stop to 42nd. So I run into the Hudson News and buy newspapers for my brother, who needs them for a school project, and a binky for my nephew, who apparently left his at my uncle's house and had been screaming all the way up the Jersey turnpike.


14 minutes til showtime. Still no problem, it's one subway stop, like I said. Except I had to wait 5 minutes in a 109 degree subway station for the uptown 1, holding my purse, a bag full of newspapers, and a sweater for my sister, who is stick-thin and always cold. So now, I'm sweating like a pig in a skirt and heels. 9 minutes til showtime. Still ok. Get on the nice, air conditioned train, we're on our way, and for the second time today, my train lurches to a stop. The driver informs us that there is a train in front of us at the 42nd street station with "a door problem". Fanfuckingtastic. So we sit for what feels like forever, except it was really only 5 minutes or so. It is now 4 minutes til showtime, and I am getting panicy, because they won't let you in after the show starts. Finally get moving, haul ass through the 42nd street station, which is ginormous, and make it just in time.


Oh but it doesn't stop there! After the show, it is raining sideways and The Saint is messaging me and cursing my name for making him drive into the city in that weather with Monster. I come out of the restaurant with my mother's raincoat on to help him, and he's trying to get the baby out of her car seat while holding her bag, the umbrella, and a folder full of pictures for my mom. He hands me the folder with the pictures, shoots daggers with his eyes, and we get into the restaurant, sit down, and proceed to have a lovely dinner with minimal inturruption from Monster, even though we pushed her bedtime. Dinner eaten, we say adieu to everyone, and drive home in blinding rain, flooded highways, and buffeting winds.


Yea, so I left my cell phone in my mother's raincoat. And I forgot to get my sweater back from my sister, who is moving to bumfuck Minnesota.


Seriously, what is wrong with me??

**late add: So while typing up this post, I nearly burned the house down. I completely forgot I was steaming carrots on the stove, and all the water boiled out. I only realized this when I smelled something burning. The pan was all black and bubbly, and smoking. I had to take it outside to keep from setting off the smoke alarm. Had to toss the carrots, too, because they tasted like smoke. Would you like to be my friend? Never a dull moment!

He's Still Just Joey From the Block

First, I'm not a real political gal, and this is not a real political post. But I'm from Delaware. Southern Delaware, rural Delaware. Or slower lower Delaware, as we so affectionately refer to it. It's where people I grew up with aspired to be "farmen" or "purmedics", and "up to" and "down to" are the only direction in which you can travel, i.e. "I'm goin up t' the farhouse for the Oyster Eat" (which is still men only, btw). So I love Joe Biden, like my fellow Delawarean Mr. Lady whom I stole the idea for this post from. Lovelovelove him. Have ever since I was a child. Here's why.


Every year, I think in early fall, my parents took my sister and I to this party at somebody's house way back in the woods outside our town. I think there was a river or creek right behind it. It may have been an orchard, because I remember perfectly spaced trees lining the looooooong driveway. Hell, let's just call a spade a spade. It was a farm. Way back in the middle of nowhere. And this party was a Democratic party, one of those private "events" you hear about politicians attending. There was a buffet line outside under a big white event tent, folding chairs set out in rows. It was a styrofoam plate and plastic fork kinda event. (Compare this to the parties my best friend's parents threw for the other powerful and influential Delaware Senator, the late Senator Bill Roth. Those were catered, good china, cocktails by the fireplace kinda shindigs, if ya know what I'm sayin)


So I remember this man, standing at a podium set out in front of those folding chairs under the tent, talking. And people listened. They sat in the chairs and put down their barbeque-y plates and listened to him talk. They all called him 'Joe'. He was just Joe. I don't know what just Joe was saying; I was more interested in the hay rides on the back of a flatbed pulled by a horse down that looooooong driveway. But I know people listened. And they loved him, really loved him. I remember my mom saying with real affection, "I love Joe Biden. He should have been president". 


You probably don't know just Joe. You only know Senator Joe Biden from Delaware, the man who can't stop talking. He's done so much for Delaware that people don't even realize. And he's done a lot for the country, too, besides just talking himself hoarse on Meet the Press. He's a good man, an incredibly smart man, a real man, the kind that would have been a farman and been damned proud of it. 


Sitting in the car last night, listening to his acceptance speech on the radio, I realized what he was saying to the people all those years ago. "Hi, I'm Joe". He's still just Joe. And I love him for it.

Addiction is Brutal

Today I gave in to my addiction, and bought Coke. I'm really ashamed, too, but I couldn't take it anymore. I didn't realize how bad it had gotten, this addiction. It's been a few days since there's been any in the house, and I thought I'd be okay for a while. I mean, it can be really expensive unless you find a deal somewhere. So I figured I could wait until that happened, but I was starting to get shaky. And the headaches! So I gave in, bought it the first place I could find it. I paid a lot more than I wanted to, but man, it was so good! Perked me right up. How I missed that tickle in my nose when I first put the can to my lips. And zero calories! Oh, Coke Zero, how I love thee. I can't go 3 days without you. I think I need help.

My Friday Night. Sad, Huh?

Video chat rooms at Ustream

Help Wanted

I lost my muse. Bitch is gone. Done walked out, just up and left. No "this isn't working out", no "Dear John", nuthin. Granted, we were still getting to know each other, only been out for coffee a few times, but still. It's common effen courtesy! The Saint calls her "flighty". Bitchy is more like it. Either way, I am currently accepting applications for Muse. Applicants must be sarcastic and possess a sharp wit, as well as exceptional spelling skilz. Oh, and smart. Must be intelligent. I'm tired of sounding like a dumbass. The successful candidate must be compliant and eager to please a real go-getter. Experience with Macs required. Big boobays a plus. Forward resume, references, and portfolio of recent work to Human Resources. EOE. No phone calls, please. Dear God somebody send help soon!

To My Angel on Your First Birthday

I have been thinking about this for weeks, my precious girl. What I would say, what my message for you would be. I had hoped to write something beautiful and poignant, something befitting of you, and yet I cannot. Words are my life and my livelihood, but today they fail me. It is impossible to describe my infinite love for you. Every word in existence, strung together, still would not do justice to your striking beauty, both inside and out.


I see the woman you will one day be in your brilliant blue eyes and forever smile, and my heart aches with the absolute joy of you. You will no longer let me cradle you in my arms, and long gone are the days we curled together in sleep. But I will forever hold you in my heart, little one, the way I did when we first met one year ago. You are, and will always be, my precious baby, my beautiful girl, my angel. Happy birthday.


All my love,
~Mommy

Diet? What Diet?

So here we are at the end of Week #1 of the NutriSystem diet. I have lost exactly... drumroll please ... 1.5 pounds. Da fuck?!? My husband has lost like 5 pounds or something, and I might as well have taken a dump, that's how much weight I lost. And I know this non-weight loss has absolutely nothing ok maybe everything to do with the fact that we went to a birthday barbeque Saturday and I stuffed my face with ice cream cake, OR the fact that I ate an entire bag of movie theater popcorn with butter. I mean, God, it was a just a medium bag, it wasn't like the huge tub or anything. Pfft. Whatev. And just because I did zilch in the physical activity department, that does not have any bearing on this equation whatsoever.


So. Right. Week #1 ends in horrific failure. I have eaten teensy portions of pasta and disgusting "peanut butter" cookies, and all I have to show for it is the increased need to pee, since I'm trying to drink the required eight 8-ounce glasses of water a day.


I can't even diet properly! How depressing.


Still 15 pounds to go.

When Stoopid Meets The Man

Bike helmet laws. Stoopid. Not bicycle, those actually make sense, although I've never worn a bike helmet because the last time I rode a bike was 20 years ago and we didn't know what helmets were back then. At bicycle speed, a helmet will protect your melon from almost certain squashing, should you take a header over the handlebars. 


I mean motorcycle helmet laws. Stoopid. What's the point of forcing people to wear helmets, if they're not wearing the other protective gear, like LONG PANTS for one, or boots, or a jacket with metal plates, or gloves. I all'time see guys riding bikes, wearing helmets, their t-shirts flying up over their shoulders from the wind. Listen pal, a helmet ain't gonna help you when you hit the skids in a tank top and shorts, ok? Your head will be the only part of you that's not broken into a trillion pieces and smeared all over the blacktop if you have an oopsie at 75 mph. 


So write your congressman, your mayor, or your 6th grade teacher, and tell them they're morons for enacting meaningless laws like that. Because until you pass a law telling people they have to wear more than a thong bikini and flip-flops on the back of their boyfriend's bike (I have actually seen this, swear to Gawd!), helmet laws are a complete waste of time, and a waste of my money because somebody had to sit there and debate the pros and cons of said meaningless law, and then vote on said meaningless law, with a few lunch breaks in between, when they could have been doing something useful, I don't know, like finding a way to fund after school programs or something.


Besides, helmets are for sissies. And laws are for suckers.

Chocolate! My Kingdom for Some Chocolate

Seriously not me. I've never looked that good in a bikini. Evah. *sob*

OK party peeps, no more screwin' around. Today began the official Diet of the B Household. Both my husband and I have started Nutrisystem, you know, "Low Glycemic Index Carbs" and all that happy horse shit. It works, though, I have to tell you. My husband was on it last year during my pregnancy, and he lost like 25 pounds or something. I should be so lucky. Whatever. Besides the point. Back to me and my pitiful self-image. I weigh less than I did when Monster was born, but I still have these 15 pounds hanging around that I've been sitting on for the past year, and I'm tired of it. I'm taking back my ass, dammit. And hopefully my thighs while I'm at it. Yeesh.


I'm not telling you how much I weigh. Sorry. While I will write about most anything under the sun, I do have limits, and there they are. I'm 5' 9", and my BMI is right smack in the middle of where it should be. But we don't need studies to know women care more about their appearance than men, now do we?


So, here we are, on this damn diet. It's Day 1, and I'm starving. Not really, but you expect me to say something like that, right? I'm actually not hungry. But I miss food. Already. The diet works by rationing out the proper portions of food, so you can't overeat. This sucks. I miss eating. I should be sitting here right now getting pretzel crumbs all over my laptop, but instead I'm swallowing excessively and trying not to drool on the keyboard. Sigh. Only 15 pounds to go! Somebody shoot me.

Dear Asshole Who Drives With the Gas and Brake Simultaneously,

When your brake lights are on the entire time you are in front of me, how am I supposed to know when you are slowing down, or about to make a sudden stop for that mother effing squirrel? I hope you appreciate just how close you came to getting an unscheduled rectal exam with the business end of a Honda Pilot. Please send me the name and address of your driver's ed instructor. I'd love to find him, drag him out of his house, into the street, and beat him to death with an orange parking cone and thank him or her for doing such a wonderful job educating you about the wonders of the highway.


Kisses,

Me

How Men Can Ruin Even the Sweetest of Moments

Conversation had upon learning The Saint had stopped on his way home from work to buy me two cute (and very expensive) shirts from a shop in New York City.

                K: Oh how sweet! Thank you so much! This is so unexpected! What prompted this?
                S: Well, you're always bitching about how you have nothing to wear.
                K: ::blink:: *sigh*

And that, dear readers reader, is how a man can ruin even the sweetest of moments.

In our next episode, how I can ruin any moment at any time, any place. It's a gift, what can I say?

Settle Down There, Tonto

I just had a conversation with my sister over the phone about why life sucks so hard. She's got her master's, can speak Japanese, has traveled all over the world (that bitch), and now she's a hostess at P.F. Chang's. WTF?? Obviously, Little Miss Magic is not a happy camper. 

She's got a friend who works for the CIA. That friend hates her job, says it's not worthwhile. Not exactly sure what she does at the CIA, since they're so secretive and all, but I'm pretty sure I'd jump at the chance to work for the CIA. It's like one big government-sanctioned gossip factory. You get all the goods on everybody from Elvis to Kim Jong Il. Sadly, my, um, background? makes me ineligible to work for them. Fuckers.

And Lord knows I hate my job. You may think working in TV is cool, even maybe the news part of it, just a little bit, but no. Really. No.

Anyway, I gots to thinking. (Dangerous pass-time, I know) Why is everybody so fucking miserable? And I think it's because it goes against our nature. I'm not sure happiness is human nature. We always want more, more, more. Never settle for anything but than the best.

My mom has an anecdote about settling; long story short, don't settle, because all you'll ever see is what you don't have, and it'll make you miserable. But maybe settling is a good thing. It has a really shitty connotation, you think of it as just giving up, giving in, but that's not what it means. It means to satisfy, to soothe, to make stable, to agree. As in: to settle down, to settle your nerves, to settle an argument. 

So you're unsettled? You want more? We all want more. But when does it stop? When does more become enough? I think to be truly happy, we have to learn to settle. To accept what we have right now. To look around at what we've got and say "ya know what, I'm doing aight". Maybe it's not what you thought it would be, maybe it's not where you saw yourself (working at P.F. Chang's), but it's real. It's life. It is. So just sit back and enjoy it. Learn to enjoy it. And stop fucking whining already. You're giving me a headache.

I need more aspirin. 

You Might Be a Redneck...

My brother-in-law snapped this picture with his cell phone near my home town. I tried really hard to come up with something witty to say about this, but, dude, I failed. There is absolutely nothing I can say about this that will make it any funnier. I can't top this. I really can't.

Home

This weekend I went "home" for my mom's birthday. I stopped calling it home after I got married, usually calling it "Mom's house" or just "Delaware". But this trip was different. For the first time in a long time, I thought of it as home. And I was miserable leaving it. I went with Bebe, and we had such a good time. There were two big meals in my sister's garage with the radio blaring and the tables covered in newspapers: blue crabs, steamed shrimp, hamburgers, hot dogs, grilled veggies and local sweet corn. Even though I didn't get to eat much (too close to Bebe's bedtime), it was fun. On Sunday afternoon we all jumped in the pool, Bebe's first swim. She had a blast. There really wasn't much to our visit, just time with my family. But I didn't miss home. Not even a little bit. In fact, I cried when it was time to come back. I really didn't want to.

Why is home so hard? Walking around in my old back yard, I wandered over to the huge apple tree that was a victim of violent storms a few weeks ago. It had been ripped right out of the ground, most of its roots exposed. I feel a little bit like that, my roots unable to keep me grounded, so close to what I once knew, but unable to return. Our neighbor, my 6th grade teacher, died several years ago. His name is still on the mailbox, but no one lives there anymore. His wife remarried and moved away. The bushes in his back yard that used to be waist-high are now well over 6 feet. The trees are overgrown, the grass dying underneath, choked by the perpetual shade. I know we all have to move on, to grow and adapt; otherwise we'll end up choked by the world as it grows around us, over us. But I think we turn to home, or the idea of it, in times of stress and loneliness, in moments of uncertainty. I realize that I don't miss home. Rather, I miss what home used to be; or the ideal I choose to remember. I want that tree to be a sapling again, and those bushes to be low enough to hurdle. But I think more than anything, I want my roots to find solid ground. I want to see the sun. And I want The Ghost to turn back into The Saint.

O! Canada, Part Deux

And now, as promised, Canada. The land of beavers and mounties. Niagara Falls. The first thing we did upon arriving in this strange new land was have lunch at Hooters. Yea, we're like that. Guess what was playing on the 7 flat-screen plasma TVs hanging from the ceiling?

Hockey. And guess what the waitress said when we walked in? "Bad weather out there, eh?" Canada proves its stereotypes are not stereotypes at all, but absolute truths. We ordered ourselves some wings and Molsen Canadians (Seriously, what is that all about? They actually call the beer 'Canadian' in Canada. Weirdos). 

Then, on to the big show. The Falls. They really are quiet beautiful, if you can elbow your way past the 4.7 million other tourists hanging over the fence to take pictures. There is something awe-inspiring about the sheer power there. That continuous, low rumble; the ever-present mist hanging overhead, the savage beauty of nature in the raw.

These are the American Falls. Nice, huh?

These are the Canadian Falls. They're much better. Like most things in Canada. Even the damn ketchup tastes

better! I was gonna sneak some Heinz home through customs. But they have guns. And something to prove.

At night they light up the Falls so you can see them. Very cool.

And there's a fireworks display over the water. Also well-received.

*Note the traffic at a complete stand-still on the bottom left. It must be awesome living there.

The Falls after a few drinks at the casino bar

The only thing that took away from the experience -- aside from the teeming masses with camcorders -- was the cheese. There was so much cheese, you couldn't walk 2 feet without stepping in it. I was totally afraid to have a Whopper.

I counted at least 3 haunted houses, 2 wax museums, an Olde Tyme picture place, and a Ripley's Believe it or Not. It made me throw up in my mouth a little bit. I wish I had taken a picture of the wax museum. Louis Tussauds. Not to be confused with Madame Tussauds. Must be Louie's ex. She jumped ship and moved to the States, I guess.

That's my sexy new Mountie husband. How'd that get in here?

Those Canadians sure love their beavers.

To summarize Niagara Falls: savagery, awe, body odor, beauty, beavers, gambling, cheese, water, more savagery, Frankenstein, and hockey.

And I forgot my umbrella in Hooters.

Take a Picture, It'll Last Longer

This is my "what the fuck do you want" face.

When was the last time you looked, really looked, at the blogs in your feed reader (and painfully outdated blog roll)? Not at the feeds, but at the bloggers themselves. The people. My reader is small, relatively speaking, just 33 feeds. 33 sites. 33 people whom I have never met, and most of whom I know only by their cyber moniker. The people behind those witty names are so incredibly diverse, often polar opposites of one another. And yet, they all appeal to me, speak to me in some way; and to each other as well.

I wonder, would I be friends with these people "in real life"? If the Girl with the purple hair was not just an avatar, but a neighbor, would we even speak? Or would we pass each other on the sidewalk without a second glance? If the single mom dropped her toddler off at daycare the same time I did, would we chat? Would we laugh over coffee? If I shared the same doctor with the British man and his wife trying so desperately to conceive, would I even know it? Obviously, I don't know the answers for sure. But I would guess, sadly, no.

It's not that whole 'books and their covers' thing, not really. It's not about judging someone's appearance; it's more about knowing, right off the bat, if there is something about that person that would interest you in the slightest. Like online dating. You can't tell much about a person by their picture; but the way they speak (write), and what they speak (write) about speaks volumes. When a person passes you on the street, all you see is their, well, picture. You don't know what's going on in that teeny little brain of theirs. It could be very similar to what's going on in your teeny little brain at that precise moment. Then again it could also be about the upcoming bar exam. And let's face it, nobody cares about another lawyer up in here. But you don't know, so you just keep on walking.

I would guess, like in online dating, the online friendships can sometimes turn out to be awkward in real life. But I haven't met any of the bloggers I've been stalking, so I can't attest to that.

What do you think? Would we be friends in "real life"? Or would you kick my dog and take my lunch money?

Just FYI: you could kick the dog. But the lunch money? Your ass would be grass.

Sick Sickety Sick Sick

I am so frickin sick. I took a nap today and dreamed I was crying. I woke up; turns out it was just snot running from my nose. I blame it on those of you that are sick whose blogs I frequent. You know who you are. Ugh. 

America's Worst TV Show in the History of TV Shows Going Back to When Coat Hangers Were Required Hardware for Watching Television

Disclaimer: I only watched the show because when you work for FOX, this show is the news, and you actually have to write about it as such. I know, it makes me throw up in my mouth a little bit, too.

And I am ashamed to admit, when Hack Seacrest said "David Cook" instead of "Punky Brewster", I jumped out of my chair, both fists raised triumphantly over my head, with a huge "whoo!!". In the middle of the newsroom. Even worse, I was not the only one. The executive producer joined me in applause. I shit you not.

Aside: Then I immediately sat my happy ass down and cut a 1:45 NATVO so one of our two reporters in Hollywood could use it in the newscast. I'm sorry, news? What's that?

Meanwhile, back on the ranch: Never, in the show's 7 years of destroying the souls of young girls, have I actually cared who won. Until last night. Because the boy's actually got talent. And I don't think he was the more popular of the two, at least with the demographic. All the teeny-boppers were swooning over Punky Brewster over there. Or as Mr. Lady so eloquently and succinctly called him, founding father of Gay Christian Pop Rockers Kidz Bop. (I have such a crush on Mr. Lady -- how could you not?!)

Doesn't Archuleta look a little like Punky Brewster?!? Oh and David, I wouldn't mind being Mrs. American Idol, if you wanna give me a call. I'm sure it would be cool with My Husband The Saint. He is, after all, a Saint.

Seriously. Dave. Holla.

O! My God

So I just got back from Canada. Niagara Falls, to be exact. Bwahahahahahaha!! It was craptacular. Actually, I shouldn't say that. The Falls really are quite impressive. And beautiful. Especially at night. But all that was overshadowed by the 2 wax museums, 4 haunted houses, ferris wheel, and Ripley's Believe it or Not. Believe it or not. I could not believe how commercial it was! I took pictures. You've got to see it.

Just to be fair, I am not disparaging Niagara Falls or Canada (much). I had a wonderful time; it was a surprise trip from My Husband the Saint for our anniversary. Even included a B&B and a couple's day at the spa! But you have got to see the pictures. I'll get to it. I swear. Back off, bitches, I'll get to it!!

Seriously, this weekend I'll get a post together. It'll so be worth the wait. Or not. Whatever. Get off my back!! I can't work under these conditions!!

I Suck at This

I've come to the realization, I'm a bad blogger. (Late to the party, I know) I have no clue how you people post every day, every other day, hell, even twice a week! And by you people I mean you, you parent. I know you're a parent, you can't deny it, because I only roll with the Mommy & Daddy blogsters, so I got your number, aight? Back on point; I do not know how you do it. I can't seem to find the time, although somehow I can sneak time to read feeds. But not to write. I also have a motivation problem. And maybe writer's block. But I think it's really that I'm a lazy ass. Exhibit A:

But honestly, when you write for a living, and when you write horrible, depressing, terrifying things for a living, well, it's really taken all of the joy out of writing. I have seen things that no person should see; the horrible, gory, bloody reality of some peoples' lives in places other than America. The video you see on TV of bombing aftermath has been carefully screened so you don't see the blood on the sidewalks, and charred bodies in burned-out cars. Reuters and AP photogs have no qualms about shooting everything, death and all. A reporter in Jerusalem I was working with one day emailed me aftermath pictures from that seminary bombing in Israel she wanted to use in her shot -- but she wanted me to screen them and pick out usable photographs. It was horrifying. Of the 8 or so photos she sent, only 1 was usable. One. It was a close-up of a bullet hole in a window. Everything else was bloody and full of death. When I worked in Washington, we sent our chopper to check out a report of a body found in a bank parking lot. There was. I saw the guy's brain splattered all over the pavement. Now write about that. And write it so people don't gag over their breakfast. It takes the joy out of writing, it really does. So yea, I have a motivation problem.

But...I am also a lazy ass. I only have 1 child, and I still don't have time to post. She took a 2 hour nap yesterday. So what did I do? Sleep. (In my defense, I am an insomniac. A true insomniac) Then in the afternoon we went outside and I weeded for 10 minutes until she got bored and started eating the grass     

 

so that was that. And that was my day, people. 

So how do people like Iowa Mom do it? Seriously! How do you raise your children and work and blog? All in one day. I'd love to know.