Apple Pie (the only thing I didn't eat today)

How awesome is America?  Where else on earth can you do the following on a Sunday?  [Cue Lee Greenwald's "I'm proud to be an American."]

Eat (in specific order from morning until present):
Nachos
Vanilla ice cream
Sausage, egg, and cheese biscuit (thank God for answered prayers re: time McDonald's still serves breakfast.  BTW, they now have a revolving, self explanatory menu screen.  When I drove up, there was nary a lunch pic on the menu.  I didn't even have to ask whether they were still offering crack, er McGriddles.  It was all breakfast, sans quarter pounders and Big Macs, in all of Mickey D's greasy breakfast glory; however, we did have a lost in translation moment over whether I wanted a
"coff-a," an  "Oh-jay" or a "McCaffe."  The answer is black coffee.  Just black coffee.)
Hashbrowns
Hot chocolate (2 pouches, one cup.  Not to be confused with two girls, one cup)
Vanilla ice cream (again)
Granola bar
Mixed nuts (one of the most awesome Christmas presents ever)
Chips
Salsa
Guacamole
Tortilla soup
Vanilla ice cream with Hershey's syrup.

While watching marathons of the following:
Basketball wives
Real Housewives
16 and pregnant
Cupcake Wars (kinda pissed I didn't get to eat a cupcake today)

Score: Kim Jong-Il, 120/80
America: 160/100

Dressing your Dogs up for Halloween: the Gateway Drug to Toddlers and Tiaras?

Whiskey donned a show-stopping banana split costume for All Hallow's Eve.  Contrary to what some of you may think, she is not channeling her German roots by donning a Klansman's hat.  I originally thought her head piece was a soft-serve ice cream swirl; however, I later came to the conclusion that it's a banana, hence the "banana split" label on the costume.

Abby later sported the same costume, because Bart won't let me buy costumes for her or dress her up. 

She is a huntin' dog, not a Barbie (said with an over exaggerated southern accent and a dip in mouth).

Am I (by I, I mean my kids) doomed?  Are they destined , at the ripe ole' age of 4, to look like Dolly Parton's character in Best Little Whore House in Texas?  Am I going to insist they wear a flipper at all times and spray tan abs on them?  Am I going to ruin their childhood, causing them to hate me forever?  Come to think of it, I'm sure that will happen regardless.

P.S. What is it about dog costumes that immediately renders them immobile?  Forget mace.  If a pit bull is chasing you, your best bet is to have a cute, matching dog sweater and hat handy. 

How to Remove a Bird from your Den.

Earlier this week, I woke up, made myself breakfast, and headed to the den to get my Good Morning American on.  As I was headed towards the den, with said breakfast, I heard several bonking noises.  It took a few bonks for me to realize what was going on.

Internal Dialogue:

What is that noise?  Whiskey, lick that milk I just spilled on the floor (while tapping toe, pointing at milk).  What is that noise?  Why does that bird keep flying into the window?  Birds are so stupid.  Huh, I guess that's where the name "bird brain" comes from.  Seriously, what is that bird's problem?  Why does it want inside?  Why are birds always flying into windows?  Gosh, we as humans are really destructive to nature.  Birds fly into windows everywhere...there are even commercials about it...Wait, is that bird outside...or is it...OH MY... WHA THE FU...SHIT!!!!!!!!  THERE IS A BIRD IN THE HOUSE!!!!


BIRD, WHAT THE FU...OH MY GOD, THAT WAS SO CLOSE TO MY EYE.   DID YOU JUST POOP ON ME?  


SHIT.  SHIT.  SHIT.  


How do you get a bird out of your house? 


How did that bird get in here?!!


Cease internal dialogue.


318.469.****.  Bart, did you leave the door open this morning?  You didn't?  Well, there is a bird in the house.  I don't know what kind.  A brown one!!!!

Obviously, I'm going to have to go at this one alone.


So, for all of you that will have an uninvited bird in your home, here's how to successfully remove one:

1.  Scream at it really loud.
2. When it flies at  your head, scream really, really loud.
3. When it perches on your curtains, scream at it to get the f**k off your curtains.
4. When it takes off again, scream at your dogs to get it.
5. When your dogs have no idea what you're screaming about, scream at them that they are worthless beasts and that they have failed at their very existence in life.
6. Make mental note that when you have kids, not to scream the same thing at them.
7. When it alights from the curtains and flies at your head again, scream really, really, really loud.
8. Think to open doors to the exterior, while closing off all other doors to the den.
9. Repeat instruction Number 1.
10. Repeat instruction Number 7.
11. As it flies out the door, thank God that you didn't have a heart attack.
12.  Wonder why it didn't have a heart attack--it would have made steps 1-11 much easier.

Here's your own "Where's Waldo?".   It's hard to spy the bird, due to camo.  Why are Southern women so obsessed with westernized, Chinese-inspired toile monkeys and birds?

I just want your extra time and your...

Cheers!

I know it's been forever since I've posted.  Two of you told me so much today.  Due to the overwhelming interest in my blog, here goes.

You know the holidays are officially here when you read your first holiday hangover cure article.  

They print them in the newspaper.  They print them in a magazine.  You can read them at your desk.  You can read them in a limousine.   

If only Dr. Seuss had used his degree for the greater good of adults instead of children...

Each and every year, I'm fooled by the same a headlines: Cure for that Holiday Hangover!; Say Goodbye to the Hangover; Seven Sure-fire Cures for the Modern Hangover!; How to NOT Feel like you were Dragged by a Bus Straight into the Land of Self-hatred while Puking your Guts out and you don't Even Feel Good about the Fact that You Just Lost Five Pounds.  

As someone who's habitually hung-over (don't judge), telling me that there's a cure for a hangover, is like telling me that smoking is now good for you, or that Rotel and Velveta causes weight loss.  

If one more "expert" tells me to drink a glass of water between every drink and before I go to bed, they've never been drunk.  Ever.  Can you imagine:

Bartender, I'm really, really, really drunk, but can I please have an Evian every time that the long hand on the clock hits two and ten?  You'll come find me, right?   That will surely prevent me from waking up at 4:00 AM, with a rapid heart beat, sweats, and the feeling that not only did I embarrass my husband so badly that he left me at the bar (ok, let's be honest, I refused to leave because, no matter what he says, I'm NOT drunk), and now that I've alienated every friend that I have, I'm...shit, where am I?  Oh, that's the fan above my bed.  I'm home.  Wait, how did I get here?  If only I'd had that glass of water!!!!!

Really, it's 2010 and all that ya gots is "drink more water"?  How dare you waste my time, when my head hurts this bad!

Everyone knows that there's only two official cures for a hangover:

1. Work out and sweat like you've never sweated before; or

2. Drink.  More.  

3.  And when you're that hungover, you really only have one option.  Please refer to cure number 2.

Honestly people, it's 2010.  They make pills that grow more hair on your head, pills that make your ween work even when you're 92, and to counteract that, pills that make you not have a baby after you get really, really, drunk and that bartender forgot your Evian at two and ten and well, that 92-year-old only looked 70.

We put three people on the moon 40 years ago--ok, "we" is a stretch--but, 40 years ago!  You mean to tell me that we can put people on the moon, Skype with someone in Africa, and clone some sheep, and there's not a real hangover cure?  

Calling all scientists!  You may have gotten into it for the greater good of the human race, but let's be real--you stayed for the money.  Find a real hangover cure.  Confusus says cure for drunken debauchery to be rewarded with much financial success.  

The Unfriendly Skies

Is there anything worse than flying? 

Yeah, yeah, I know, cancer, AIDS, world  hunger...but you should know by now that this is a superficial blog.  Please see Julie's cancer-curing friend's blog if you want something with a little bit of substance.  http://www.leclercqfamily.blogspot.com/ 

Now back to fluff.

Flying plain sucks (pun intended).  PERIOD.

Not only am I CONVINCED that I'm going to die each and every time I get within 24 hours of flying (there's simply not enought Xanax in the world), inevitably, at some point during the journey, I wish that God would just go ahead and put me out of my misery.  

I know.  Everyone has a story.  This is just the first time that I have had a forum. 

For those of you that have ever had the "pleasure" of flying out of the Shreveport airport, go ahead and skip to the end of this post, as there's no need for you to read on.  YOU KNOW.   You probably also got the full body cavity search because you had a lip gloss over 4 oz in your bag.

After arriving at SHV, which a much more appropo airport code would be SHIT, we learned that our old broken down horse, I mean plane, couldn't make it to Shreveport.  And, they really weren't sure when the next one would arrive.

Today?  Tomorrow?  Christmas?

Why oh why don't they make an extra large US Weekly?

So, if I want to see my sister who lives in New York, I should just sit in the airport, close my eyes, and wish really, really hard for the next death tube loaded stock full 'o' smelly people to arrive sometime in the next 24 to 48?

And, I shouldn't try to get on another connecting flight, because it may, actually, never connect?

"Now would you all stand for the National Anthem?"

WTF????!!!!

I consider myself a patriot.  I get misty eyed every time Mariah Carey even thinks about the rocket's red glare.  BUT, I do not want to get chastised by the Delta Airlines desk worker for not standing and singing the National Anthem in the Shreveport airport every hour that it's looped on the sound system throughout the airport.  Especially when I've been sitting there for four hours.

After a five hour delay, we set sail for the Hamptons (pronounced the huummmmtunnns).

We had a lovely stay.

On the flip side, we got up at the crack of dawn to take the train to the tram to the airport.  Bart and I couldn't sit together on the plane, and I made fun of him, because he had a middle seat and I had a window.

 I pretended not to know Bart when I left him at the front of the plane, where he was unsuccessfully trying to shove his luggage into the overhead compartment, while simultaneously sweating profusely and cussing even more profusely.  I walked the plank to the back of the death tube, when I realized that someone had the nerve to be sitting in my window seat.

I double checked my ticket, then knowingly showed it to the flight attendant.  She tried to tell the man in my seat that he was, in fact, in the wrong seat; however, his English wasn't great.  Finally, she asked me if I would just sit in the aisle.

Ha!  You're joking, right?

She asked me several more times.

What, does she think that I, also, don't have a proper grasp of the English language?  Each time she asked, I clearly told her loudly and slowly, that I wanted to sit in the widown seat, because I get airsick, don't like to get up multiple times so people can pee when I can just hold it, and that frankly, I don't really like to pee in the death tube's sorry excuse for a bathroom, and that just because the man couldn't speak English, he could move...when she finally interrupted me.

"Honey, he's handicapped, would you please just sit in the middle seat." 

Since when does broken English qualify as a handicap? 

Ooooooh.

I didn't even notice that the man in my window seat was not only foreign, but was blind and had a cane.

Wow, I pretty much suck as a person, and am definitely going to die in a firey plane crash today. 

But, then it crossed my mind that if he's blind and needs a cane, wouldn't the window seat be lost on him?  And wouldn't he actually do better in the aisle seat in case he needed to get up?

I decided to just keep my mouth shut and sit in the middle.

Until, the girl sitting behind me touched my arm with her bare, tattooed foot.  Can you just take a minute to let that sink in?  Okay.  My arm was on the arm rest, minding its own business, when the girl  in the row behind me had the nerve to rest her toe cheese on my arm.  I looked at her foot in horror for several seconds before I could even figure out what to say.  I mean, clearly, she would be embarrassed if she was cognizant of the fact that her tribal art toes were touching a strangers arm, right?

I turned around and gave my best Tyra Banks "communication with the eyes."  However, when her foot was still resting on my elbo, I knew it was time to get verbal.

"Excuse me, but your foot is touching my arm."

Apparently, this is not the right thing to say to a heavily tatted 20-something.

She yelled at me.  Yelled.  At.  Me.  Because her foot was touching my arm from the row behind me!!  Oh my God, is this how I'm going to die on this flight?  Please, no.

I almost pushed the flight attendant call button, but quickly recalled that the flight attendant already thinks I'm a crazy bitch.

Shit.

Tattoo and her equally tattooed friend taunted me the whole way from JFK to Atlanta, while I pretended to ignore them.  And clearly, the blind foreign guy wasn't going to come to my rescue, so, not only was flight 1276 from JFK to Atlanta an airplane ride, but also a time machine that took me back to the seventh grade.

After my middle seat and middle school trip from New York to Atlanta, I pleasently read my book in the ATL airport while waiting for my flight to Shreveport.  We boarded the plane on time,  taxied down the runway, and prepared for take-off.  Then the AC went out.

Yep, back to the gate, time to de-plane, and wait for them to fix the AC. 

A few hours later, we re-boarded the plane.  As I was putting my luggage into the overhead compartment, the female pilot, who was standing in the middle of the plane, opened the overhead compartment and let out an ear piercing SCREAM. 

I knew it!  There was no AC problem.  It was a bomb.  We are all going to die!!!!!!!!!

A quick situational assessment determined that it was a grosshopper and not a bomb.  Okay, we aren't going to die.  Yet.  

However, female pilot then smacked the grasshopper, and flung it onto a man sitting in the row behind us.

Man screamed, and reached to fling it off of his shirt.

I was standing in the aisle, and saw what was coming next, but before I could react, Man smacked that grasshopper straight into my face.  I screamed bloody murder.  My husband peed his pants. 

Thankfully, a guy finally had the wherewithall to catch the grasshopper in his hands and throw it out of the plane. 

Damn you Bin-Laden.  This is all your fault.

Nepotism

Good Lord in Heaven.  My good friend, Julie, awarded me some sort of blogging prize.  Yeah, I know, it's not really a prize if you're friend gives it to you, and it doesn't come with, well, any sort of a prize.  


Examples of others who were granted the same such prize by Julie include:
A friend who moved to Africa and is curing blindness;
Another woman besides Julie who has had three babies all at once, hasn't killed herself, her husband, or her kids;
A very sweet family that has a child with special needs; and
A blog offering parenting advice.

One of these things is not like the others,
One of these things just doesn't belong,
Can you tell which thing is not like the others
By the time I finish my song?


The prize also comes with conditions, further rendering it even less of a prize and bringing it much more in line with that of a curse.  Apparently, if I don't nominate others for the prize, post some logo on my website, and give Julie a high-five, 1,000 puppies will die and the Resurrection won't happen. 


You have Julie to thank for an everlasting lifetime of Purgatory and the death of 1,000 puppies.  Here's her blog so that you may thank her appropriately, as you know that I'm way too lazy and self absorbed to follow any of those directions.  www.leclercqfamily.blogspot.com.  

Don't Throw the Baby out with the Toilet Water

Seriously? You really didn't know you were pregnant until a baby flew out of your vajay and straight into the toilet at McDonald's?

Seriously?

Please tell me that you've seen this show, "I Didn't Know I was Pregnant".

I mean, apparently not knowing that you're pregnant until you a) deliver a baby into a toilet at a fast food joint; b) deliver a baby into a toilet at your house; or c) deliver a baby into a toilet at your baby daddy's house is an epidemic in America.   

There is more than enough material to have a weekly program about it, with several different women starring in each episode.  This is completely shocking/fascinating.  And even more shocking and fascinating that these women would actually admit to having no clue on national TV.

So, let's go through the list:

You quit taking birth control.  Check.

You recently experienced rapid weight gain.  Check.

No period.  Check.

Crazy mood swings.  Check.

Baby repeatedly kicks you in your ribs.  Check.  

Still no clue.  Check.  

Yeah, not sure I'm buying it...

Call me a cynic, but where I come from, this is what we refer to as denial--I'll even spare you the whole river in Egypt reference.

The most confusing part is, that EVERY time EVERY woman is asked by the 911 operator whether she could possibly be pregnant the answer is a resounding NO.  You are a women, right?  

I swear to God (I know, I shouldn't swear to God), I took a pregnancy test before writing this blog entry.  Not that I eat at McDonald's unless I have the most severe kind of hangover, but it would be just my righteous luck to be all hungover and have some 16-year-old high school dude have to coach me through lamaze while on the can at the McDonald's on Line Avenue.   Let's get real--my water is much more likely to break at Taco Bell, not Micky D's.

And for all of you out there wondering why I have a stash of EPT's at my house, every so often, I get completely paranoid that I've served up some hypothetical embryo a couple-o-martinis and a bottle of wine.  This might shock you, but I'd feel really bad if my kid got fetal alcohol syndrome.  Plus, y'all would all totally talk trash about me behind my back, which is way more embarrassing than having a kid with that whole close-together-eye thing.  [Insert picture of that creepy banjo-playing dude from Deliverance here.]  Not to mention those pesky protective services people...

Here's a little nugget for you though: My mom had a hot buttered rum on the way to the hospital when in labor with me.  Just learned about that this year.  Your water broke!  Cheers!  Have a shot that belongs in the hands of a college spring breaker!  

I know.  Sadly, it explains A LOT.

Check Mate

If you are under the age of 80, you have absolutely no business writing a check at the grocery store.  And for heaven's sake, don't start pulling your checkbook out of your pocketbook AFTER the clerk tells you the amount of your groceries, so you can then start filling out  your check in old English scroll with your quill pen at the most inopportune time. 

If you can use a Brookshire's card to save money, you can use a similar such card to save you some time. 
 

Hottern Hades

It is sooooooo hot here.  102.  On the thermometer.  Fa get about the humidity.  And the heat index. 

I could retreat to the cool comfort of my abode BUT my AC went out yesterday.  Well, at least I can hop into my car for a nice, cool, airconditioned car ride around town.  Ooohh, forgot that my car's AC also quit on me yesterday.  Don't tell me that next a tree is going to...oh wait...

Due to my recent bout-o-luck, I've been going back through the past couple of weeks to see who/what I had offended. 

I did yell at the bank teller at Regions yesterday, when she looked at my Spanish coins like they were an envelope full of snakes and all but refused to do her job.  Convo recap:

Me: I need to exchange some money from my travels abroad (while retrieving my envolope full of coins).

Bitchy Teller: We don't accept coins.

Me: Oh, well here are my Euros and Pounds in bills then.

Bitchy Teller: I need your ID and account number.

Me: Here you go...

Bitchy Teller: This is no where near enough money for me to exchange.

Me: Huh?

Bitchy Teller: You must have AT LEAST $150.00 U.S. for us to exchange your money.

Me: Why?

Bitchy Teller: Because that's our policy.

Me: Why is that the policy?

Bitchy Teller: It just is.

Me: Well, what do you suggest I do with these 100 Euros ($123.00 US)?

Bitchy Teller: I have no idea.

Me: Can I speak to someone else?

Bitchy Teller: No.

Me: Why not?

Bitchy Teller: Because they will tell you the same thing.

Me: There isn't a manager?

Bitchy Teller: I'm the only person that handles money exchanges.

Me:  Well, then, is there somewhere else in town I can go?  We are doing work on our house and every penny helps (this should surely melt Bitchy Teller's icy heart; everyone knows we are in a recession). 

Bitchy Teller: No.

Me: You mean to tell me that there is not one single place in Shreveport wherein I can exchange 100 Euros.

Bitchy Teller: That's what I'm saying.

Me: So, what do you suggest I do with these bills and coins?

Bitchy Teller: Take them to Dallas.

Me: Well that's convenient. 

Bitchy Teller: Silence.

Me:  Thanks, I really appreciate all your help.  Your customer service has been impeccable.  I hope you get hit by a bus leaving work today. 

Ok, so, I didn't tell her that I hoped she would get hit by a bus, but I did tell her how much she sucked at her job.

Could BT really have been Jesus testing me, a la Helen Steiner Rice's the Christmas Guest?  And then Jesus punished my rudeness by removing my creature comforts?  Surely Jesus would have been a much nicer and more helpful bankteller.  I would not have been rude to the Jesus bankteller.  Just to the Regions bankteller.

Later that evening while watching TV in my unairconditioned house, Bart came home and told me I looked like a dude.  I guess sweaty wives propped up on the bed watching TV in their boxers aren't hot--even if they don't have a shirt on.  Come to think of it, maybe it was the lack of shirt that evoked the dude comment, not the boxers.

Has somebody put the gris gris on me?

Is it just me...

or do Justin Bieber and Joran van der Sloot look exactly alike?

Joran

The Biebs

The Biebs sans hair.

The Dreaded JC

Have you ever heard of a jumping cholla?  Not to be confused with a jumping chola...

Or a jumping Charo...

You probably haven't unless you live in the desert. 

The dreaded and elusive jumping cholla is a cactus ball that literally attacks you.  It jumps onto you and refuses to let go. 

Such a jumping cactus attacked my brother-in-law and husband this past weekend.  We were in Phoenix visiting my sister-in-law, her husband and their beautiful baby girl.  These tour guides took us on a desert treck.  Bart and Brannon chose flip flops as their dessert excursion footwear of choice.  This proved expecially exciting to the ole JC--and particularly painful to Brannon. 

While Brannon was distracted by a desert rat (rightfully so), the JC chose this particular time to pounce.  Right into B's unprotected foot.

Like all good relatives, we made him stay in place until we got a camera.  While laughing hysterically.  Bart then made one failed attempt to remove the JC.  On his second try, it jumped from Brannon's foot to Bart's leg.  Pure amazingness, and the highlight of my trip!

Hiatus

Sorry everyone (read all 12 of you).  I have been on a long hiatus.  But, just like the herps, when you think they've disappeared for good, they rear their ugly head.  Mine just has 1/2 inch brown roots.

I really do have an excuse, or more accurately, excuses.  And, seriously, I really couldn't make this up.  For starters, a celebrity couple, one of which is currently filming a movie in the Port, was living in my house.  So, the hubs and I moved in with my folks.  Bad.  Move. 

I love my parents dearly, but it didn't take long to realize why you aren't supposed to live with your parents at 32.  I said that I was going to keep a diary, but only made it through Days 1 and 2...chronicling any further days would have surely induced carpel tunnel syndrome--there is just too damn much. 

Day 1:
Mom got mad at me because I thought she was joking when she said she would be serving a full brunch on Sunday morning.  Biscuits, eggs, sausage, juice...you get the picture.  I think the last time my mom made brunch was 1981.  I mean, she's the one that espoused that she only cooks twice a year: Thanksgiving and Christmas.  I guess it's ok for her to say it, but not me? 

She then stated that Sunday brunch is a "tradition" at the house.  What?  I guess I missed that tradition the last 1,664 Sundays of my life. 

Finally during the day of said brunch, she got pissed that nobody would help her make said brunch.  When asked what we could help with, she couldn't think of one thing.  Not one damn thing.

Later that evening, I offered to park my mom's car in the garage.  She can't do it herself, nor can she navigate a drive-through or make left hand turns.  But that's neither here nor there.  She declined, because she said it had to be backed in.  Apparently this woman who is a doctor believes that only men can back cars into parking spaces.  Hmmm.

*Dear Sister, please don't be mad at me for making fun of Mom.  Mom, if you're reading this, please don't cut me out of your will.

Day 2
I woke up this morning, and my dad had a fire going in the fireplace.  In April.  In Louisiana.  I checked the indoor temp.  It was a frigid 82 degrees.

Thankfully the hubs left town this morning.  Not because I didn't desire his company, but because two nights in my childhood double bed with two people and two dogs, just wasn't cutting the mustard.

I'll spare you the next eight days. 

We were supposed to be out of our house for a total of six weeks.  But, after 10 days of harassment, phone calls, and high school boys trying to fight the celebrity male, they decided to move to a gated community. 

Woo hoo!  We get to move back in!

For two days.

Insert 200-year-old tree falling through our house.  Back to Mom and Dad's...

That same day Sidibey Sidiki, Aminata Ndyaia and some of their BFF's stole my AmEx and purchased multiple airline tickets for their travels.  Oh, and travel insurance should anything happen with their trip.  Like getting it canceled, because they stole my card to purchase their trip. 

I googled them and thought about calling them to teach them a lesson, but quickly realized that they could probably reek a lot more havoc on my life than I could on theirs.  After all, they know how to steal credit cards while still in someone's wallet.  I only know how to become psychotic when someone steals my credit card.

So, my mom suggested a walk to relax me.  Half way in, a bird shit on me.  I wish I was joking. 

I don't know who I effed with and at one point, but Karma sure as hell bent me over.

Cleanliness

Promise not to judge me.

I'm about to tell you something embarassing.  I have no idea how to clean a shower. 

I know, that's not embarassing.  BUT, what that means is, that I have never cleaned my shower.  Ever. 

Yes, I realize that makes me totoally disgusting, but you promised not to judge.

It's really difficult for me to understand how a shower gets dirty.  Even when you've gone number 1 before getting into the shower, and the sound of that rushing water coupled with it hitting your skin makes you have to go again, and you absolutely can't hold it a second longer, and would get the entire bathroom all wet if you jumped out to pee, and so you sometimes, just sometimes, HAVE to tee tee in the shower...I mean, the water washes the tee tee down the drain after all. 

So, how does it get dirty?  It gets washed every single time you get in.

Yesterday I noticed that there was some different colored weird stuff in some of the shower corners.  The thought of said weird stuff touching my razor, and then me shaving my legs (and yes, now toes and feet because it's summer) with said razor, totally freaks me out. 

P.S., why is it that my toe hair has the ability to grow longer and thicker than the hair on my head?  I am a lady for God's sake! 

Shelve the comments about whether that's debateable, please. 

So, I found the harshest, most chemical-y thing I could find and covered the shower with it.  The Alexanders are all about chemicals--my husband's mother used to bathe him in Pine Sol when he got chiggers.

Then I used a product called Liquid Fire to unclog the hairiest drain in the South.  Well, the Duggars probably have the hairiest drain in the South, so second hairiest.  

I did feel slightly guilty about what I was flushing into our groundwater, and then quickly remembered that this is Louisiana.  There are WAY worse things in our lakes and streams than my Tilex and Liquid Fire. 

I returned yesterday evening to find that the different colored weird stuff had simply morphed into a different color of different colored weird stuff. 

Huh? 

I mean, was I supposed to do something else?  Scrub it?  Rinse it?  Talke dirty to it?

So, today, my project, besides working, has been to google how to clean a shower. 

I'll let you know how it goes.

We are living in a material world, and I am a material girl.

I had hoped this day would never come.  Sadly, I knew deep down that it would.  It was inevitable.  I'm just too shallow and materialistic to resist the temptation that is overpriced, designer clothes.

The day has arrived when my new love for what I now do, which subsequently comes with a very small paycheck, has caught up with my old love for all things designer.
I tried not to click on that Neiman's e-mail.  I really, really did.  But it was automatically delivered to my inbox, advertising the most beautiful, new spring items which my current wardrobe lacks.

I think I even made it through two whole weeks of spring e-mail advertisements before finally giving in.  But, just like an addict who needs that next fix, I really, really need those new Louboutin's, a Fendi bag, and that Chloe dress.  And, not necessarily in that order.

Spring has sprung, signifying all things fresh and new.  Flowers are blooming, babies are being born, and Easter is almost here.

Jesus does want us to be happy...

Reality Check: Happiness comes from loving what you do while carrying the new Fendi peek-a-boo tote.

Sigh.  And yet, another reason why I'm not a nice person.

People of Wal-Mart

I know most of you are familiar with this little gem.  I rediscover it about every month or so.  Nothing, I repeat, nothing makes me happier.  

www.peopleofwalmart.com

Enjoy!

Three Cats.

There are three categories of people.

1. Funny.

2. Nice.

3. Boring.

Period.  

*Note, these categories do not include those with diagnosable personality disorders.  Thus, sociopaths, those with borderline personality disorders, and anyone with the last name Peterson is specifically discluded from this analysis.

*Also, note, that this extremely scientific model has no room for Punnett squares.  For example, there is no such thing as a nice/funny person or a funny/boring person.  You are either a) funny; b) nice; or c) boring.

Period.

Let's have a moment of silence for the difference between funny, ha-ha, and funny weird...

Now, for all of you funnies, there is, in fact, a big difference between nice and boring.  The nice ones are watching over, taking care of, and praying for your kids, whilst you down that martini.

These people are not boring.  They just simply aren't funny. 

Even our dogs, Abby and Whisky, fit within these categories.  Abby=nice.  Whiskey=funny (ha-ha).  

Not too long ago, I had a particularly poignant conversation with a funny friend about wishing that I was nice.  You see, I've been able to let go of a lot of stuff.  But damnit, I'm still not an honest to god, nice person.  I mean, when you secretly (or not so secretly) wish someone would shart their fancy white pants in public, or come down with a raging case of the clap, you can't be a nice person.

Or a boring person.

See?

Same said friend informed me that nice was a core character trait that few actually posess.

Eureka!  That's when it hit me.  Funny.  Nice.  Boring.  Period.

And, that's why all of my friends are funny.  Not nice.  Or boring.

Even though nice people don't judge, funny people are scared of nice people.  Boring people just don't....well...

For example, all funny people fancy themselves nice (boring people couldn't give a shit), but when it boils down to it, they're not.  I mean, funnies aren't pulling puppies' eyelashes out for fun (I fully support capital punishment for anyone that does such a heinous crime), but, at the core of each and every funny, they'd rather make someone laugh than make them happy.

Now, on to nature v. nurture. 

I believe that you are born either a) funny; b) nice; or c) boring.

For example, when I was 3 years old, I slapped my nanny, Ruth, across the face when she wouldn't buy me french fries at McDonald's.  I mean, she had the audacity to require me to behave prior to purchasing said fries.  I had a better idea: bad behavior AND french fries damnit! 

Now, I know what you're thinking...my behavior could be a product of consistently and constantly watching the Young & the Restless.  From the womb on.

Yes, nurture, I hear you knocking...

However, nice people don't slap each other across the face at the age of 3, for the shear story value.

Even back then, I knew the value of a good story.  As such, I went home and told my mom all about the fact that this mean ass woman had the nerve to refuse me french fries.  And, on top of that, spank me after refusing me said fries.  Puh-leez call Child Protective Services, STAT!

Sadly, at the ripe 'ole age of 3, I lacked the cognitive skills to discern that just because  you say it's so, doesn't mean that it is, in fact, so.  Or that anyone will believe you.  Even if daytime television proves otherwise.

They had my number.  Crap.

God I was an effing brat.  Ok, still am.  BUT, if you've ever slapped someone, thrown a drink in someone's face, or drawn a penis on someone while their passed out, welcome to the world of funny.

And Puh-leez, call me stat, so we can be friends.

Fri-toes

It's almost time for open-toed shoes.  Being that it's ALMOST time for open-toed shoes, I had not closely inspected my toes of late.  That is, until I went to pilates today. 

I removed my shoes and socks, boarded my mat, inhaled, and did a swan-dive towards my toenails...which I briefly mistook for 10 Fritos scoops. 

Maybe that's why my dog tries to lick them?

Am making a pedicure appointment.  Stat.

F-A-T. Forget the PH.

You know what seriously sucks?   Looking fatter than a 7-month (I have no clue how many weeks that translates to) pregnant girl.

My pregola sister-in-law looks bananas.  I, on the other hand, look like a sack of potatoes.

You know how you think you're totally f-i-n-e until you see a picture of yourself?  Wow.    

Dime bag of extra lbs.  Check.

Bad hair cut (or haven't had one in way too long).  Check.

Inadequately applied self tanner.  Check.  

Ugh.  I know.  Self loathing isn't very attractive, but I mean neither am I right now.  

If there was a diet that involved savingnon blanc and butter, I'm bout it bout it.  For example, tonight, I've had wine, fried calamari, bread, hummus and butter for dinner.  Wine for the antioxidants, calamari for the protein, bread, because I did work out today and need those carbs, hummus and butter for...well, aren't fats and oils part the food pyramid? 

Oh, not by the gallon?  

The same goes for wine?  

Well, Shee-it.

Top 10 Signs You're Getting Old

10. You get mamm'ed.  By someone in their 20's.

9. You are excited about going to bed a 9:30.  On a Saturday.

8. You realize that people born in the 90's can vote.  

7. And legally buy cigs.

6. The cast of Friends is totally old (Have you see Joey lately?).

5. You realize that you've been on birth control longer than you haven't.

4. Scott Disick reminds you of every "cool guy bully" in every movie you watched growing up.  

3. Without realizing what you're listening to, you find yourself humming along to the Christian Rock station on the radio.  

2. You have yelled at someone driving on your street to "SLOW DOWN!"

1. You get mail from the AARP.  (No clue how I got on that mailing list.)  

Riding the Vomit Comet

Fact.  It doesn't matter who you are.  No matter how rich or poor.  How beautiful or homely.  How successful or powerful.  At some point in your life, you will violently vomit whilst simultaneously exploding diarrhea out your butt. 

Sorry Gisele, it's sad but true. 

This event occurred in my life, correction, my stomach, my nose, my mouth, my eyeballs, my intestines, and my anus, last Tuesday and Wednesday.

And, you know it was BAD, because I wasn't even excited about the prospect of weight loss. 

Tuesday through Wednesday, my body exhibited every possible color of the rainbow.  Red, orange and yellow first--the primary colors of dinner from Zocolo--which consisted of crawfish cakes, red bell pepper humus, and chardonay.  Then it was on to green and blue--the avocados from lunch, and the blue Gatorade I so stupidly thought my body could handle.  Finally, purple--the 'ole stomach bile. 

Wait!  You thought I was done?  Yeah, me too.  But noooooo.  Back to yellow again--apparently the color of my stomach lining.

By the way, I'm now out of trash cans in the entire upstairs of my house.  Because, with each color, came the need for a new trash can (I'd get so grossed out by one, that it would make me even sicker). 

You ask why couldn't I just puke in the toilet?  Because my butt was glued to it.  Tight.  The only time that it left the commode, was to lie next to it on the floor.  Ahhhh, beautiful, cool, tile floor.  It was so nice that I brought my pillow in there.

The only other time my butt left the toilet, was when one particular bathroom was so sufficiently defiled, thus inducing me to vomit again, which, in, turn required me to move on to the next bathroom.  [Those sounds you hear are moans to God begging Him to let me live. Nope, scratch that.  Death.  Please, God, sweet, sweet death.]

My husband vacilated between caring and pure horror at the sight of me.  That is, until the next morning. 

He was giddy when he found out that I needed a supository.  I mean, what is it with men?  He couldn't wait to tell me that I had to stick something up my butt every 4-6 hours as needed for nausea.

Honestly, at that point, I'd stick my car up there if it would make me feel better.  But, honey, I could do without your sheer enjoyment at the prospect of it.

Thankfully, Wednesday came and went, and I'm back to the land of the living.  Whether it was a virus or something I ate, I don't know and don't care.  However, when I die, if I wind up in Hell, I know what it will consist of: one toilet, one trash can, and an eternity of chucking and cha-cha-cha-ing.  At least Jude Law will be in the stall next to me...

Speaking of things that taste like poo...

Please believe it.  Bacon flavored dental floss.  And you thought that stuff inbetween your teeth smelled bad before...

Dog on Board.

My beautiful, glorious, wonderful nephew is almost five months old.  My sister-in-law is about to have a girl (can I get an Amen?!). And, one of my best friends just had a baby boy.  After having two girls.  Both under the age of three. 


My advice to all: take two Xanax and call me in the morning.  Actually, don't call me unless those kids are at mother's day out.

So, I had kind of, sort of, baby steps (no pun intended) starting talking myself into getting pregola.  My timeline was this spring.  Now that it's mid-February and almost spring, I think I'm going to stick to not getting pregnant.  I am really good at it afterall. 


If my Mimi was still alive, she'd make some comment about how she told me to wait to have kids, but this was an all-time record, how my eggs were getting old, and how you have to hold onto your man like cabbage.  My sister and I could never figure out what the whole cabbage thing meant.  As you have learned, Mimi was buried with a hand-held video poker machine, so I'm not sure what that says about her judgment.  Or ours.   

Not wanting to have a baby really boils down to three things: 1) I work really hard at not getting fat (why would you want to get fat on purpose?); 2) I want to drink wine when I go on vacation (read every night); and 3) My dog Whiskey has decided that she doesn't like babies. 

The first two are selfishly self explanatory.  As for the third, it's not so much that the Whisk doesn't like babies--she is a poo and puke lover afterall--it's the fact that she doesn't like them once they can touch her. 


Over Christmas, she snapped at Bart's cousin's toddler.  Twice.  Zoinks. 


You really can't blame her though.  She's loud, slobbery, clumsy, and snotty.  And, Whiskey really just doesn't care for those traits. 

When I was little, my parents had a dog named Chocolate.  He was a cross between a dachshund and a poodle.  The meanest SOB you've ever seen.  He attacked me every time I tried to get down out of my highchair.  One time, he bit my finger so hard that it turned blue.


The only way my dad could punish him for attacking his kids, was to beat him with a 2x4.  Shoot, dad wasn't about to get close enough to get bitten by that psycho. 


Did my mom get rid of the dog?  Nope.  Never.  That a-hole lived to be a ripe 'ole 17.  Even after eating two chocolate Easter bunnies and two Omaha steaks (including the Styrofoam packaging that they came in). 


Yep, that's 119 loooong dog years of freaking out cute little kids.  Plus, he got me in trouble once.  When I was 5, I told my Grandmother that she and Chocolate looked alike.  It was the hair.  Grey-ish, brown-ish, blah-ish, frizzy-ish, poofy-ish and bad perm-ish.  Grandmother didn't take it as a compliment. 


Fortunately, around age 16 (112), Chocolate finally got too old to put up a fight and would just growl at me while I petted him. 


If you're thinking that my mom was a bad mom, that's fine.  Call me one too, because if Whiskey bit my kid, I wouldn't give her away--instead of giving my child away, I would advise her to leave the sweet dog alone.  It works with bees, right...don't bother the bee and it won't bother you...


I'm someone that honestly doesn't think that I will love a child more than my dog.  I mean, a lot of the time, I love Whiskey more than my husband.  It's ok, they both know it's true.  The only time that I don't love Whiskey is when I see her take a poo in the backyard, then immediately turn around and stark snacking on it.  I guess dogs don't get the whole, "it tastes like shit" thing. 


For a long time, I honestly wanted to give birth to puppies.  I've since grown up, and have come to realize that multiples really aren't my deal.


Today I vow to you that whenever I do decide to have a child, I will tell you whether I love it as much as Whiskey.  And if I don't, I will lie.  Right through my teeth.

Things Your Mom Never Told You (and your insurance didn't cover).

FREEDOM...FREEDOM...FREEDOM...[If you haven't already, insert Aretha Franklin's "Think" immediately into your soul.]

Monday officially marked my freedom from billable hours.  And time sheets.  And major assholes. 

I do want to emphasize that I was fortunate enough not to work with any major (or minor) assholes in my law firm.  Thankfully, all of those a-holes were always on the opposite side.  Remind me to tell you sometime about the Jabba the Hut look-a-like with turrets that thought it was appropriate to psychoanalyze what kind of a "girl" I was.  Yep, you guessed it, it wasn't very flattering.  It's ok, he'll probably choke on the next double cheeseburger he eats.  Here's to hoping anyway.

Bitter, party of one?  Really, I'm not.  Some people just deserve a shit sandwich.  Just sayin'. 

If your parents were anything like mine, they always pushed you to be the best.  All you had to do was put your mind to it.

If you're mom didn't tell you that you could be the best _____ ever, and I've already lost you to the nearest psychiatrist, or the nearest bridge, I apologize.  Actually, I only apologize if you're currently jumping off of a bridge.  If you're calling your psychiatrist, I applaud you.

For the past 32 years of my life, I've been trying to be the "best."

The best what?

Well, you know, just THE BEST.

Your parents never told you what the best was?  Mine didn't either.  The Webster's Dictionary of my mind really effed up that definition.  Especially when it came to being the best lawyer.  I'll spare you the details, your time, and my embarrassment.  Actually, I'll probably write about it down the road.

Well, thousands of my own dollars later, (insurance doesn't cover counseling for us whack jobs), coupled with a prescription for Lexapro, I have come to realize that I have spent the past 32 years being the lamest "best" the world (ok, the Shreveport/Bossier area, ok, my mind) has ever seen.

Everyone (over 30) always talks about how great your 30's are, and how you will just get it.  And by getting it, I think they meant that for the first time in your life, you get more wrinkles than cellulite (wait is it the other way around?), more sense than not, and the drive to finally do something logical about those wrinkles (see dermatologist bi-annually), cellulite (see personal trainer weekly) and sense (see psychiatrist monthly ). 

On Monday, I hung up my suits and my scales of justice and traded them in for spandex and Nikes.  I am now a fitness director instead of a lawyer.  Maybe I'll even fulfill my life-long dream by trying out to be a Dallas Cowboy cheerleader. Eeek, sorry.  A Saintsation!

Yep, I make a lot less money.  And I mean it when I say A LOT.  But, my husband has promised me that if I sleep with him once a day and iron his clothes, he will give me a modest allowance to buy groceries.  I keed.  Honestly, who really needs a pair of Louboutin's when your husband surprises you with a pair of Jessica Simpson's that are a copy of those Louboutins you dog eared in the Neimans' catalogue?  P.S. Thanks, Kristi for your assistance!

Yes, I'm lucky that I have a great degree.  Yes, I'm lucky that my husband supports my decision.  And, yes, I'm really lucky that it's 2010, and I can decide to take a job that pays less. 

*Note to self--get life insurance on Bart. 

But, you know what the BEST is?  That this is the right decision for me.

You say it's your birthday...

It's my birthday too, biotches!!!!  Today I am 29 for the third time.  And, as long as I keep using Botox, I should be able to remain looking 25-ish for several more years.

Thanks, Modern Science, for poisonous face-freezing botulism!  You are the best!  Now, please invent something that shrinks my ass, lifts these 32-year-old A-cups, and removes the long, black hairs from my moles. 

BTW, I once had a mole on my stomach that my sister dubbed "the tick."  I know, no details necessary.  It removed itself during an especially strenuous high school cheerleading practice.  It was never found.

I wonder if it's still on the floor of the C.E. Byrd High School gym...

A thought...

Was watching Hoarders on A&E last night.  Am seriously considering making my house slightly messier.  My garage already qualifies us for the show.  Maybe they will come clean it all up? Hmmmm...

Funeral Part I

The start of the new year always makes me reflect on past years, and life's trials and triumphs. The year 2008 provided me with, hands down, two of the most memorable and entertaining events of my life.  Both were funerals. No disrespect to the dead, but these funerals were truly ah-maz-ing experiences.  Not because they were particularly moving spiritually, but because of the entertainment value.


Background:
Everyone knows someone like me. When I get nervous, I laugh (and my armpits tingle). When someone falls, I laugh first, then remember that I'm supposed to ask if they're ok. The worst though, is that I laugh when I'm not supposed to laugh, i.e., Fart in church, and I'm a goner. 

(Remind me to tell you about the time that Bart and I were in the Cayman Islands for our first anniversary. There was an elderly man at the table next to us. He was eating alone. I started crying at dinner, because I concluded--with absolutely no supporting evidence--that it was also his anniversary; however his beloved wife had passed away. Poor man was mourning his dead wife, and here I was practically rubbing it in his face.  Right about that time, he lifted up one leg, and ripped the loudest fog horn of an old man fart that you have ever heard.) 

Ahhhh, a fart.  The joke that never gets old.  And, proof that God has a sense of humor.

As usual, I digress. In 2008, my Mimi passed away.  My Mimi and Papa lived in Paragould, Arkansas.  Never heard of it?  Shocker. 

My family, including my sister and her husband, who have been in Manhattan way too long, set out for Paragould from Shreveport.  Never heard of Shreveport?  Shocker.  We met up with the rest of my dad's family in Paragould, (including those cousins who we are now no longer on speaking terms with), and headed to the funeral home. 

The first hour was immediate family only.  We were all extremely sad and subdued.  My sister and I were both crying.  Dawn couldn't bring herself to approach the open casket, so I went first. 

I leaned over to get a better view of my Mimi, when I noticed something in her casket.  What's that in Mimi's casket...no, not her pillow...is that?...NO!...oh my god, it is!  They are NOT burrying Mimi with a hand held video poker machine.  Oh my God.  They ARE. 

Well, at least she's not Baptist.

Pssst, pssst, Dawn, get over here!  You are not going to believe this...

During the visitation, Bart commented on one of the children's outfits, which was a pair of overalls.  He turned to me and asked, "I wonder what age you are when you get too old to wear overalls to a funeral?".  The answer:  63.  Because that's the age of at least four men in attendance sportin' overalls.  And drinking beer.  In a can.  Although it is hard to tell a person's age in a place like Paragould.  Time has not been good to some of Paragould's people.

In case you were wondering, shorts and T-shirts are also equally acceptable (for all ages), as well as a leather mini-skirt and sunglasses worn indoors and out (that one would be my mom).

Ironically, the point that I lost it--and by lost it, I mean laughed so hard I nearly peed my pants--was not when I discovered the video poker machine in the casket, or when "Elvis Sings the Gospel" began wafting through the boom box speakers (there's nothing like the cassette tape version of the King singing Ave Maria, coming through a ghetto blaster's speakers, while being operated by the preacher).  Nope, that didn't do it; I still had my wits about me at that point.  It was the dove release that broke me...set to Celine Dion's "Fly Away."  Same ghetto blaster.  Same operation.

The site of those doves flying over that Valero station, coupled with Celine belting it out through the boom box, proved too much for me to handle.

That would be the first of two funerals within two months of each other, that I would pretend to cry hysterically to cover up laughing hysterically.

I know what you're thinking.  And, that's not the first time that someone has thought (or wished) that I'm going to hell.  I just hope that you get a good laugh at my funeral when I'm on my way there.

A long line of crazy.

Dear Nephew Callan,

Your mom recently informed me that you are showing definite signs of inheriting the dreaded Futrell sister unibrow.  As long as you don't adopt your mom's Mary Lou Retton do, or my punk (which was really just a glorified lesbian-ish mullet), while sporting the uni, you should persevere. 

I must be honest with you though. You come from a looooong line of crazy.  Your mother is just mildly crazy in comparison.  You have met your Nana, right?.  Nana can't help it though.  Her decendants, the Coulters, were train robbers.  Most were killed by vigilantes.  Or Indians. 

Nana's father, your great grandfather, taught your mom how to eat like a squirrel, our cousin to fetch the paper like a dog, and tried to give us all baby goats.

Oh, by the way, you're related to Ann Coulter.  Just deny it if anyone asks you.

Your Papa's family isn't much better.  While your great, great, great grandfather was the governor of Arkansas, he was also a boot-legger.  Not surprisingly, your great grandparents, Mimi and Papa, owned a liquor store, and had a slot machine in their basement.  Your mom and I grew up roller skating and playing the nickel slots in that basement. 

Sadly, we aren't on speaking terms with all of those cousins that we used to roller skate and gamble with, because some have an "alleged" propensity for smoking crack.  Oh, and managing apartment complexes so that they can break into those same apartments that they manage--you know, to support their habit, uh hum, "alleged" habit.
*Note that all family members discussed herein are considered innocent until proven guilty.

Fortunately for you, the coo-koo factor seems to decrease with each generation.  You may even turn out normal.  We shall wait and see...

Idiot. Masochist. Both.

My current state:

I know, I'm an idiot.  Or a masochist.  Or both. 

So, here's my Houston Marathon recap (written while watching Intervention and drinking wine).  Oh my God, I'm so glad I'm not addicted to drugs, and instead, only the pain that comes with running 26.2. 

Bart and I headed to Houston Friday afternoon.  Per usual, we left a good hour and a half after our EDT.    Bart was sweating, nearing full-on Alexander melt down stage; meanwhile, my blood pressure was eye-level.   After a truce was called (and spousal murder avoided), we happily set sail.  

Due to our late departure, instead of meeting our Houston friends at their homes, we went directly to the Spaghetti Western.  

WHAT?!  

Apparently you can't take 7 children to sushi.  Who knew?  

7 and 1/2 kids (one currently cooking), 4 couples, 2 hours, and one training potty in a suburban at the Spaghetti Western later=a double dose of birth control, me ordering my husband not to touch me for at least a year, and simultaneously googling wine.com and doctors that tie tubes.  

Whew!  I'm exhausted just writing about it.

The next day, we visited with Brad and Jennifer, and Bart got his hair and make-up done by Elle.  Elle is 3.   How you say, "bee-u-ti-ful, no"?  [Pictures to follow].

We carbo loaded (fancy talk, for eating the shit you normally feel guilty for eating) and turned in early.

Much to my surprise, Bart decided to run the 5-k, instead of hunting geese.  Something about rain and water, [insert Charlie Brown's teacher here], and geese not liking something, [and here].  It must be similar to what he hears when I speak Missoni, Louboutin, and D&G.   Huh.

We woke up bright and early (read, I yelled at Bart for having the nerve to tell me good morning), and set out for the marathon (and 5-k).

Immediately upon pulling up to the Houston Convention Center, I had to go.  Number 2.  IMMEDIATELY!!!  

Crisis averted, Bart walked me to my starting position.  Holy Shit.  I had to go.  Number 2.  Again.  IMMEDIATELY!! 

Apparently, that's what happens, when you eat 2 pounds of pasta and combine it with nerves.  Who knew?  Actually, I did.  I've been in that boat before.  Three times.  One of which involved a chimichanga, a bowl of queso, and 26.2 miles.  Nuff said.

Due to my dual assplosions, I didn't start my race in my designated time corral.   However, at 7:10, I was off!  I felt good.  At mile 9, it dawned on me that I had run three 5-k's.  At mile 13, I was ecstatic that I was half-way through.  At mile 16, I was pumped that I only had 10 miles to go.   And, at mile 21, I didn't just hit the wall--I effing did a full-force U around the top and the bottom of that fucker.  

I have never had calf cramps.  I've always been of the opinion that those NFL guys were faking it when they clutched their calf muscles, and begged to be carried off the field.  Sweet Jesus, forgive me, for I was so wrong.

I had dual calf cramps.  And 5 looooooooooonnnnnnnnnng miles to go.   I stopped and stretched.  Bad. Idea.  I broke my number one marathon rule--don't stop.  Ever.  It hurts WAY worse when you stop.

At that point, I officially bent over and took it from the marathon gods.  

I continued another mile of my run/walk/hobble, when, what's that I spied, an oasis?  Yes!  The beer garden.  I promise you, that's the longest, and hardest that I've thought about anything in a long time (sorry, oil and gas clients).  I could surrender to those marathon gods, and enjoy a cold, delicious brewskee (or two), and call my sweet husband to come get me.  

With tears in my eyes, and self-loathing in my heart, I kept on.  Cussing the whole way.  Telling myself that I will NEVER.  EVER.  DO.  THIS.  AGAIN.  

I crossed the finish line at 3 hours and 44 minutes--four minutes from qualifying for Boston.

Our friend, Brad, qualified for Boston, with an impressive time of 3 hours 4 minutes!  

His wife, Jennifer, ran her first half marathon!

Bart came in 46th in his age group for the 5-k!

And I'm seriously considering running another one in February.  Idiot.  Masochist.  Both.  

The family that doesn't play together, stays together.

We are packing our bags and heading to H-town tomorrow to run the Houston Marathon.  And by we, I mean we are packing our bags, we are heading to Houston, and I will be running the marathon.  Mr. Fitness backed out of the 5-k.  I think it's because his vajay is sore.  However, he has promised to meet me at the finish line...if he's back from duck hunting by the time I finish.

The cold I have in my face and chest (the Mucus Family has moved in with no intentions of going anywhere) plus the extra 10 elbeez I'm sportin' should work in Bart's favor.  Not mine.

*Note, contrary to popular belief, if you train for a marathon over the holidays, it does not prevent weight gain.  In fact, you eat more butter fried in lard, because you think you can, causing the opposite effect.  Who knew?

So, while you (and Bart), are happily and restfully drinking mimosas on Sunday morning, please send me good thoughts.  Oh yeah, you definitely made the better decision.

Under the boardwalk, down by the sea...

As a lover of all things reality TV, The Jersey Shore had me at Guido. However, I have not been able to put my finger on why the rest of the nation is so obsessed with this show. People that don't normally tune into reality TV are watching, mesmerized. It can't just be the train wreck factor--there are tons of train wrecks all over the tube. Is it the fact that such strange microcosms of people exist outside of the Brazilian Rain Forest and the West Bank? It's like these people have been cut off from the rest of the world.


Exhibit A: The girls all dress like whores. I'm not talking your run of the mill trashy biotch at the bar that shows waayyyyyy too much cleavage. I am talking straight up street-walking, crack-using, 80's video vixen, whores. All of their clothes look like a tiger clawed-up an 8-year-old's closet.

Exhibit B: Not one person in this whole town has gotten the memo that tanning beds are bad for you. Really, really bad for you.

Exhibit C: Not one person in this whole town has gotten the memo that steroids are bad for you. Really, really bad for you.

Exhibit D: They genuinely like house music.

I really, really try not to make fun of people. The exception to this rule, is that if you subject yourself to reality TV, then you're fair game. With that said, here is a breakdown of the cast of characters:

Snooki. Ladies, if you're under 5 feet, go ahead and check that Halloween costume off your list. This lovely lady stands in at 4 feet, 5 inches. If you crossed a troll doll, Christina Aguilera, and a Mystic Tan booth, you would arrive at what is now Snooki. Snooki would be wise to invest all the money she makes off of this show in Bump It stock.

Sammi Sweetheart. Sammi's the kind of girl that you can't decide whether or not you like. You think she's stuck up, but then she pulls a bitch's hair for you. And this girl knows how important hair is--it takes her hours to attach her weave before a night on the town.

Angelina "Jolie". Angelina is no longer on the show. Why you ask? Because, MTV actually forced her to work in a sweat, I mean T-shirt shop. To this, she stated, "I feel this job is beneath me. I'm a bartender. I do great things." Mother Teresa is so proud.

Jen "JWoww".  One look at this girl, and you know she's sporting a mean case of the herps.  And the clap.  After the show's over, mark my words.  You will find this girl in porn.

Mike "the Situation." Go to your bookshelf. Get out your Thesaurus. Turn to the word "douchebag" or words "douche bag." Now check the synonyms. The first one is Mike, right? Whatever bad things happen to this guy in life, he fully deserves them.

Pauly D. This guy has a blow out, has tattoos, his ween pierced, and is employed as a DJ. Doesn't sound that bad? Well, he's 30.

Ronnie. Ronnie is the most clear cut example of failing to get the above memos. He's actually almost likeable. Then he says something like this, "You just take your shirt off and they come to you, it's like a fly comes to s**t!"

Vinny. Vinny looks exactly like a Beastie Boy, circa 1988. He's also the most normal of all of the cast. And by normal, I mean the least retarded of all of the cast. And, he managed to contract pink eye. In a bar.

And just in case you were a little jealous that you don't have a similar such nickname http://www.unlikelywords.com/2009/12/08/jersey-shore-nickname-generator/

Fist pump!