I like my coffee like I like myself - bitter

Merry Crazy Ass Christmas

2009-11-12T21:06:00.001-05:00

Leave it to me to put an unbelievably high standard on myself for Hell’s Bells’s Christmas card debut. But, truth be told, I have been planning her card since LAST Christmas. My vision is something angelic. My little tootie all dressed in white, in front of a sparkling Christmas tree, a slight smile on her face, eyes looking upwards filled with the magic of the Holiday.

Here’s what you can’t see, The Hubs and I jumping around behind the photographer like jesters burning calories and breaking a major sweat just to get that slight smile. A tiny hand, out of the camera’s view trying to grab whatever it can to pull the tree down; and the sound of a wet burp that you know just had a little extra something to it that at any minute is going to dribble down the front of that white dress.

The other day, I was holding her as I flicked on the hallway light. She stared up at the ceiling fan with the exactly look I wanted for the Christmas card. “That look,” I said, “That look right there!”

So, The Hubs devised a plan. I should decorate the tree and never let Hell’s Bells see it lit until that very moment. I should sit behind the photographer with my foot on the switch until the right moment (that moment being BEFORE I hear the wet burp) and then hit the switch. However, I am deathly afraid that plan will backfire and the sight of all the colors and lights will scare the child out of her wits. Or, worse, I will get a face so confused that it might be mistaken for her poop face sans the grunting and bright shade of red she gets.

Did I also mention that I have three outfits picked out for this picture and everyday I find another one. I will be lucky to get one good picture in a single outfit, much less attempt to get the miniature Cher into THREE different ones. As it is now, it takes a good TEN MINUTES and ALL my patience to get her dressed for daycare in the morning. I can't imagine how many bottles of wine I would need to settle my nerves after three. But, come hell or high water, I will probably attempt to try all of them. I know I will get the perfect look in the not so perfect outfit and I will have to Photoshop her head onto another picture.

Oh great. As I type this, yet another outfit came in the mail. Four!!! Can I possibly have four wardrobe changes for one Christmas card? Yes, yes I can . . . . . I think.

Google. Sometimes better than going to the Doctor and wasting 15 bucks

2009-05-13T16:39:00.003-04:00

So yeah. Lay this one on your husband when he comes home after a long, hard day of work.

"I need a new engagement ring and wedding band."

Some of you who have been following my Facebook Status with all my whining of my corroded finger know that very recently, I developed a nasty, itchy, blistering rash under my wedding ring. Now, I know I packed on some LBs with the pregnancy so my rings have gotten a bit snug but a blistering rash. Really???? I haven't worn my rings for more than a week and it is killing me because I HEART my rings. I wore them my entire pregnancy except for one week when I retained enough water to fill a pool. And during that week, I STILL tried to get them on every morning.

Like I do with every rash, cramp, ache, pain I get, I Googled "ring rash" early on. Just as I suspected, I would have to have very sensitive skin to be allergic to platinum. I may scar easily but thankfully I don't have sensitive skin and unfortunately Hell's Bells did not inherit that from me. But, hey, who knows, my body has defied science before so it could be likely I might be allergic to it. From my findings, I pretty much determined that the weight gain caused my rings to get a bit tighter and since I wash my hands about 150 times an hour now, water and soap was getting trapped under my ring thus irritating it. After I thought it cleared up I wore my rings again one day for a couple of hours. The next morning I woke up with an alien finger again; I decided it was time to call the Doctor. It was going to take almost 2 weeks to get an appointment and that was not even with the doctor, it was with a Physician's Assistant.

I spent a very itchy week coating my finger in a mixture of Neosporin and Cortisone five times a day. The blisters spread and I popped them and poured Hydrogen Peroxide on my finger. It itched so bad I wanted to cut my finger off. I called the Doctor everyday to see if there was a cancellation. I was able to score an appointment ONE DAY earlier. By that time, my finger was almost completely healed with just some residual redness and chaffing. I felt dumb even showing up for the appointment but I was hoping she would give me a steroid cream to use the next time it broke out. AND THERE WOULD BE A NEXT TIME.

I sat there with the PA and showed her my rings while telling her about the oozing blisters and the itching.

"I know I am not allergic to platinum. I am pretty sure of that. It is probably just getting irratated by water getting trapped under those holes and soap so I probably just need a cream and to lose 15 lbs."

"No, you are probably allergic to platinum." She said.

"Um, platinum is the most hypo-allergenic metal out there. There is a very SMALL percentage of people allergic to it and those are probably the same people allergic to air. Are you sure it is not just soap and water under a now tight ring?"

"No. You are allergic to platinum."

"Well, do you want to test me to make sure before I go home and tell my husband that I need new rings?" I mean, really. JUST A THOUGHT!!!!!

Turns out they didn't have a platinum test patch because that is how rare an allergy to it is.

"Let me go ask the doctor," she said before leaving the room.

Lucky for me, the doctor was eating her lunch across the hall (despite it being almost 4) so I could hear everything Dummy and the Doctor were talking about. Basically, I heard the Doctor tell Dummy everything that I just told her. That it was unlikely I was allergic to the metal and it was most likely soap and water getting trapped under the ring. Basically, the only cure is to let this rash clear up entirely for another week or so and then put my rings back on. When I come home, take the ring off and make sure when I wash my hands move the ring to another part of my finger so my finger dries. That doesn't solve the whole water in the hole of the rings tho but in Dummy's world it make perfect sense to trap the water under the ring on ANOTHER part of my finger. Genius.

"Well, I guess I will just take them off when I wash my hands," I said. Sounds logical.

'No. I don't recommend that. I had one patient lose her ring that way."

"Could happen but isn't that why we have insurance?" Now I was arguing with Dummy. I was going to get my $15 co-pay's worth.

She had no answer for me. Shocker. It became blatantly obvious to me now that she got her degree because she had great skin. She gave me some steroid ceam samples and told me to come back in 3 weeks to see her. Why don't I just use the samples and give myself $15.

Stranger Danger

2009-05-08T23:12:00.002-04:00

Since we put Hell's Bells in her own room I have slept like crap. For starters, I am on the other side of the bed (see two posts ago as to why) and I cannot get used to it. I have also become a SUPER LIGHT sleeper which is a drastic change from the there-could-be-a-bomb-going-off-in-my-room-and-I-would-have-no-idea way I slept pre-kid. I now have to sleep with the door open which for some reason makes me think that the Nightstalker is going to sneak in and behead me by morning. No sense in telling me this couldn't happen because I will tell you what I tell The Hubs. YES IT CAN and i bet at least one of his victims said the same thing. I guess this is where watching all the ID Network while i was preggo kicks me in the ass.

But, I also can't sleep because of my fear that someone is going to steal our baby in the middle of the night. The bedrooms are on the second floor, my husband argues. And yes, they are. But, if anyone wanted to steal a baby, they would find a way. I almost did a no-sleep-until-we-get-an-alarm protest. I can again attribute this to watching the ID Network and now all the Law & Order I watch. Particularly, SVU. I have this fear that I am going to wake up in the middle of the night just in time to see hands snatch her from her crib. Or, I am going to wake up and see an empty crib. I relay this fear to my husband and he tells again that I am nuts. I always have the same response.

"I bet Polly Klaas' dad said that to her mom too."

And it always renders the same response from The Hubs, "Who?"

Apparently, I am the only person who remembers the names of abducted kids.

Regardless, I think it is pretty legit fear that my husband laughs at. I am haunted by it in a major way. The other morning, after The Hubs left for work, I was drifting in and out of sleep when I swore I heard someone whispering to Bella in her room. The person was whispering to her like they knew her. I sensed danger and immediately sprung out of bed just in time to see a small, skinny woman with a black hooded sweatshirt standing at the top of my stairs holding my baby. The person saw me flying out of the bedroom door and darted down the stairs. I am not too steady on my feet when I first wake up so it felt like I was running after her with broken ankles. I woke up. Obviously, I was dreaming but it was very realistic and I woke up with my heart pounding and scrambling to look at the monitor where Bella was fast asleep. I was too freaked out to sleep.

Needless to say, that afternoon, I fashioned my own Stranger Danger deterrent but too much CSI made me way too paranoid about the teenage boy living behind me.

Date night and the reason why I am why I am

2009-05-03T14:42:00.005-04:00

So, Friday night my folks were kind enough to watch Hell's Bells while The Hubs and I went out alone. Of course, they would have done this very nice gesture if I said, "We really need a night out alone" but it helped that our night out alone included going to watch their grandson, my nephew in his second school play. I talked my husband into asking his boss if he could be home by 5. Kinda sad that he has to request that but in the day and age of "I'm lucky to even have a job" most people would work until midnight if their boss asked them to.

The Hubs made reservations at Kona Grill because he knows how much I like their filet and wok tossed veggies. Honestly, I didn't care what I ate so long as I knew I could use both hands because one wasn't busy rocking a stroller or shaking a carseat to calm a crying baby. Hell's Bells has gone out with us many times but it was time for mommy and daddy time, no matter how good I got at rocking the carseat with my elbow as I ate a cheeseburger.

My folks came just in time for me to change out of a spit up stained Fish Taco T-shirt and into something cleaner. They were probably in the house 3 minutes before The Hubs and I flew out the door while I yelled back, "See ya, suckers!" It wasn't until we were halfway out of the complex when I realized what terrible parents we were. Neither of us said goodbye to the kid. I contemplated going back but we were too giddy with excitement that we didn't want to cause a possible upset should she realize we were leaving her.

We got to Kona early which was a good thing because after hearing there was half price apps in the bar area, we decided to sit there forgetting the service was going to be a lot slower because more time waiting meant more time drinking which is their plan but not mine. I wanted a wine, a margarita, a martini, even a beer but I don't drink so after two sips The Hubs would be leading me to the car like a stumbling drunk. I stuck with my diet coke. It didn't take either one of us long to say that it felt like something was missing. That it was completely weird getting out of the car and not having to pull out the carseat and unfold the stroller. Soon, a familiar face from work walked through the door. Since I had not seen her since I left for maternity leave, she wanted to see pictures of the baby and I was more than happy to oblige.

Now, I have a problem. I cannot ever accept a compliment for myself but if someone comments how cute Hell's Bells is, all I can say is, "I know!" The Hubs informed me the correct response should be "thank you." Whoops.

Soon, we were left alone again and I started commenting on the people around me. Of course, being home for 10 weeks, I was totally over stimulated by looking at so many people, I didn't know who or what to comment on first. It didn't take me long to hone into three guys huddled around talking to each other ignoring two girls standing next to them talking to each other.

"That is the problem with your gender," I said. "Three guys standing there ignoring two girls."

"The problem with my gender?" The Hubs said. "Why aren't the girls talking to them?"

This turned into a whole debate about how meeting people in Fairfield County sucks. I lived in this county my whole life so I can't really comment but I have enough single friends to know that this is probably true.

"It's easier to meet people in other places," The Hubs said. "When we would go to Cancun, we would always meet people."

Yes, but it was usually a drunken spring break in Cancun thus making it easier to meet people because your standards are lower and you aren't really looking for much else than a vacation fling.

"It's not even this hard to meet people in New York City." He added.

Can you tell The Hubs is a wee bit more passionate about this topic than me? This is for two reason. 1.) I was never a bar person. I hated bars. Still do. 2.) I was never a single guy so I didn't feel all that pressure his gender feels. I mean, sure, I was a single girl but out on the town, the pressure is more on the single guys. I just kind of sit back and laugh because all the bar hopping his friends did. All the drinks they bought for girls. All the hopes of getting some numbers on a Friday/Saturday night? All the rejection they withstood. All the games of wingman? And where did almost all of them end up meeting their wives/girlfriends including him? Yup, Match.com. Go figure. I wanted to mention this point but probably thought it might be a sore spot so I stole the last piece of sushi roll while he wasn't looking.

I was reminded of something a friend said to me recently. A newcomer to Stamford, she said she was surprised a native like me was willing to meet new people because it has been her experience that FFC folk are unwilling to meet new people. That we seem to have our people and we stick with them. I went through my mental phonebook and it turns out that I must prey on people new to the area because I have about as many newcomers as I do natives. I don't know why but I like extolling the virtues of Stamford on newcomers. Not even so much what a great city it is, but all the great food we have and how nice it is to be so close to NYC without paying to live there and still not have to take mass transit. But, honestly, FFC folk are, for the most part, snobby and keep to themselves. We tend to not be friendly to outsiders because we have this mentality hence why a bunch of single guys from Monroe with decent jobs, relatively handsome, overall nice and snappy dressers couldn't meet a girl in a bar here no matter how many drinks they paid for.

Dinner was over and the debate had ended on a positive note, as all debates should end, with my husband telling me how lucky he was to have met me. And I responded to that the same way i respond to compliments about my kid, "I know." On the way out, my familiar face from work was sitting outside with other familiar faces so again, I was forced (read: willingly whipped it out) to pull out my phone to share pictures of Hell's Bells.

"Oh my god, she is so cute."
"I know!"

Obviously, I learned nothing from my husband's prior lecture on my inability to be humble when it comes to the kid.

We had time to kill before the play so we decided to stop home and drop off the leftovers and say proper goodbyes to Hell's Bells. I was sorry the second I walked through the door. My parents looked like they had been through the wringer. She was calm now but we evidently just missed a screaming and crying jag that outlasted my parents' nerves. "Grrrrrreaaaat," I thought. "They are never going to want to do this again!" My father still had hearts in his eyes for his granddaughter, but my mom looked shellshocked. Then again, I have found that most men can tune out a baby's wailing but women just can't do it. But, they were both willing to stay while we went to the play. We kissed Hell's Bells goodbye and thanked my folks profusely before running out the door again.

I can tell now, it is going to be a looooooong time before another Date Night.

I appreciate your concern, but get away from my car

2009-04-30T12:21:00.001-04:00

So, it finally happened. Actually, it happened two weeks ago but I am just getting around to telling the story now. When I say "it finally happened", I mean that someone thought I left my crying kid alone in the car while I got my coffee fix.

My mom and I were out on the town with Lady Bells. I offered to buy her a coffee (actually, she ended up buying just because she wanted to escape the car that was slowly filling with screams). We pulled into the back parking lot of the DD on High Ridge. My plan was to go in and get the coffee but my mother beat me to it flying out of the backseat before I could even get my hand on the handle and say "my treat."

Lady Bells was REALLY starting to go at in the backseat. In an effort to calm her down, I hopped in the backseat with her and leaned over her to start soothing her which was useless because she has proved to me countless times that she will calm down whenever the hell she is damn well ready to and anything I have to say is just more background noise for her to scream over. It was relatively warm that day and the windows were down. I felt bad for a group of high school kids eating their high school specials on the hood of their car. They kept looking over at the car, because obviously, it sounded like I was murdering my child. I mouthed "sorry" to them and continued my useless soothing attempts.

That it when "it" happened. I saw some guy creeping around my car peering into to the windshield first and then coming around to the driver's side. I thought he was going to steal my car and my baby so I immediately sprang into acting, popping up quickly in a defensive stance. The guy was unphased (I have to work on my scary face) and just nodded and walked off. It occurred to me, he was checking to see if someone was in the car with this crying kid. I got really freaked that he called the police before he checked to see if anyone was in there and within seconds dozens of police cars were going to come flying in the parking lot and see a very alarmed Dr. Horder. I started to panic and began having visions of standing in a courtroom (on the wrong side of the bench) defending myself that I was in the car. That is when I remembered that the high school kids saw me get out from the front seat and get into the back thus never leaving my kid unattended in the car for more than the time it took me to get from front to back and if my ass wasn't so big, I would have just climbed back there. Phew! I have witnesses.

Finally, my mom came out and I practically had the car in drive before she even got in. I was getting the hell outta dodge ASAP. The po po ain't taking me down for something I didn't do.

Crib day and how I woke up on the wrong side of the bed

2009-04-25T22:21:00.001-04:00

No joke. Lady Bells' room is the nicest room in the house. The Hubs dreamed up a nursery in his head and I did everything in my decorating power to make it happen. He wanted the perfect nursery for his daughter. Altho' he regretted not dreaming that it had a flat screen TV he could watch sports on during night/morning feedings. Her room is a sanctuary that remains virtually untouched with the exception of some feedings and diaper changes altho I have the cleaning people clean it religiously .... just in case.

"Is she in her crib yet?" The pediatrician asked me at her 7 week check up. I hung my head in shame and said no. I knew the day had to come. I was ready for it. I was preparing by watching The Sleep Solution over and over until ever tip was etched in my brain and I began referring the hosts as "those two uppity estrogen pumping bitches who obviously never encountered a child like my child who was slowly killing my Dyson."

The Hubs and I figured a move to the crib should happen before I went back to work in case there were incessant nights of crying. We decided to do it on a weekend so he could stay up too. We spent the early evening making sure the video monitor worked, the camera was in a good position relative to where I was going to place her and the nightlights were all in place. He also moved the bassinet out of the room because he knew if it was still there, I would be weak against her crying and take her back into the room with us. He put my nightstand and lamp back.

We gave her a bath, fed her a bottle and when she was nice and asleep in my arms, I carried her up the stairs. The Hubs left the stuffed monkey in the spot I was going to put her in so I had to run the risk of putting her down, then picking her up again. Lucky for me, she was so tired from barely napping that day that she barely woke up when I moved her twice. I quickly snuck out of the room and into the bedroom where my eyes immediately became glued to the monitor. She woke up. The Hubs and i took a deep breath and waited for the raging to begin.

Surprisingly, it didn't.

I started thinking of things we did wrong and safety measures I forgot like how close was the bassinet bedding to the nightlight.

"I should move it," I said.

The Hubs all but pulled me back by the straps of my nightgown. "Wait until she is asleep again."

I agreed and walked into the bathroom. I had to flush the toilet though (usually we don't in the night if its just pee but since Flow is in town, I had to flush) so I closed the bathroom door and flushed. I quietly opened it again and sprinted back to the bedroom.

"Well, she WAS sleeping." The Hubs said.

Whoops.

We turned off the light, laid in bed and watched the monitor. She wasn't doing much but trying to find her thumb which is pretty amusing to watch.

"I should have put the old nightlight in the bathroom," I said.

"You are not going in there. Wait until she falls asleep." The Hubs said.

Obviously, no matter how many times I watched that video, I had it all wrong. I kept wanting to go in thee BEFORE she cried out. I am such a tool. Finally, she fell asleep and The Hubs gave me the green light to tip toe in and ease my fears that the bassinet drape was too close to the nightlight and retrieve the old nightlight and set it up in the bathroom.

"The hall should really have an outlet," I said making my mental list of things I will improve in the near future.

I crawled back in bed where The Hubs was already in a light sleep with his sleep mask on shielding him from the faint light pouring out of the bathroom.

I checked the monitor, she was still asleep. However, note that i was not asleep. I was nowhere near sleep for someone who had 4 hours the night before. I should have been asleep with my sleepmask on but alas, I was wide awake. We had the room to ourselves but now a new set of problems ensued. I had to sleep with my bedroom door open. Anyone who knows me knows two things have to happen for me to sleep tight. The closets have to be closed all the way so the clowns stay inside. The bedroom door must be shut and locked so the serial killers stay away. Now, the door was open and I was closest to it. It was going to be a long night.

"Um, I hate to wake you up again," I said, tapping The Hubs. "Would you mind switching sides of the bed." And to justify my middle of the night lunacy, I added, "You know, I never sleep closest to the door in hotels."

"We're not in a hotel. We're home," he said (but note, he was already starting to move.)

"I know. I know. But, you know me." I said. Then, the clincher, "And you married it."

We switched sides which proved harder on me because now I had to get used to a new side of the bed and one which smelled funkier than my side. The Hubs said he had to get used to a whole new side but then he passed right now. I must have fallen asleep because I woke up on the wrong side of the bed, literally, at 7 a.m. when I finally heard crying from the monitor. She made it through the night but I barely did.

Dumping Ground

2009-04-18T09:12:00.001-04:00

Ever since I passed by first trimester, I got the urge to purge. I'm not talking about throwing up, just getting rid of stuff in the house we didn't need to make room for the baby. Of course, that meant dumpling way more of The Hub's stuff than mine but I compromised on some things. Lucky for me, I have a truck and also lucky for me, I have several Goodwill bins very nearby.

Now, I know you're not supposed to dump anything outside the bins but everybody does it under the cover of the night. Any day, you could drive by and see baby toys, furniture, computers, lawn chairs and the same green pick up truck. Not sure if that is for the taking but it never moves so maybe it is. Sometimes The Hubs and I will boldly dump something there in broad daylight. Other times, we wait until it is very late and we are sure nobody is around to dump the larger items. I can just imagine getting busted and having to go before a Judge I work with because I got arrested for dumping an old office chair. Embarrassing! But, some items are not as easy to hack up with a hammer and my hands as other items are (wooden vanities and dressers, that was a fun day).

I remember one night, The Hubs and I waited until we were sure the parking lot would be empty and nobody would witness the multiple illegal acts were about to scatter. Before we left the house, I contemplated covering my license plate with a garbage bag but he talked me out of it. When we arrived at the Goodwill bin, there was a car full of people parked facing the bins, headlights on illuminating the only area I needed to be completely dark. We hope they were lost and just trying to read directions so we circled the lot. They were not moving. After a few minutes, I got impatient and threw caution to the wind, pulling up to the bins and telling The Hub's to get out and start unloading as fast as possible. Within seconds, he was done and I peeled out of the lot yehawing like a cowboy screaming, "catch me now, fuckers!" I was sure they were following me but I think I was just conjuring up some excitement in my own head.

The next morning, we took a ride by to see the carnage we left and it was all gone except for one thing. In fact, anytime we put anything there, it is gone within a matter of hours. Sometimes, we will drive back in half an hour and it is gone. It becomes a game to see how popular our garbage is compared to the garbage of others. Apparently, my stuff is coveted. What does that say about my taste?

Womb Power

2009-03-25T09:35:00.001-04:00

When you are registering for baby stuff people have a lot of opinions. I don't usually give mine unless I am asked (and then you get a two page email about it) but some folks just can't contain themselves. While The Hubs and I were walking around Babies R Us scanning in our registry items, a womyn came running over to us and told us to register for the Mommy Bear. It is this bear that attaches to the crib and makes womb noises. The one in the store was busted so we didn't get to try it out but we scanned it anyway. I was a bit discouraged when I spoke to someone from work who told me her son hated it. I received the Mommy Bear for my shower and it sat in the box for a good few weeks before we tried it and Lady Bells was less than impressed by it as she was with her swing. However, she loved the hell out of her changing pad.

The Hubs was ready to pack up and return the Mommy Bear and the swing to get credit to buy formula but I told him to give it another whirl in a couple of weeks to see if her tastes changed. Sure enough, they did. And as a new parent trying to calm a fussy and crying baby you will try just about anything with a million things that make noise strapped onto your arms and legs as you rush the baby around putting her in every contraption you own like it's a low budget version of Neverland Ranch to see what works. Okay, well, maybe I am just the asshole who did this but I bet I'm not. My mom swears that putting on BET calms her down. I think this was a fluke because she really seems to like The Shins but that was last week and you know kids today, their tastes change like the wind.

Actually, the Mommy Bear has been a savior the past couple of nights. However, with her in the room with us and the Mommy Bear attached to my bedpost, the only one getting any sleep is the queen while us minions suffer. I think I am starting to hear stuff in the Womb Bear. After a while, that sound begins to sound like actual words being chanted. The things I swear it is saying are:

Let it rain
Brooklyn Go
Oh boya (no, it doesn't say, Goya)
Don't go
Range Rover
No go
Hot Rocks
Let's go
Harry wait
No rain
Please don't
Hurry up
Go Yanks

I don't know why but when I turn the Mommy Bear on, I like to imagine that somewhere 10 Gregorian Monks were sitting around chanting the soothing (read: disturbing) sounds into a tape recorder. I know that is not the case. I know somewhere in China, someone got hold of a taped ultrasound and just looped it but cut a new mom (read: sleep deprived delusional new mom) some slack.

After a restless night with La Chupacabra and way too much rocking than my thighs could handle, I grabbed the womb bear (yes, still in the box) and twisted the "try me" knob. La Chupa drifted off into a nice slumber. I carried her little Jell-O body into the room and put her in the bassinet, then I ran like hell to the nursery and grabbed the Mommy Bear (box and all) and shoved it under her bassinet. The next morning I extolled the virtues of the Mommy Bear to The Hubs. The next night when The Hubs was rocking her to sleep, I turned on the Mommy Bear and he told me not to waste the batteries. I said, 'It doesn't run on batteries." I don't know what I was thinking, everything and anything for a baby runs on batteries. It's like all those baby toy/soothers/swings and the like are all in cahoots with Duracell. I have an entire drawer filled with all kinds of size batteries thanks to Costco. I explained that the Mommy Bear could not possibly run on batteries because it has a power saving feature that shuts off after 40 minutes.

Oh dear, I was becoming one of those low functioning people who stands their ground no matter how wrong I am. But, to my defense, I did truly believe what I was talking about. I became obsessed and took the Mommy Bear back to the bedroom where I felt around the knob until my fingers felt Velcro and then I tore it open to expose what looked like an ice pack .... an ice pack that would hold batteries.

I walked back to the nursery with my tail between my legs where The Hubs was rocking an almost sleeping little angel (yes, she is my angel when she is sleeping).

"It does take batteries," I said.
"Of course it does," The Hubs said, "What did you think it ran on womb power? Do you think your womb is so powerful that it ran that?"
"Yes," I said, furthering my above statement about being low functioning.

Then I started laughing which startled (read: woke up) La Chupacabra so I did what anyone would do and ran out the room where I laughed myself to sleep thinking about my energy efficient womb.

Trash Talk and Tatziki Sauce

2009-03-22T22:56:00.002-04:00

The Hubs and I are pretty boring these days. We think we are being reckless and crazy by leaving my parents with Lady Bells and going to return items for my mom. Yeah, I know, we need a hobby. We were really bored and risky today. After checking the weather and seeing it was going to be a whole 50+ degrees we decided to pack up La Chupacabra and go for a walk. One problem, we were starving because while this kid eats every 3 or 4 hours, we eat every 6 or 8 if we are lucky.

After calming her with a bottle, we put her in the car and headed to a local pizza place. I sat in the back giving The Hubs a play by play on eyelid closure because we would not dare step into an establishment when she is awake and possibly risk her having one of her "moments." Her eyes started closing about 100 feet from the place and we debated in the parking lot for a good few minutes about whether to take it to go or risk it. Meanwhile my stomach began eating itself so I started making my way towards the door lugging my 200 pound diaper bag.

I told The Hubs to grab a booth near a window but out of sunlight (La Chupacabra HATES sunlight) and he starts heading for a table. Again, I say, "a booth" and again, he leads me towards a table. Again, I say, "a booth, like that one in the back corner where there is no sun" and again he points to a table. Do you understand now why I might get a bit short sometimes? Ohhhh, it's a good thing he makes me laugh so hard I cry. If I had a free hand and some energy, I would have shoved him towards the booth but luckily he noticed it on his own. Now, we're cooking. I wasn't too happy that the booth was near people (see what a shut in I have become?) But, I sucked it up. I didn't think they were going to close down the place upon my arrival.

Making a simple decision these days like what i want to eat is like taking the SAT for me. If I could travel with a second person who made all my decisions for me, I would; but, just for now because ... well, see above statement about people. The Hubs had his mind set on fish and chips which was the furthest thing from my mind. I knew I wanted to split one of their famous cheesy salads but what else. Eating now sorta sucks because when I was preggo the cravings were so intense I knew what I wanted for dinner while I was on my way to work in the morning. Now, I'm suffering from guilt that I should be eating to lose baby weight and the inability to make decisions. I finally settle on a gyro (we are in a Greek place for the love of God, not Long John Silver) but if we were at LJS, I know all I would have gotten was a big ass order of huspuppies.

The Hubs and I talk but not a lot while we are out because I am easily distracted by other people's conversations. This is a bad habit that has been made worse since taking my current job. The Hubs pretty much always had this habit because he can tell me whatever song is playing on a radio that is at 1 decibel in a room. Our convoryeaurism has taken on a new low when we start texting each other about what we are hearing because commenting aloud means risking those people finding out we're listening and then GAME OVER.

The first thing I noticed was that the conversation coming from the table behind us was really loud. I was rather pissed since I was hoping La Chupacabra would sleep long enough for me to get some nourishment. But, it is a good thing I taught her to like noise early. The second thing I notice is that the person making the most noise at the table is a girl and she is a Bridezilla.

"This is going to be fun," I mouth to The Hubs who is really bad at reading lips but I can tell he tuned into the table conversation as well.

In summary, Bridezilla was stressed out. She needed to set a date TODAY (It was 1:30 on a Sunday, mind you) because she HAD to book her vendors and get her invitations and she couldn't do any of that unless she booked her date TODAY with a deposit TODAY. She was literally running through any wedding venue she could think of and calling people and telling them to take a drive by to see what it looked like and if it was nice knock on the door and have the cleaning crew let them in so they can see the inside and report back to her. Wow, I kinda put more thought into what I am going to wear in the morning and here she is blindly planning her wedding.

They kept talking about the Inn at Longshore a lot and not a single one of them ever went to a wedding there. I have been to two very lovely weddings there and had I not gotten married where I did, The Inn at Longshore would have been my next pick. Of course, I could not help but give my stamp of approval so I turned around and said I have been to two very nice weddings there and the food was wonderful and plentiful and they can fit a lot of people. Bridezilla quickly corrected me that they were only inviting 80 people. Okay, whatever, I wasn't looking for specifics just wanted to stop you from booking the gymnasium at Westhill High School. Of course, they wanted to know the price and I only knew their rates for 2007 so I could only vouch for those. They asked if I knew some place in New Rochelle and I said I was not familiar with it. Bridezilla was seeking a May date. Wow, slow your roll, sister, you got a whole year.

The Hubs slid his phone towards me, "Shouldn't have talked to dopey" was all that was on the screen.

"I know" I mouthed, "Why don't you stop me from doing these things?"

Our salad came and we dug in with our ears perked. We're such losers. Bridezilla was babbling on about how she needed mental help. Then, the talk turned to babies and how she would not trust anyone other than her mother and mother-in-law to watch their baby. I almost spit out my cheese. I have only been a mom for a month and I would let one of these waitresses watch my kid if it meant I could take a shower longer than 5 minutes. Then, the talk turned to pre-natal vitamins and it all started to come together. She was pregnant and she meant THIS MAY as in two month from now. Now, I understood her urgency.

"This have changed so much since I got married," her fiance's mother said.

"When did you get married?" Bridezilla asked her.

"1974," his mom said.

"The year I was born," Bridezilla said, because you just got that vibe that EVERYTHING had to come back to her.

"I was 16," his mom said.

"16!" Bridezilla said. "How could you have stayed with the same man since you were 16? I would have wanted to kill him by the time I was 21."

That's nice. I am sure that is just what her fiancee and his mom wanted to hear. At least he knows he will get a good five years out of this marriage.

And the gems just kept on coming from Bidezilla.

On babysitting:

I would never let a guy watch my baby unless he was married. If there was a wife there with him then it would be okay but if they are not married then no way.

On how her groom could stand out from the groomsmen in his tux:

I think he should have three buttons when the other guys have two. Hey, who is going to count buttons, dummy? I hope wherever you go get a tux, they explain that the groom will wear a white shirt, ivory vest and ivory tie to set him apart. But, you go ahead with that button idea.

And just as I was about to ease up on her (FAT CHANCE) she asks this question:

Ladies, can I ask a question and get your honest opinion about it? Say you had a dream (obviously meaning herself) and it was about an ex, would you wake up and tell the other person? (obviously, she did).

Bridezilla's fiancee got bent out of shape about this. His mom came to his rescue saying, "no." This sparked an argument with Bridezilla standing her ground that the the ex was from 10 years ago and she has to hear about his exes all the time. Her fiancee defended himself saying he was a different person than she was and he got upset about it. he was visibly getting upset about it right then an there. Who the hell is the pregnant hormonal one in the relationship?

It was almost a race to see which one of us could text "What a pussy" first.

Both their parents told them to cool it and stop the conversation. Bridezilla agreed and then started it right back up a second later. It was hard to believe she was 34 and not 14.

Finally, they left.

"That poor bastard" The Hubs said. "And why do low functioning people stand their ground like that and are so steadfast in their convictions that they are right?"

"Because ignorance is bliss," I offered.

Then he said the sweetest thing. "Seeing that makes me so glad I married you."

Damn skippy.

What was that log I just ate?

2009-01-24T08:14:00.001-05:00

Years ago a friend and I saw a commercial for a local restaurant that looked like it was made in my backyard. The name of the place was the Pirate Restaurant and Nightclub. The commercial ended with a budget blowing special effects masterpiece, a wooden pirate that would greet you at the door winked. Intrigued, my friend and I had an affinity for all things weird and potentially horrible, had to find this place (which wasn't hard because it was practically down his street) and experience the winking pirate ourselves. One catch, it was a Polish restaurant which added to the craziness because we were both pretty sure Poland was landlocked. You were thinking it was seafood, right? Logically so. Wrong!

Curiosity got the best of us and within days, we found ourselves in the green leather booths eating kielbasa , perogies and borscht on lacquered tables showing various bits of buried pirate treasure while techno music thumped from the nightclub upstairs. This fit the weird and quirky bill perfectly. We went back a couple of time, the place would get weirder and weirder. There was never more than just us in in the restaurant and a stray drunk or two in the bar but the nightclub upstairs looked like it attracted any and all of the sketchiest members of a Polish mob.

And then, one day, the Pirate just closed down. Nothing ever took its spot. Nobody ever came to take down the black awnings that simply said The Pirate. It just stood empty. When I started dating my husband years ago, we would sometimes drive past The Pirate and I would tell him the stories. And talking about the enigma that he would never get to experience made it a lot like folklore. As years passed, I never once stopped hoping that when we passed, the lights would be on and The Pirate would be open.

A week or so before Christmas, as if it was a Christmas miracle, we drove by and The Pirate was open for business. I let out many shrieks of excitement. I immediately called my friend to tell him of this miracle. After getting gas, I made The Hubs drive by it again just so I could make sure. There it was, in all its glory, brightly lit, neon beer European beer signs illuminating the windows and void of customers. Just like I remembered. When did this happen? I passed by the place a few times in the past few months and I swear it was still closed. But, not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, I reveled in the fact that The Pirate was back.

It took about a month before we could get there for dinner but last night was the night. It was almost funny how cautiously The Hubs walked through the door like I spent 4 years making him think this place was closed but tonight all his friends would jump out and yell "surprise!" even tho his birthday is 6 months away. "Is the wooden pirate still there?" I asked. He was. Poised by the door like I left him. We walked past the angry drunks at the bar and into the dining room which actually had a decent amount of people in it. It was like stepping into a time warp. Everything was exactly the same. Like they just dusted everything and opened up the doors. I had to go to the bathroom and look in the mirror to make sure this was 2009 and I was married and pregnant. The only thing new was a giant plastic crab in the bathroom that scared the daylights out of me. I don't remember it being there before but I'm not so sure I ever came there sober so it is possible I missed it.

After perusing the menu and deciding, the waitress came over to take our order. The Hubs got the Polish sampler and I got the Pirate pork burger. The waitress (who was our waitress years ago) seemed a bit disappointed in my choice. "Why don't you get something more Polish" she suggested. I wanted to tell her that I tried just about everything Polish on their menu and seeing as this burger was pork and not beef, I was sure they would find some way to Polish it up.
By the time our food came out, I was sure I aged another year. Understandable tho' I was on a pirate ship. Stew's sampler looked just as I remembered except instead of a chunk of kielbasa, they now give you some kielbasa and kraut mixture. However, my burger looked completely unlike anything I have ever seen. It was sorta roundish like a semi-flattened meatball that someone put Shake-n-Bake coating on. It was smothered in horseradish sauce and the french fries looked one knotch above "just about cooked."

"Well, here goes nothin'" I said before biting into my "burger" and feeling the weirdest sensation in my mouth. Beneath the coating was pork ground into the mushy consistency of falaffel except softer and juicier cooked to the comfortably molten temperature of 7,000 degrees. The Hubs cleaned his plate before my "burger" cooled to a tolerable temperature. The waitress barely came over to check on us but that was okay because every time she did, we ended up having some half baked conversation with her and getting non-sensical answers in broken English.

I had to ask tho. "Excuse me, is the nightclub still upstairs?" I figured it wasn't since it was now 9 on a Friday night and I did not hear a single beat of Polish Techno above my head.

"No," She said, "We use it as our party room."

"Oh," I said, "I just remembered there was a nightclub upstairs."

"I don't," she said and scurried away.

"Apparently, what happens in The Pirate Nightclub stays in The Pirate Nightclub," The Hubs said.

And with good reason, I thought.

On the way home, we complained how stuffed we were. Of course, that was not stopping us from going to our next destination, Cold Stone Creamery.

"Lulu, what was that log I ate?" The Hubs asked.

"The thing with sauce? Stuffed cabbage. Wait a sec, you ate an unidentified log without asking me or knowing what it was even AFTER you tasted it?" A true sea adventurer.

Fake trees and belly touchers

2008-12-28T23:06:00.001-05:00

A few days before Christmas The Hubs and I found ourselves at Fortunoff's. The toy box and bookcase we have been coveting since i found out I was pregnant was on clearance so we knew we had to get it now or risk not getting it all. It was also 50% off and I had a coupon for another 20%. SCORE! While we were there, I wanted The Hubs to familiarize himself with the Christmas department. My motive for doing this was I knew The Hubs had the day after Christmas off and I wanted a new fake tree and you have to be there the second they open if you want a tree. I knew I could lure him to the department easily by telling him there was a sports part of the department. After I let him loose in there, I told him to pick out a new angel for his folks' new tree. Every year I attempt to get him one but there are never any left when I get there. I also figured he was their son so he might know what they liked better. Of course, he picked one that was the ONLY one of its kind. I pondered hiding it in the store but decided against it because that would make the early morning thrill that much more ..... um ..... thrilling.

Next came the trees. I immediately picked out the cheapest $74.99 tree sitting among the ones priced at hundred of dollars. This was was slightly taller and wider than my current tree. I also figured it's Charlie Brown Tree likeness would guarantee that it would be the last one standing after the day after wreckage. The strategy was set, all we had to do was make sure we woke up in plenty of time. Then, we wandered downstairs to get what we came for. Finally.

The day after Christmas I had a shitty night's sleep so waking up early was not a problem. Just to make sure it was not a problem for The Hubs, he fell victim to my many roll overs which means I roll over onto him in an effort to have him hold me up so I don't roll completely onto my back. Apparently, it is not good for you or the baby to sleep on your back and I have HAD it with side sleeping. We were up at 6:30 laying there saying we should just go back to sleep and wake up when we wake up and go then. In theory, it was an excellent idea but thinking rationally that no trees or angels will be left by that time, we were forced to get up. "I'll buy you Dunkin," I said as if that was enough to justify the torture he was about to endure at my crazy little Christmas hands.

I felt sick the whole way there. Not sure if it was my nerves, morning sickness or the fact that i probably got about 3 hours of sleep. But the Dunkin egg white flatbread sandwich was sitting in my throat like stone. We pulled into the lot at 7:40 a.m. Few cars. It looked promising. I beelined for the trees and The Hubs went Angel hunting. There were a bunch of people milling around the tree section so I quickly grabbed whoever looked like an employee and asked how to go about getting a tree. She told me to pick at least two choices and someone would be with my shortly. They only had one guy helping people in the tree section which was insane since it is where people are spending the bulk of their money. I wandered around sure that nobody wanted my $74.99 tree with all these beautiful trees but I figured I would pick up a back up in case. However, the prices began to jump considerably. $249 was the next step up all the way to $900.

The Hubs came rolling his carriage over with an angel taking the prime spot. It was not THE ANGEL, but it was one he thought they would like. I explained the deal, that I had to wait, that I was hot and that I was annoyed and had to pee. Basically, everything he has been hearing for the last 7.5 months. I showed him my first choice and my second choice which was quadruple the price of my first choice. An older lady overheard us talking and said she has been hunting fake trees for three years now and she would NEVER buy another cheap tree again because the needles fall off. I am a hard sell. My current tree has been going steady for 3 years and cost me less than $20. She then began to educate us on selecting the perfect fake tree. Somehow, it came out that i was expecting (probably when she was explaining that kids like to pull the branches and that is when you lose all your "needles"). She immediately lunged for my belly patting and rubbing it lightly. I know this would freak some people out but I LOVE people touching my belly. I ask people to touch it. I encourage it. I was so happy that a stranger touched my stomach that I left the department having selected (and paid for) a $499 tree (minus the 60% off and the extra 10% for taking the floor model).

The Hubs was convinced she was a plant.

Ice-hole revenge

2008-12-24T16:01:00.000-05:00

So, today on my way home, an Ice-hole stepped in front of my car causing me to stop, causing my light to change, causing me to wait. But, that is okay because only moments later, Ice-hole, walking in the road when the sidewalk next to him was perfectly clean, got splashed with a tidal wave of ice cold, dirty, black water. As he jumped back, albeit too late, I began to laugh my ass off because had he been on the sidewalk, his nice light brown cords would still be dry and light brown. He looked genuinely susprised as if the car, driving in the street where cars belong, splashed him. I mean, how could that be? Um, maybe cos you were walking in the road, Ice-hole.

The Ice-holes among us

2008-12-23T22:33:00.001-05:00

So, This recent snow/ice storm left my city with icy sidewalks, streets and parking lots. A virtual skating rink. And despite the newspaper reporting that the city did such a great job cleaning up this mess, they missed a few (zillion spots). The latest rash of jackassery to irk my last hormone is the amount of brilliant ice-holes that insist on walking in the street because the sidewalk is much too icy.

However, because snow (poorly) shoveled from the sidewalk and plowed from the street creates mounds of snow at the curb the ice-holes are forced to walk in the middle of the road. I cannot tell you how many of these ice-holes I almost plowed into in the last few days including a guy pushing a stroller. Hey, genius, it's 9 degrees, maybe you shouldn't be walking and maybe you should keep the baby inside. Lord knows if it came down to killing both myself AND my kid because I had to walk somewhere, I would stay put or I'd walk on the sidewalk and if I fall, I fall because I'm the moron who decided to go for a nice icy stroll.

Meatball Munday(ne)

2008-12-22T19:53:00.001-05:00

So, anyone who attended our wedding and paid any kind of attention to our vows knows that Wednesday is Wings night at our local haunt. Well, a couple of months ago, the same place launched Meatball Mondays and advertised the meaty delicacies in 3 different flavors - Sweet and Sour, BBQ and Marinara (which is really plain, but more on why that is later). The bar tried attracting patrons by offering the bargain balls with a nice refreshing glass of Chianti. It was almost too classy for the likes of me.

Today was your average day. Hard time getting up, hard time motivating myself to go to work and then cap it all off by getting blood drawn not once but twice. The highlight of my day was Stew already being home when I walked in so I didn't have to lug any packages in alone. Oh, and my mom dropped off a very small dish of wine cookies. Yum. As I was modeling my new snowboots for Stew, my new phone alerted me to a text message. The alert sounds like a doorbell so you can imagine how I jumped out of my skin because I don't have a doorbell. It was my friend Julie who just said "Meatball Monday?" Julie is my new friend I met at work and her husband works late too so we said that we should go out to eat when we're feeling sorry for ourselves sitting home alone. Last week, I took her to wings and introduced her to the wonders of General Tsao's well done wings. Yum!

Because I read "Meatball Monday" out loud, Stew nearly jumped off the couch and grabbed his coat. I asked Julie if she and her hubs wanted to come but he was working. She will have to experience this next time. I really wanted Sierra Grill but Stew was so excited to try Meatball Monday, I could not let him down. And I will admit, I was a bit intrigued to try this new 20 cent sensation. The parking lot had enough cars in it to make me think that finding a seat at the bar might be difficult.

I was sorely mistaken. When we got there, it was 7 people including us taking up stool space.

"So, how does this meatball thing work" I asked the bartender who was not Dee. She explained the flavor choices, even went so far as to say the Sweet & Sour were her favorite to which Stew and I gave each other a look because the Sweet & Sour wings are NASTY!!! We ordered 5 of each flavor just to try. They came out fast and all in one plate. The Marinara meatballs do not have marinara sauce on them, they are plain. In the center of the dish there was a tub of marinara and a tub of sauce that was just wing sauce mixed with blue cheese which the bartender said tasted good on ALL the flavors. I think she was pregnant too because only a pregnant person would think that something coated in Sweet & Sour sauce and then dipped in blue cheese and wing sauce would be anywhere near good.

Now, they are meatballs, not quite cocktail size, certainly not anywhere near what you would find on spaghetti. Think what you might find in Italian Wedding Soup but a touch bigger. Honestly, i thought 10 cents was a good price for these. Good thing we ordered a small salad and an order of mozzarella sticks. The plain dipped in the wing/blue cheese sauce were my favorite. The BBQ and Sweet & Sour I could have done without.

After we finished, Stew ordered 5 more because he was still hungry. Meanwhile, I noted that we were the only ones in the place who took advantage of the meatball special. On Wednesday nights, platters piled high with wings fly out of the kitchen in troves. On Meatball Mondays, I think the only plate they sold was ours.

"Is this what it's going to be like when we're old" Stew asked eyeing the practically empty bar. "You should have seen this place in its hay day."

"It will be like our Ponderosa" I said, suddenly sorry because now i was upset there was no ice cream machine and sundae topping bar.

I am sure it's only a matter of time before the Meatball Monday banner comes down and is replaced by Taco Tuesday sponsored by Corona of course.

Color me uncomfortable

2008-12-19T07:03:00.000-05:00

My mom and I share a lot of things. We share jokes, laughs and sometimes, when the mood hits, feelings. We also share the same colorist. Or, we did at least, until my mom replaced her with her friend who does it cheaper.

See, a couple of years ago, my mom turned me onto a colorist that worked a local salon. I loved her and after years of dealing with hair that never responded to color the way I wanted it to; I was finally happy. And then one day, a couple of days before my appointment I got a call from said salon who told me my colorist no longer worked there. Her departure was sudden and you know how these snooty places are, they will offer you NO DETAILS but throw in a 20% discount if you stay with them and try another colorist. Gray with roots and highlights that were coming to end of summer brassy hue, I panicked and called my mom. She quickly referred me to another girl there who she went to a few times and liked. I made an appointment with her, only to find out a few days later where my former colorist went. It was too late and 20% off at the salon's steep price was enough of an incentive for me to at least try. I went to my appointment, everything was fine and I recommended a friend who was also abandoned by our former colorist leaving.

By my second visit with the new colorist, my mom already replaced her with her friend. I figured she might casually mention how my mom was and that she hasn;t seen her in a while but i didn't expect a drilling on the topic.

"How's your mom? I haven't seen her in a while. I miss her."

"I haven't seen her either," I said.

Um, okay. I am hard pressed to believe that anyone would think in 6 weeks I heard nothing from my mom or saw her for that matter but the lie was worth a shot, right?

A few minutes later.

"I really miss your mom. Who is doing her hair these days?"

"Um, I dunno."

Now, anyone who knows my mom knows that anytime I see her she's either added more highlights, went darker, cut it herself or something. Either way, anytime I see her, I am asked what i think about her hair.

By the time I walk out ther door, the colorist has not so subtly asked me about my mother's whereabouts no less than five times. It made me a wee bit uncomfortable to say the least. I am sure my mom is not her ONLY client. In fact, I know that between my friend and I, she has at least two. So, really, what is the big f-ing deal? I came home and called my mom who thought it was just as obnoxious as I did. "Just tell her i am doing my hair myself," she said. Oh, okay, like she was going to buy that line any more than the line I fed her about not seeing or hearing from my mother in six weeks.

So, last night, I had another appointment and I forgot about the drilling until a few minutes before I left. I thought for sure she would not mention it again. The topic was off limits like me not asking if she's seen my former colorist or knew of her whereabouts. Two can play at the Where's Waldo game, missy. I sit down in her chair and she asks me how I am 5 times in a row and then it hits me that I may not be dealing with the sharpest tack in the box. After i tell her I am fine, great, wonderful and can't complain 5 times in a row she proceeds to remove my headband and sift through the root wreckage.

"So, how's your mom?"

You have got to be kidding me!!!!

"I miss her. Where has she been?"

I wanted to tell her she was there about an hour getting me a gift certificate which I almost wish she hadn't gotten because now I REALLY want to return to my former colorist.

"Well, in the winter she tends to go darker so I think she is just doing it herself."

Of course, she didn't buy that one. Who would?

Again, I did not escape without 3 more questions about my mom's MIA status as well as a reminder to say hi to her out the door and a standing invitation to come back whenever. Maybe I can use that giftcard for manis/pedis and a massage after I give birth.

Va-genius

2008-09-07T16:21:00.002-04:00

It's no secret. I hate the word vagina. It just sounds so clinical. So, when I took to calling it a vagenius, my husband was not as amused as I was.

Seriously, tho, think of all the things it is capable of doing and I'm not even counting the fact that it's a conduit to creating, growing and expelling life. However, it can also turn on you in an instant like a diabolical scientist.

Bill gates, watch out. The Vagenius is hot on your heels.

Pity for the gene pool

2008-08-09T10:44:00.003-04:00

I heard this bit of insanity while waiting in my gynocologist's waiting room. A receptionist was on the phone with a patient patiently trying to work through her medicinal woes.

"No dear, that's not Vicodin. It's birth control."

Wow, someone finally too stupid to be trusted with reproductive organs. I love it.

Midget Mayhem

2008-07-30T08:10:00.000-04:00

Okay. So, I had a rather disturbing dream last night.

It started out as me driving aimlessly around the parking lot at the Italian Center. At first, I thought i was invited to go swimming but then it switched to me meeting Stew at some fancy French restaurant he was taking me to for our anniversary. Don't ask me why a French place was at the Italian Center. When we got inside, I was bit disappointed to find out that this overrated, overpriced fancy French place was full of obnoxious snooty drunks. And not the kind who are wine snobs but the kind you see in a bar and feel sorry for except they had a lot of money to spend.

I was trying to enjoy my meal when these two guys decided that they were going to wander over and sit at our table and talk to each other loudly. One was a midget. Suddenly the midget started taking these potato chips (but of course in a fancy French place they were called fried au' gratin or something like that) and throwing them all over the table. I said, "excuse me, sir, but this is our anniversary, could you stop doing that and go to another table so we can enjoy our meal." He refused and that REALLY pissed me off. So, I grabbed the midget, smacked him around, shook him and then dragged him down the hill to a house where the staff hung out and I was sure to find a manager. There was a waitress down there and i threw the now beat up and unconscious midget down on the floor and asked to speak to the manager. The waitress said she would go find him. She came back after what seemed like an eternity and offered me some chocolate covered biscotti to take home with me and said she was still looking for the manager. She disappeared for what felt like hours. Every once and a while, the midget would wake up and I would kick him.

Oh relax, it wasn't like he was bleeding and unconscious. He was so blitzed he had no clue what was happening. A lot of the time he appeared to be sleeping with a huge smile on his face.

I looked up the hill and saw Stew sitting at the table with what appeared to be steaming plates of our dinner. He was waiting for me to get back before he dug in. I didn't want the food to get cold so I grabbed the midget and dragged him back up the hill. When i got back to our table, the manager was there with these two huge brandy snifters full of creamy custard (I hate custard) sprinkled with cinnamon and chocolate. It looked like Taramisu. Don't ask me why everything about this French restaurant was Italian. The manager said the desert was on the house because of our troubles. I told him our whole dinner would be on the house and that i simply hate custard.

Then, I woke up

Down with the sickness

2008-07-27T21:16:00.001-04:00

Can I be frank?

What about Sally?

What about just plain gross but straight up honest with you?

So, every Sunday (well, pretty much every Sunday) for the last few months I have been getting a wicked case of ..... what my college roommates and I used to call, The squitters. It only happens on Sunday and it's sort of a relief because I'm pretty much bound up Friday and Saturday. The only really bad about my new Sunday movements is they can happen at any time leaving me to do what I hate the most and use a public toilet. But, lately, we've been lazy and at home so I have been able to come and go as I please. This Sunday, I was put in a pretty difficult situation.

At noon, The Hubs and I were heading over to his condo to hold an open house of sorts because his tenant is moving out and like any good landlord, we want new tenants ASAP. I had a bagel for breakfast, which caused a dramatic drop in my blood sugar about 10 minutes before we left. Knowing I needed some protein, I grabbed a protein bar, but a heavier one that I have not been able to stomach lately. I ate it slowly but apparetly not slow enough because on our way to the condo, I started to feel sick. Not stomach sick, just out of sorts. The fisrt appointment came and left and we waited for the next appointment. I was on my cell phone chatting with my friend when my stomach started to runble that familiar rumble and I clenched my sides. I told The Hubs, I had to go but didn't want to stink up the joint before the next perspective renters came. He shugged his shoulders.

"Maybe it's just gas," I said to him as I made my way to the loo.

It wasn't.

I flushed fast so that it didn't have time to smell. But, it wasn't all going down. And before anyone can say lincoln logs, let me just tell you there was NO WAY this couldn't go down. It may as well have been number 1 with some lumps. I flushed again, and again an again. Now, just the lumps were left. I called for The Hubs with about 5 minutes to spare before the next appointment showed up. I stepped back almost falling into the tub and almost taking the shower curtain with me. "Get outta here" he said shooing me to the living room. I went and sat down, my stomach still grumbling and my butt cheeks clenching together all of this made harder because I was still on the phone with my friends and we were both trying not to laugh too hard.

The Hubs comes out and says he got everything to go down but he should probably call the plumber and wonders why his tenants never told him about the lack of flush power. And something has been lost of the years. When I was just dating The Hubs, that toilet had the jet stream flush power of Shea Stadium.

Cramping again. I tell The Hubs the storm has not passed. He hads me his car keys and tells me to go home. I hate driving his car. But, I hate crapping my pants even more. However, I know there is NO WAY I will make it home. As I am hesitating taking his keys, his cell rings and the appointment is here. I walk outside with him to meet her. She is with her friend and they both look like they could have taken the place of Paris and Nicole on the Simple Life.

Okay, so do I leave my husband alone with two cute blonds or do I mark my territory by letting poop run down my leg? I decide there is no time like the present to run across Summer Street with my butt clenched together to Starbucks. Thankfully, the bathroom there is free, clean and the toilet flushes. Apparently I took so long The Hubs came looking for me but didn't see me because I was too busy convulsing.

Sunnova Bee

2008-07-05T18:17:00.001-04:00

Wouldn't you know it that now every Sim I have that I allow to procreate ends up with TWINS!!!!

I am so doomed.

Double your pleasure

2008-06-17T21:31:00.002-04:00

So, I think if i ever pregnant I may have twins. I have gotten a few signs lately and anyone who knows me knows I do not take the getting of signs lightly. I mean, come on, I gave my notice at my first job out of college based on what a Bazooka Joe fortune said. Hey, if you were sitting there with your resignation letter in your desk drawer and some apprehension and someone mysteriously leaves a pile of Bazooka Joe gum on your desk while you're at lunch; and the first fortune says, "Now is the time" then what would you do?

I thought so.

Earlier this month, I went to CVS to get some stuff as well as another supply of my ovulation predictor sticks. I went with the month supply this time because the generic CVS ones were no longer working (according to them, I NEVER ovulated yet still got my period on time every month) and they only had a month's supply of a brand name one for the bargain basement price of $45.99. WTF??? So, I got those. On my way back to the car I find a lucky penny. And then about a foot away, another lucky penny. Weird, I think to myself, but i pick them up anyway and put them in the bathroom by the toilet.

I'm sickeningly in touch with my body and I can tell when I'm going through the other kind of big O; so really, the sticks are useless other than to confirm what I already know. And for a few days I get two lines, so bright and pink that I inform The Hubs that the fruit is ripe for pickin'.

Saturday, after a loooong day of cleaning, it suddenly hits me that it's 5:30 and all I had to eat all day was a protein bar at 11. The Hubs was working so I texted him to see if he was going to be home soon because I was hungry. Then, I worried that came off too bitchy and amended it with a text saying I was just wondering because if he was going to be home soon I would get something light like a Subway salad to tie me over. But, if he was going to be later, i will get Chinese food and get enough so he can have some when he gets home.

See, I'm not a total bitch. Altho' I did feel owed a nice romantic dinner at the restaurant of my choice since I did spend two WHOLE days cleaning for a BBQ HE planned.

He said he was going to be late so I got our usual at the Chinese place next door. After my lonely and rather disappointing dinner; I cracked open the fortune cookies. I knew Stew wouldn't want his anyway and I did spend ALL day cleaning and eating alone. I was owed.

The first fortune:
"Things are looking on the bright side"
And the Chinese word was "March."

Doesn't seem weird but if I got pregnant this month, nine months from now would be March.

The second fortune:
"Your deepest wish will come true"
And the Chinese word was "Intimate"

No explanation necessary, I hope.

And then, later that night, I was playing my Sims game watching my pregnant sim Macabre (because her whole family died in a fire the night she was born to her mom, Slurpee) Livingston waddle her way into he bathroom to puke up her dinner of lobster thermidor. My game froze signaling the impending birth. And yes, you guessed it, she had twins.

The universe doesn't revolve around you, you're just dizzy

2008-06-12T17:00:00.001-04:00

So, I have PMS and I just had the worst day of my life. And even if I did't have PMS, I am still sure it would have been the worst day of my life so don't go saying, "Cheer up Dr. Horder, it couldn't have been that bad, you just have PMS." Because if you say that to me, I will hit you in the face with a shovel.

Around 8:15 (not even 5 minutes after i wake up) I get a lat minute call to go to our sister judicial district two towns over because someone called out sick. That someone calls out sick at least once a week so I kinda say it's time to FIRE THAT SOMEONE. I didn't bring any work home with so if there is any down time I'm just reading a book which, although I love reading, is a HUGE waste of time when I have work sitting on my desk in my town where I thought I would be today to do it. Thankfully, I manage some quick thinking and e-mail myself another project I can work on. However, since my whole morning routine is now thrown off I forget the CDs that contain the audio for said project. Luckily, I can work around some backdoors and get the audio I need.

I'm taken pity on and given what was supposed to be a short court that should be finished by lunch (which is good because my lunch is also sitting in my desk WITH my breakfast bars). I go into court at 10 and the Judge calls the calendar and then takes a recess. However, because I have no key to the office (or the bathroom) I am stuck there anyway.

Cut to 1 p.m. a few minutes before lunch and I think we're finishing up our last case. Turns out we're just about to start a trial. Lucky me. Come back at 2. There's not much around the court house in terms of food that doesn't start with a Mc so I am forced to go up the road a bit to Stew Leonards. Thanks to the creative genius of construction workers, I am now stuck in traffic for 20 minutes of my lunch.

Finally, I get to Stew's where every jackass is apparently learning to park and everyone in a wheelchair has decided to go shopping. There should be a ban on wheelchairs in Stew's from the hours of 11 - 6:30. Just my thought. I get some salad and some salmon and veggies which are cut into these huge hunks. When the cashier asks if I need utensils, I give an enthusiastic yes and even ask for a knife if they have one. I get back to the office and take my lunch out to discover he did not give me any utensils whatsoever and all they had in the office was spoons. Not one fork to be found. Do you know how hard it is to eat salad with a spoon? Do you know how much harder it is to eat huge hunks of veggies with a spoon? It's impossible. I ate some salmon and the rest got tossed.

The judge is late so i waste some more time just sitting there and waiting until about 2:20. Finally, the trial is ready to start and everyone is just about to wrap up when the plaintiff says they have another witness who can be there in 10 minutes. I have come to learn that 10 minutes to lawyers is really 30 in real time. They're only ever so slightly off. The whole case wraps up at 3:45. So much for a short court.

On my way home I decide to stop at Dunkin and I park next to this real hooptie. It's got more boxes in it than a moving company and the seat covers looked like someone has been sitting on them with an ass full of razorblades. I go into Dunkin and there is one person on front of me. She tells the guy behind the counter what she wants. The lady at the first register is now free and she stands on her tiptoes and asks if she can help me. The lady, in front of me, obviously confused because she thinks she is the only one in the universe, says, "No thanks I am being helped." The cashier smiles and I walk up and now the lady in front of me feels like she should - STUPID.

On my way back to the car, I notice the lady in Dunkin was the lucky owner of the hooptie. I have my hands a bit full with my coffee, my purse and trying to hold my skirt down as I get in and my door eases open a little bit more and accidentally hits her mirror. The door moved so slowly, it was a such a gentle tap that if she hadn't looked up and shot me the dirtiest look, I wouldn't have even known it happened. "Sorry about that, I said and looked to see if there was any damage (there wasn't) and then said, "It's okay, no mark, sorry."

WTF did she want me to do? Give her my insurance. And hello, lady, have you seen your car???? I put my coffee in the cup holder and glanced over again. She was out of her car. Oh my god, was she actually going to check it? And sure enough she came around to the passenger side to inspect the damage (or lack thereof) and brush off some dirt. Oh my freaking god. Seriously!!!! I had someone not watching where they were doing at a red light and roll into me and tap me and I didn't even get out to look.

She probably took down my plate and is going to call the police on me. But, then again, that has been my day. All I was thinking was, "go ahead, bitch, start with me. I will kick your ass. I'm hot, tired, have PMS, pissed off because I got NO work done today, and starving because I ate my lunch with a fucking spoon!"

She didn't say anything else to me which is unfortunate. I was looking to take someone down.

Sometimes you gotta give a little more than a wave

2008-06-04T13:15:00.002-04:00

I have new neighbors to the right of me. They have one or two big dogs and the wife is knocked up so soon we will have to contend with not only constant barking but also a wailing baby.

Joy.

Oh yeah, did I mention that the husband wakes up everyday at 7 to the same blaring techno song like it's some OCD. Oh, and he must have his frat buddies over to play the Wii because it sounds like Sigma Alpha Assholes there sometimes on the weekends.

And yet my husband is still courteous not to play Rock Band too late or too loud as though not to disturb all their fucking concert of noise.

Why do nice boys always marry bitches like me?

Anyway, I'm not about to talk about how much I wish they would move. I make that point known to The Hubs at least four times a week (that's down from my 14). I don't even have to complain because I am sure they are thinking of moving anyway for the pure fact that they think i am totally crazy. If there's a bad moment, they catch me in it.

Not too long after they moved in and we introduced ourselves I was coming home after another EXASPERATING day. I was getting out of my car and I totally threw all thsoe ladylike manners I don't have aside and hopped out. Now, I have a truck, so hopping out in a dress isn't easy. Someone is going to get Britney Speared along the way. I just threw my legs open (I did have on black tights though and thankfully black granny panties) to hop out.

As I was showing my business to the world I thought, "fuck it, nobody is home anyway. It's just barely 5." I looked up at that very moment and my new neighbor was sitting in her Saab parked right NEXT to me with her husband and of course My truck is higher so I'm sure my crotch was at eye level with her. She got this totally "I am about to bust out laughing" look on her face and waved. I just waved back (because really, wtf else can you do?) and quickly went inside so I could burst out laughing at yet ANOTHER Seinfeld moment in my life.

I totally want to go over and apologize. Like you can even begin a conversation with, "Sorry, I just basic instinced you. It won't happen again. This is a family friendly complex." I told Stew to go over and apologize for me. Unity. He said he will wait until they open their door and then flash his crotch. I told him he should go sit on the hood of their car and when he sets off the alarm and they peek out the window to see what it is, he should batwing them. Welcome to the hood, bitches.

A few months pass with no incidents to speak of until today.

Today I stayed home from work because I was up until 5 a.m. typing one of the most heart wrenching divorce cases I have had to sit on. So, there was no way I was functioning on 3 hours of sleep and going in to more than likely get stuck in Court ALL DAY while I tried (unsuccessfully) not to let my head hit the keyboard taking notes in a series of zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

So, after I e-mailed the transcript to the law office who ordered it, I took a nice hot, long shower to ease my aching muscles. Since I had the time, I decided to give myself a deep conditioning treatment. So, i get out of the shower, load up my hair with goop, put my brightly colored blue and green frog shower cap on to heat up the conditioner and walk into my bedroom. I decide it's sort of hot in there and I walk over to window to open it. I whip up the blinds and put my hand on the window and my neighbor (the wife again) pulls right into her parking spot which happens to be right under my window. And she subsequently looks up (because who wouldn't if you saw a girl standing there in a puffy shower cap with a big blue satin bow and fake blue rose smack in the middle of it). I stood there like a deer in headlights before I decided to just swallow my pride and wave. Because, let's face it, she is totally going to tell her husband when he gets home (if she didn't get on the horn with him as soon as she walked in like I would have) so it may as well end with, "So, anyway, that crotch flashing lunatic next door waved to me in her silly shower cap."

However will I redeem myself? And do I really care to?

Mailbag time, bitches!

2008-06-01T20:32:00.000-04:00

Dear Marshals,

Before I offer some highly constructive criticism let me start by saying I am one of your best customers. I've stimulated the economy by frequenting your store about three times a week in the past 5 years and its rare that I leave empty handed.

That being said, I have to ask, did you hit your heads when you decided to put your new "shoe world" right outside the fitting rooms. In case logistics never figured into the equation of your doing the new store layout; let me enlighten you as to why this is a bad idea. As you know, you are only allowed 5 items in the fitting room at a time. Your ever expanding inventory makes it rather easy to find five items before you even hit a second rack. If you are alone, the dressing room attendant asks you to get a cart and leave your remaining items outside the fitting room. This is bad for two reasons. Thanks to your lack of consideration when building Shoe World, you built the aisles right up to the fitting room entrance forcing people to clog aisles with their carts. Not to mention, leaving your carts there open up your pickins' to anyone passing by who thinks it's just an abandoned cart and open for business. This has forced your employees to have to post signs that read "no ogling carts outside the fitting room." In case you haven't noticed but a good portion of your clientele is not privy to having English as their first language. In fact, judging by some of the spellings of said signs, your employees have the same problem too.

You can fix this problem by doing two things. Push back two aisles of Shoe World to free up some space outside the dressing room to keep their carts. Or, better yet, change your 5 item only policy. I'd bet you would double your business if ladies did not have to try on five things, get dressed, grab some more, get undressed, try on some more and repeat the process. By the way, your dressing rooms don't exactly have spectacular air circulation either so after you work up a sweat you pretty much lose the desire to shop.

Now, I know the problem you are going to find with this is that if you push the aisle back, you lose a few square feet of shoes. Whoopty shit. The way you pack that store, I am SURE you will find somewhere to put the shoes. Be like Home Goods and use every inch of space by stacking things on each other. Also, if you allow people more than 5 items per trip, your dressing room attendant will become overwhelmed with clothes.

But, listen, what's the most people are really going to take in? Seriously, we only have two hands. Also, with all the unemployed people out there, I am hard pressed to believe you can't find some extra help in the dressing room. Better yet, if you allow people to take in however many items they want, you can eliminate the "here's a number" responsibility and that lady could start separating the clothes or putting them back. See, there's a fix.

I hope you take these suggestions to heart. I am sure you will ignore this like you often ignore stains and rips on clothing before you put them right back on the rack. But, seriously, this will increase your business in a doomed economy.

- A customer

A weekend with my redecorating, Slurpee sucking evil twin

2008-05-26T13:17:00.002-04:00

So, Friday The Hubs was in such a good mood (and tired of me asking "do you like these lamps?") that he said, "Lulu, I am in such a good mood, I'd even go look at lamps." Well sheeeee-it. That's like saying, "Let's go jewelry shopping" in my book. So, I ate my dinner as fast as could be and headed to Home Goods with The Hubs in tow before she could change his mind.

Since i hit the local Home Goods that day, I decided to go to the one two towns over. We found a great lamp on clearance that The Hubs approved of and I knew the twin to it was back in Stamford because I saw it a mere two hours earlier. So, we bought the lamp and headed back to Stamford where we went straight to the lamp department. I looked all over but it was gone. In the two hours I wasn't even thinking about it, someone scooped it up. The same lamp I wanted. I hoped with every ounce of evil in me that that whoever bought it had the same idea and now they were headed to Norwalk to buy the twin which I had in my trunk.

With my plan foiled, I showed The Hubs a set of lamps I have been eyeing since I started looking at lamps weeks ago. To my surprise he actually liked them despite the fact the shades were red and we officially had NOTHING red left in the room. But, perhaps this was the splash of color we needed against an otherwise black and white canvas. So, The Hubs went to the car to get the lamp so we could return it and buy the new ones. When we got them home, we were shocked at how perfect they were.

Don't get me wrong, though, The price is still on them just in case I find something even more perfect. Now, I want to paint in there but when I mention that to The Hubs he looks like someone painted him ghost white.

On Sunday, we finally made it to Ikea to get my new desk. We attempted to go last week but got sidetracked by Pepe's clam pizza and Slurpee's after which we got big belly lazy and headed home. I figured since we were going to be a few minutes from New Haven anyway for a picnic we may as well save the gas and go then. After seeing the desk in person and measuring it to see if it would fit my monitor we decided to get it and made the long trek to furniture pick up. By then, my blood sugar was plummeting so I was rushing to get this over so I could find something to help me stop shaking. The bin where they said the boxes would be was empty but 3 shelves up I could see whole new shipment. I asked The Hubs if he would go find someone to help up and I went to go find a pretzel and a diet coke. I knew when I saw The Hubs walking towards me with an empty cart it was a bad sign. He said we would have to come back tomorrow because they restock only at night when the store closes.

Oh, helllllllllll no.

That is when The Hubs said I became manic but in my mind i was just reacting like . . . well . . . my mom. Just because someone says (rather loudly) that that is bullshit doesn't mean they're manic.

I went over to the service desk and pretended like I didn't just hear what was told to me. I asked (yes, nicely) if he could help me get it down. He said if it was more than 3 shelves up we had to wait until 8:15. I asked, "does the floor count as one." Sure, enough it did. I told the guy that I was from Stamford and not really feeling all that well. With gas being priced so high i didn't want to have to drive back to New Haven tomorrow. He paused for a second like he actually wanted to help me. He punched some stuff into the computer and waisted before smugly smiling at The Hubs, with a simple look that said it all, "Don't send a man to do a womyn's job." The service guy told me that the desk was completely out of stock in the black and white color we wanted and what we saw on the above shelf was a different piece all together. Normally, I would think he was lying but I went over there and compared the numbers myself. They didn't match. However, they had the desk I wanted in birch which was fine with me but suddenly, my Husband, whose PS3 name is RawStewage, put his two cents of decorating in vetoing the idea of a birch desk.

A desk he won't even be using.

A desk that I, out of my personal account, am paying for.

A desk I need to get for MY job.

In my low blood sugar state, he marched me back through IKEA (and you know how that f-ing store is set up. You have to go through the WHOLE store) back to the desks so he can see the birch desk. And the kicker was I knew he was more than likely thinking the birch was that super unfinished wood they have where you can see the knots. And I was right because as soon as we saw it, he was like, "Oh, I thought it was something else."

Then, we marched ALLLLL THE WAYYYYY BACK to the furniture pick up to get it. And it was the last one, bitches. So, we paid and packed up the car but not before Stew could write "IKEA SUCKS" all over a tape measure and leave it in their parking lot and I could angrily throw down an empty plastic bottle. Hooligans. That's some RawStewage for ya, bitches! Oh and I sang the IKEA sucks jingle loudly as I put back my cart. Manic. Ha!

Then, we deiced to stop in Fairfield for a Slurpee. Now, I have become a bit if a Slurpee junky lately. But, not the real sugary Slurpees. These are only sold at 7-11 and made with Crystal Light. Sugar free and only 5 calories an ounce. But, I do get a 40 oz one. Whoops.

Anyway, The Hubs and I always joke about how terrible it would be after going there (yes, because sometimes we drive all the way from Stamford) the machine was broken or they were out. How much that would suck and i would cry. We pulled into the lot and being Memorial Day weekend, there were tons of cars in the parking lot stocking up on snacks and drinks for the long car rides back to wherever. I parked next to this lady getting into her car happily Slurpee sipping. I had a REAL bad feeling. It was so bad and so intense I totally forgot to turn off my car before getting out and grabbing my purse. The Hubs must have had a bad feeling too because he rushed into the 7-11. I went back an turned off my car and grabbed my keys.

I walked in and saw Stew around the magazines he was pretty nervous. "The light is on" he said placing both of his hands on my arm in case I started flailing about. The light being on means two things. It's either broken or it's making more Slurpee. I just know it means you can't use it while the light is on. I asked one of the workers how long it takes to make more Slurpee. They guy said 10 minutes to half an hour. So, I paced the store waiting. I knew that lady had the last of my Slurpee. I should have chase her in my car. I bet she had my desk too. Evil twin.

Finally, the light went off and I filled up two 40 oz cups (I don't drink them all right away, I put them in small ramekin dishes and they turn into Italian ice in the freezer) and went in for a third cup when the machine just started spitting out flat red syrup, Ugh! So, I waited a bit longer before filling up the third cup. However, because they weren't as fizzy as a full term Slurpee when I froze them, they expanded out of the ramekins and got sticky red syrup everywhere in my freezer.

I hope my evil twin was just holidaying near me this weekend and goes away soon. I can't take much more of this.

Lights out

2008-05-22T17:30:00.002-04:00

So, yeah, my bedroom is pretty dark without lamps. And of course, in the sake of not having them show up on my bill, I took the lamps back BEFORE I got replacements.

And now The Hubs won't talk to me because they were his FAVORITE lamps ever.

I've gone too far.

It all started with . . .

2008-05-20T23:02:00.002-04:00

I've been meaning to write this for a while.

So, I LOVE my new bed but it's ruining my marriage . . . . or saving it. I can't quite tell yet. Maybe as a result of what happened after the bed was delivered The Hubs has finally confirmed his fears that I am batshit crazy. Or, it cemented something in his head that instantly attracted him to me on our first date. That I am one quirky broad who likes very specific things and finds great entertainment in searching for the perfect things.

After the bed arrived, we decided we needed a new comforter. The down one I got many years ago on super cheap sale was starting to lose its fluff and was virtually lost inside the duvet cover. I found my old queen fluffy down alternative comforter in a closet and we decided we should use that. Of course, I made us spend a night under it to make sure a queen size comforter would do. I do a weird thing where i wind myself up in the comforter which in turn ends up robbing The Hubs of about three feet of comforter. After a night we thought it would do and now I had to get a queen size duvet cover. I misplaced my old one like a ginormous doofus.

Anyway, I spent some time looking online for ones I liked in stores I had coupons for. I had one requirement. It had to be 100% cotton and cotton percale is NOT cotton. The Hubs had one requirement (at least only one that he let on while I was in the preliminary stages of looking). It could not have a texture because he doesn't like to feel it on his face. But I'm the quirky one. Whatever ***pfffffttt****

I found one I liked in Macy's but it was $300 (F-U Martha Stewart) and I could not justify spending that on a duvet cover. If I ever got tired of it (which I often do) I would feel guilty changing it out for a $39.99 one I fell in love with at Home Goods. I also saw one I liked at Bed Bath and Beyond so I grabbed my coupons and off we went. After prying open the package as much as I could (they clip the zippers to the duvet bags) so I could feel, I approved of the softness. Meanwhile, the Hube went around touching all the other ones for softness. Then, I noticed that this one, the one I came to the store to buy, has a satin ribbon trim. I knew this feature would annoy me (and it was green, something I was NOT thrilled with) when I wound myself up in it. The thought of this satin ribbon jabbing me in the eye actually sent a shiver down my spine. I put it back and continued to look. I found another one I liked a lot but it had texture so I didn't even bother to show The Hubs.

Then, I saw one that I was drawn to for its simplicity. However, that was the same thing that also made me not too crazy about it. It was just plain white with a simple box of what looked like figure eights in a square in the center of the duvet. They had white with red/dark brown/silver or goldish neutral tann-ish. I was drawn to the red but nothing in my room was really red except for some knobs on a dresser. I liked the duvet but I wasn't sold on it and frankly, neither was The Hubs, but I think he was just really hedging to get out of B,B&B. I said I wanted to think about it and started making my way to the exit when I got sidetracked by the clearance aisle. I found these awesome red curtains. They were the same red in the duvet cover so I bought two panels and the duvet cover. With my coupon and the fact they were on clearance, they were $7.50. SCORE.

We came home and put the duvet cover on. I wasn't blown away. The curtains looked pretty garish but I thought it was because I had blue and white curtains there before that it was just taking me a while to get used to the shocking red. The following day I went to Home Goods and got funky red sheets and new lamps (which I kept the tags on just in case). My room looked like a Gothic porn set. Something was still off. I kept asking The Hubs, "what's off? Something is off." And all he would say is, "You're onto something but I don't know what." I don't think he was crazy about anything in there (except the lamps) but he was afraid to say anything else because that might result in another trip to the mall or Bed, Bath and Beyond.

Maybe it was the picture that hung over my bed. There was too much green in it and with the red it was beginning to look a lot like Christmas on the gothic porn set. I tried other pictures but none seemed to work. I returned to Home Goods the following day for the third time in three days. I picked up two wrought iron pieces to try and waited for The Hubs to come home so he could hold them up for me. I immediately decided on the second one much to my own chagrin because it weighed at least 40 lbs and would surely take down my wall and crush my skull while I slept. The following day i returned the other iron piece to Home Goods. I am sure by that point I made their bad list.

On Saturday, my dad came over with special screws to hang the iron thing over the bed so it would not kill us. My mom's face gave me an immediate read on what she liked (nothing) or didn't like (everything) about the bedroom. After my dad hung the iron work up and we pushed the bed back and made it for her she admitted it wasn't that bad. But, she agreed the curtains had to go. So, after my folks left The Hubs took the curtains down and I repacked them to take them back. Since I only got the duvet cover to match the curtains that meant the end of the duvet cover too. I labored over repacking that thing but wouldn't you know, B,B& B didn't even look at it.

I spent all day Sunday looking at over 3,000 duvet covers online. And out of 3,000 I liked 6 and then narrowed those down to 4. I finally ordered one but not after peppering the company with questions. Today the replacement curtains came and they've softened the place considerably. Once the new duvet cover comes I can get a firmer grasp on the lamps. And then maybe I'll take the price off.

If you're on the highway to hell, you may as well sleep in a Heavenly Bed

2008-05-14T23:02:00.000-04:00

So, it's here. My greatest reward in life. No, not my wonderful husband or a baby but my Heavenly bed. Oh yeah, bitches! I can't seem to walk past my room now without pitstopping on the bed for a quick rest. It's made getting anything done virtually impossible. However, the road to heaven was not an easy one.

After waiting 4 whole weeks (yes, I marked it on my calendar and watched the days tick by like I was in prison) I broke down and called Nordstrom's to find out when I could be expecting my bed. Afterall, I had to get ready for its arrive by cleaning the bedroom and moving some large cabinets out of the way and I wanted to leave us plenty of time to do that. Of course, I had to call Nordstrom's twice before I got any sort of an answer and "you still don't have your bed?" was not really the answer I wanted to hear. Turns out it was delivered to the delivery agent quite a few days ago and I should have already heard from them to schedule a delivery. I had not.

"Well, you will definitely be hearing from them today if you haven't already" said Tyesha.

After hanging up with her, I waited an hour and checked my messages at home. Nothing. In fact nothing until Thursday morning just as I was grabbing my keys to leave the house at 9 a.m. I stood by the calendar waiting to schedule a date with this guy thinking it would be within the next week since it was Thursday already.

"How about this afternoon?" They asked.

Um, excuse me? This afternoon, like in a couple of hours. Uh, no. I explained to the guy that I do work (contrary to being in my house at 9, whoops) and i had to do some stuff in order to get ready so pick another day.

"How about tomorrow (Friday) between 9 and 1."

So, Friday it was. I scheduled a last minute day off (which I HATE doing) and The Hubs and I worked from the time we both got home until 11 p.m. that night cleaning, vacuuming, moving furniture so the guys had easier access up the stairs. Friday morning, despite not having to go to work, I was up at 8 to strip the bed and shower before the guys got there. As you know, it was a rainy day. I started watching the clock.

By noon, something told me to call the delivery company. So, i did. And I was REALLY nice about it. I said, "I am sure you will be delayed because of the weather, can you just tell me how off schedule you are?"

"Oh," The Asshole began, "we won't be delivering your mattress today because of the rain. We don't want it to get ruined."

Trying to keep my cool I explained that I took the day off work and worked around them and their short ass notice. I also explained, I do not get paid for days off. And I also said, 'It's been raining since 7, couldn't you have called me earlier and told me you weren't delivering and I could have gone to work!?!?!?!?!"

"Sorry," The Asshole said, "We're going to try and get it to you on Saturday. We don't usually deliver on Saturdays, but we'll do it. I'll call you later tonight to schedule."

That was the tip off that they had NO INTENTION Of delivering it on Saturday because why wouldn't you reschedule with me WHILE I'M ON THE PHONE. I figured I would get nowhere with this guy so I hung up and called Nordstrom's. In fact, while I was on the phone with them a Bob's truck pulled in. Apparently, they could deliver in the rain. "Bob's is even delivering," I hissed.

A few minutes after my Nordstrom's rage, the delivery company called me back and scheduled a Saturday delivery between 8 - 10. I made them promise eight times that they were going to come. After the third time the guy was getting mad but he got off easy. If that fucker were in front of me, I would have made him pinky swear.

So, at 9:48 Saturday morning I got a call from a random cellphone asking me if i was expecting a delivery from Home Depot. When I said no, the caller on the end was about as confused as I was. The Hubs said I should have just said yes. Like that suggestion made any sense. A few minutes later (down to the wire, obviously) my doorbell rang and my mattress was delivered.

Sweet sweet sweet heavenly bed.

How it's arrival led to a full blown bedroom makeover is a blog for another day.

Hitler was a bad influence

2008-05-05T11:11:00.000-04:00

I've been called a lot of things in my life. My favorite being from a jilted lover who called me "Hitler" before he stalked off. My friend Julie and I always laugh because an ex called her a "facist dictator" after she told him it just wouldn't work. However, I have never, in my life, been called a bad influence.

Now, one might think being called Hitler would offend you more but when someone calls you something like Hitler, you kinda just shake your head and let out a dumbfounded "wha ...." Calling Hitler is like calling someone a stupid doody head. It only makes you want to say, "ummm..... okay, sure, whatever." But calling me . . . me . . . moi, a bad infleunce is off the hook.

So, who would say such a mean thing to me?

The Hubs.

And why would he say such a mean thing?

Because HE wanted to go outlet shopping and HE spent more money than me. And HE thinks that hanging out with me forces him to dress like Punky Brewster because HE came up to me after 30 minutes of being ON HIS OWN in a store excited about his find of plaid shorts with skulls and crossbones on them. And he also insisted on buy some Ed Hardy jeans with a dragon patch despite the fact I told him numerous times they weren't exactly my style but if he liked them, he should get them, Brett Michaels.

But, I'm a bad influence? Heck.

However, I do have to admit the plaid, skull and crossbones shorts are pretty f-ing awesome but definitely call for the right shirt. So, it's a good thing we used our Nordstrom's card a lot this weekend to insure we stay on our level 2 status so we can call the Fashion Emergency hotline and ask.

Who goes camping in a cucumber storm?

2008-05-01T14:03:00.000-04:00

So, last night I had another whacked dream and I'm working on trying to figure it out but there seems to be too much stuff going on in it. Maybe you can help. You being anyone who actually reads this. Or, you being Tracy who is the only other person I know who has dreams as batshit crazy and nonsensical and doomsday-ish as I do.

My dream.

I came home from work. Home was still my house but apparently my parents and my sister were still living at our old house. My sister and her family were living in the in-law apartment I used to live in while my folks had the upstairs. My sister still lived at their other house, but fro some reason they stayed in the old in-law apartment a few days a week because it was closer to my brother-in-law's job.

Anyway, my mom asked me to go over there and when I got there, she broke the news to me that my mom, dad, aunt, uncle, sister, bro-in-law and nephews were going camping and they wanted me to house-sit while they were gone. I was pissed because I really wanted to stay at my own house and it didn't even occur tome to get mad that i wasn't invited camping yet. Then, again, anyone who knows me knows my idea of roughing it is staying at a two star hotel.

My sister had a cat and a dog and she was rushing about packing and not showing me the important things like where she kept the pet food and who to call in case a pet sick or something. I'm in the kitchen trying to find this stuff out on my own when suddenly her stove (which BTW, is the most gorgeous copper stove I have ever seen) suddenly goes on. One burner starts shooting flames, then the other burner and then the whole inside of the oven is on and shooting flames. I start trying to turn the burners off but they were already off. I start screaming for my sister who pulls the plug on the oven and flicks a switch on the wall and the stove goes out. She says to me, "the cucumber storms must be coming." And I said, "oh, shit, not the cucumber storms. I want to be in my own house when the cucumber storms hit." As if i was all too familiar with the cucumber storms being a natural springtime occurrence. And as a side note. The cucumber storms have NOTHING to do with cucumbers. It was just a severe rain/thunder/lightning storm dubbed the cucumber storms which makes all the sense in the world to me in my dream.

Now, I start to get mad that I have to be away from my house during a cucumber storm while my entire family EXCEPT me goes camping. I'm about to lay into my mom about this when I see this tiny furry bird with a tail like a squirrel start hopping about the table in front of me. I start screaming like banshee ready to kill it when my sister starts screaming for me not to hurt it because it's their pet something (it had a funny name in the dream that I can't remember). Again, anyone who knows me knows I don't like birds and I don't like tiny things that walk on all fours whose nails I can hear clacking because it makes my hair stand on end. i start wigging out and screaming that I am really mad my whole family is going camping without me and leaving me to house-sit during a cucumber storm with all these animals like it's freaking Noah's Ark in a house that has a stove that spontaneously combusts. Do they understand that for the next few nights I won't get ANY sleep because I have to constantly check the stove to make sure it's not on fire and I don't burn alive.

I asked my mom how come I couldn't go camping and she said because I was just one person I would make it an uneven number of people. I reminded my mom that I am married now, a fact that seemed to escape both of us until that moment and speaking of, where was The Hubs during my dream? I thought that AFTER I got married all those weird dreams about marriage would stop but they haven't. I used to have all these dreams where I was either getting married or was married and I would NEVER see the groom or my husband or i would end up dying or getting trapped in the bathroom on my wedding day.

I went into the bathroom to sulk but was set off again when I saw the bathroom was FILTHY and the toilet was so high it came up to my shoulder. I had to pee so I bit the bullet and climbed up and sat down but it was hard to concentrate on peeing while trying not to lose my balance. And my ass was directly at window height so I am sure my aunt and uncle who were playing with the kids in the driveway could see my pasty white ass on the throne.

My parents walked back into the house where I was setting in the bedroom and crying. They were just about to say something to me (probably, "hey, don't forget to take in the mail") when The Hubs woke me up for work. I told him all about the dream and he agreed it was weird but told me that i stalled enough and had to get up now.

Red Box, Black eye

2008-04-21T13:40:00.001-04:00

I have a low threshhold for Jackassery. It's even lower when a person's jackassery affects the lives of others. So, you can imagine what life is like for me to see lage amounts of jackassery every day. I spend most of my days balling my hands into fists mentally cold cocking jackassery committers. It's probably only a matter of time before The Hub's calming words cease working or he looses his grip on my shirt while I start flailing like a Springer guest.

Oh yes. Only a matter of time.

Some places I see jackassery more than others. I see tons of it on the road. But, now, in our constant quest to be cheap, I see it the most at Red Box locations.

For those not familair with the wonders of Red Box. They are housed in most Stop & Shops and you can rent a movie for $1. ONE DOLLAR. Genius. And if you forget to return by the 6 p.m. time the following day, it's just another buck so no biggie. However, failing to return it on time is not even an option to us true cheap asses. You are welcome to rent as many movies as you want at Red Box and as long as its in the machine, it can go home with you for ONE DOLLAR. GENIUS. And you can even rent it online, walk up to the box, swipe your card, grab your movie and go. Simple.

You'd think!

But the problem is, not everybody can work the Red Box. It's not even these poeple I get pissed off at. It's the people like the girl we saw on Friday night. The Hubs went to the Ghetto Red Box at at 9 where he reserved Walk Hard (because nobody in the ghetto wanted to watch that). When we got there, there was already a line of two people. I tooka quick cruise down the aisled to see if my crack sandwiches were on sale and I came back. It was still the same two people. I could have cruised again but I knew right then and there that I could do laps around that store before The Hubs even moved one spot in line.

Finally, the first person is finished and the next girl goes. She's going through EVERY movie, reading EVERY synopsis for minutes. The line has grown by two more people. She's standing there, one hip cocked scrutinizing like this is the hardest choice she's making. She gets a movie. She looks some more. The line grows another person. The girl in front of me rolls her eyes and says to me that they should have two (a good but fault plan as I will get into later). She reads some more. I let out a very big, loud sigh.

The line grows some more. Then, she takes out her cell phone and dials. I say out loud, "Oh, you have got to be kidding me, that is SO NOT cool!" It doesn't seem to phase her which irritates me even more. And we're in the ghetto so you can imagine what the line looks like. Most of them have little tolerance for little Greenwich girl on her pink Razr with her Louis Vitton bag dangling from her wrist.

The line grows (it's almost out the door) as Little Miss Douchebag reads the movies alphabetically. Again I said, "Ohhhhh no" and The Hubs shoots me a look to let me know he agrees but disapproves of my verbalization of the whole insane scene. She hangs up. Reads and agonizes some more. The line grows. Finally, she finishes but there's still one more person to go before us. Now, mind you, we did it all online. All we have to do is pick up. We'll be at the machine less than a minute. The girl in front of us is no speed racer but she's no Little Miss Douchebag so we eventually make it to the Red Box. We swipe, grab and go. The line is in amazement. They should see how efficiently we order food if they are so impressed by that.

I rage the whole way home and so does The Hubs. There is really no way to fix the Red Box Jackassery problem. Two machines, like the girl in front of us suggested would not work because each machine would have different movies based on who returned what at which machine.

The only way to really do it is to have a pick up/return slot on the side of the same machine so smart people who did it online didn't have to wait behind assholes who think this is Blockbuster.

Remind me to write a letter to Red Box about this idea. Otherwise, you'll be cruising the Police Blotter and totally see my name.

You gotta fight for your right to fight . . . . and you just lost it.

2008-04-12T11:41:00.000-04:00

Something is going on in our house. It seems as though we need a new . . . . everything. It started with the mattress. Actually, it started with the sofa but considering I spend more time sleeping than I do sitting ass on my couch, it became a mattress. Now, after springing for the Heavenly Bed (which, by the way, I bound for the phone iwhen it rings in hopes it's Nordstrom's calling to tell me they were wrong about the 4 to 6 week delivery and my bed is coming right now), talks are resuming about the sofa.

I LOVE my livingroom set. I LOVE my set as much as I LOVED my entertainment center. And noticed I said loved as in a past tense. Someone (and it wasn't me) wanted a GIGANTIC TV because my "broad tv" with combo dvd/vcr player offended all his machismo senses. My beloved entertainment center would not accommodate anything bigger than 30 inches so I had to forsake my FAVORITE piece of furniture in the name of love. Of course, that meant the new one had to meet my aesthetic standards and we did pretty well all things considering.

But, my living room furniture is like sitting down on a big hug and it's cute and girly to boot. Behind me, in my office, sits the tan leather one The Hubs had in his condo hidden away holding all the clothes I will one day list on eBay. That sofa is in fine working condition but this time, it offends MY senses.

It's not really that my sofa is that bad. It's only 8 years old. The back frame behind one of the spots is a bit sunken in and that caused the back cushion to get all screwed up. This was made worse by The Hubs who would not fix it first before sitting, but, rather let it fold under him and sink down so he was leaning right up against the sunken in frame.

My living room set is a set for a reason. The couch is blue, the loveseat is a pinkish reddish and the big overstuffed chair is a pale yellow. He wanted to buy a new sofa, a leather one, thus mis-matching my beloved living room set. The loveseat and the chair are still in excellent condition because nobody ever sits on them. Something would have to go. And who throws out perfectly good pieces of furniture? Sure, i could try and sell the loveseat and chair on craig's list but what a pain in the ass. I can barely stand the assholes on eBay. Not to mention we'd spend at least $2000 on a new set.

So, I had a solution. I would get the back cushions restuffed. Maybe put in some firm foam and make them new again . . . or at least hold up another two years. The Hubs wanted to move his ugly leather couch downstairs but that plan was dead in the water upon the words leaving his mouth.

His argument: "You should be concerned with function than aaesthetics."

Well, if that were the case half of his friends wouldn't be ruling out 98% of the girls they meet because they're not supermodels. But, I guess that explains why he was smart enough to marry me.

To get the pillows restuffed would cost me about $100 and then I picked up a sofa saver to put under the back cushions to give that sunken in spot behind The Hubs more support. $114.99 for two more years of use versus $2,000 and a big headache seems logical to me. He was against putting anymore money into it but i could see the big picture. I had a plan and when I have a plan, do not fuck with me.

And only a few short moments he would lose the right to ever debate me again. I finally heard something that I have been telling people for years. We were talking about a couple we know who just told us they're pregnant. She's only 2 months and I know there is some sort of safety 3 month rule. But, I didn't want her to think that her husband told us and we didn't acknowledge it so I told The Hubs we should get a card to send them. He was apprehensive that it was still early and maybe we shouldn't and blah blah blah. Then he said it . . . .

"Well you always do what's right anyway."

Glad someone finally noticed.

NKOTB(itches)

2008-04-09T21:27:00.000-04:00

Yesterday, I pulled my car out of the garage of my very adult job, wearing my adult clothes, carrying my adult purse ready to go home to my adult life. I pushed the radio knob in waiting for whatever music to fill whatever station I left it on at 8:50 a.m. To my surprise, New Kids On The Block was coming out of my speakers. Whoa- whoa- whoa - whoa- hangin' tough. I looked up and into the mirror hoping to catch the decade in a laugh line. It was indeed 2008. I let a small smile pass across my lips and rolled down my window a bit. Suddenly, I was 16 years-old.

I'll admit something here and ONLY here. Well, okay, it's not really news to most of my friends but I was a HUGE NKOTB fan. HUGE. Like 10 times in concert huge. Like 267 (but still not the 293 of Duran Duran when I was eleven) pictures adorning my walls that i ripped out of magazines like Bop and Teen Beat that I always told the guy at the magazine shop I was buying "for my younger sister." NKOTB was my dirt dirty dirty secret and I was not alone. My bestfriend also joined me in this scandal and together we probably spent thousands scoring good seats to their shows and gas money to get there. We were among the few NKOTB fans that could actually drive to their concerts. An elite group and something one should not be proud of.

I liked Donnie Wahlberg. What could I say; I had a thing for bad boys. She was a huge Joey McIntyre fan which I found a bit worse because he just looked so young despite being a year older than us. Maybe she was onto something, he aged a helluva lot better than Donnie. However, she was a huge Richie Sambroa fan and have you seen how he's lookin' lately? Egotz!

So, here I was, 34 years-old, married, thinking about the whole baby thing. Sixteen years old was more than half my life ago. And all these memories started flooding back. All the ridiculousness of my teenage years. All the money spent. All the time spent. All the screaming and singing along to songs. All of it just the right stuff. Ahhh, you knew I was going to find some way to work that in. It is me we're talking about here.

I thought back to my funniest NKOTB experience. The concert where we ended up helping security collect gifts for the band from the fans who tried to approach the closer rows but got turned away. How all three of us held large black hefty bags that got fuller throughout the concert. And then, how we made off with them running back to the car with our loot to see what these crazy bitches were bestowing on our guys. It was kinda sad. The cards, the letters, the heartfelt poetry, the poorly constructed missives about how fans visited their hometowns. Requests for autographs, tons of gummi bears, Mets hats, Red Sox hats, pictures, stuffed animals. We divided the loot by the guy we liked. Kristen got all Joey's gifts, I got Donnie's and Jen got Jon's. All is fair in love and looting.

The story always makes me laugh.

But, then reality came crashing down. Why are they playing NKOTB? And why do I now think this is the shittiest music to ever hit airwaves. Some friends would say my musical tastes have not evolved that much. It is true, the New Kids on the Block are back together reuniting (torturing) us one last time so that people like me could play their CDs for their kids and hopefully breathe some life back into the NKOTB craze. No thanks. Once was enough guys. I mean, really, who is going to be your fan base now. Even your youngest fans are well into their 20s and hoped you had moved onto bigger and better things. Come on, Donnie, what about that booming movie career, the Sixth Sense and Saw II. You were about to grasp the brass ring like your brother. The once Marky Mark of the former Funky Bunch who once autographed a picture for me when he played Playland signing it, "Lisa, How's Greace" when i was unable to attend because I was in GreEce, has movie roles coming out of his ass. And here you are ready to break it down NKOTB style in 2008. Have some self respect, would ya? Fade into obscurity with some dignity, man. You'll more than likely never reach the level of stardom you had. Instead you're just making jokes of yourselves and forcing your wives to raise your kids while you're out on the road entertaining 10 year-olds and their moms.

Then before I could switch out of my rage-a-hol mode, they played the new NKOTB song and I bet it's going to shoot straight to number one in strip clubs everywhere. Suddenly, it all made sense.

Back to the Juno soundtrack.

How the Heavenly Bed became a fashion emergency

2008-04-07T07:39:00.001-04:00

When I used to travel for my other job, I would have the luxury of staying in whatever hotel my boss stayed in so he could keep me close like a master would keep his slave. The hotels were usually pretty nice. When we traveled to San Francisco I liked staying in the Westin St. Francis because I LOVE Westin beds. After my first stay, I learned the fluffy goodness I couldn't wait to crawl into at night were trademarked, the Heavenly Bed. And I have to say, I LOVED going to bed every night. Usually when I sleep at hotels, I dread a night's sleep on a lumpy mattress with scratchy sheets. I'd stay out of my room until everything closed and I was forced to sleep. At the Westin, I'd do everything I could to stay in my room.

When I met The Hubs, I had to go to San Fran for business and I stayed at The Westin again. I called him the first night to gloat about being able to eat a cheeseburger and sink into fluffy goodness. In fact, throughout our courtship I told him about the Heavenly Bed often. Every hotel we'd stay in where the bed was suitable he'd remark that that was the most comfortable bed he's ever slept in at a hotel. I'd quickly correct him and say, "you'll change your mind if you ever stayed at a Westin. That bed was okay but it's no Heavenly Bed."

It became a game that ended the day after our wedding when The Hubs pulled up to a Westin. The king size Heavenly Bed was too much for both of us to resist. We quickly dove on it (for a nap, get your minds out of the gutter). Needless to say, it was hard to get up. We spent as much time as we could in that bed, eating breakfast, watching TV, even laying there as we waited for each other to get ready. Who needed the rest of Boston, we had that bed. The Hubs became a convert vowing only to stay in Westin's for the rest of his life.

So, after another restless night's sleep on a 15 year-old mattress, The Hubs and I decided it was time to get a new one. I couldn't just let the opportunity to suggest a Heavenly Bed pass by. To my surprise The Hubs was down with the idea. The real ones are only available on the Westin website and at select department stores. Sleepy's sells the beds only found in the W Hotels and believe me, THERE IS A DIFFERENCE. In our area, the select department store was Nordstrom's. After calling to make sure they had a floor model for us to try we went there Saturday night.

Furniture, of any kind, must be new to Nordstrom's because the beds were set off in a remote corner and there were only two kinds of mattresses. The Hubs and I were a bit disappointed to see the Heavenly Bed was all trussed up. I read somewhere when testing out a mattress to lay on it for five minutes. How could I lay on this without removing the comforter and 6 billion pillows? We immediately got to work despite the dismay of the salesperson. Hey, if we're going to spend that much on a mattress and make a ten year commitment to it, we were going to try it.

I got comfortable which made The Hubs wary because we were, after all, in a department store so people were walking by. Again, ask me if i care? I laid there and laid there and laid there. It felt smaller than our queen at home but we're not sure if it was just an optical illusion because the store was huge. So, I carefully took off the sheets until I found the tag that had the measurements. We left, without the bed because we had to go home and measure our bed and decide between a queen or a king. A king would be great but that meant buying a new frame thus turning an already expensive bed into a super duper expensive bed.

Oh. And of course we set the bed up exactly how we found it because The Hubs made me. I don't even make my bed at home.

The following day, we returned. With the help of the salesperson, we stripped the bed of its comforter and again laid on it. I flailed about tossing and turning and changing positions like I do in the course of a night's sleep. a few minutes later we found ourselves at the register. Nordstrom's, being the only department store with this silly policy doesn't give you a discount on anything the day you open a credit account there. The bed was getting paid out of the joint anyway but we were hoping to get a discount for opening an account with them. Nothing. However, they have a $20 bonus certificate and a totally silly points system. After statting it out, The Hubs deemed it worth the $40 in bonus certs/points we'd get buying it on their card rather than putting it on his regular card and only getting $14.25 worth of points. Plus, I was eyeing the down duvet insert so we could use it towards that.

They offer so many kinds of cards. So many different tiers all of which elude the salespeople. It was up to us to read the brochure and pick the best card to nickel and dime them - the platinum card. After that, it's broken down into tiers depending on your annual spending. With the bed purchase, we were placed in their tier II. Suddenly, The Hubs let out a chuckle and pointed towards the "benefits" list of Tier II. Emergency Fashion hotline that tier II cardmembers could call and get emergency fashion help. How great is that? I mean who uses that? Seriously.

Then, I started thinking about all those times I had fashion questions. Like, afternoon weddings requiring less formal dress. Suddenly, I was overcome with the desire to be a Tier II member just to call these people every now and then with some silly question like 'is it okay to wear black stockings and white pumps?" Or "I want an outfit that says available but not slutty." This is fun. This hotline is genius. All i know is whoever was answering that hotline better have more knowledge than these salespeople because the results could be disastrous. I'm hard pressed to believe that it's someone's full time job to hang around a red phone waiting for the alarms to go off that there is a fashion emergency. I'm more apt to believe the same person guiding me on fashion advice is also who gets called if they're short a cashier or need someone to wrap.

By the time we left the store, I was giddy with delight. Not only would I be getting my very own Heavenly Bed but now I got to go home and make up fashion emergencies to stump people with.

F-ing Deli Guy

2008-04-02T20:06:00.000-04:00

That deli guy needs a good swift kick in the ass. Yes, I am talking about the same deli guy who addressed me as sir a couple of weeks ago.

Today, I was overcome with a craving for deli sliced ham. Honestly, I am not much of a deli ham fan. That weird iridescent color it gets creeps me out. And all these nail salons have tons of shades of pink that have the same effect. I always cringe when I see it and think "ham toes. I'll want to eat my feet." So, yeah, not a ham fan. But, today I NEEDED ham. But, I also needed some more cranberry juice and creamer so it wasn't a one item trip like when I must have baked Ritz crackers.

Anyway, The Hubs' biggest fan was working and he wrapped up his last customer in enough time to help me. I didn't want to order the ham right off the bat so I ordered some Swiss cheese. My least favorite cheese. But, just like the ham, I had to have it today. Then I went to order the ham when he said to me, "you look like you had a bad day."

Okay. See, I DID have a bad day. A really bad day. In fact, I texted The Hubs around 3 telling him to forget wings, I'd rather drink my calories for dinner. He texted me back to tell me his day sucked too. Great, can't I just have this ONE THING? Ironically enough, both our days had to do with computer issues. But, he broke one, whereas I wanted to just break one over someone's head. Someone please remind me when I get another job to pretend like I've never even seen a computer before. Be in awe of its powers and afraid of it like everyone around me. Ignorance is bliss. Or, at least pay me like an IT person if I am going to be doing the job.

But, telling someone they look like they had a bad day is mean. Especially when I was trying so hard to forget about my bad day. I'm not sure what tipped him off. Maybe it was the fact that I forgot the word "ham" when I went to order it and looked visibly overwhelmed by all the choices. Sad. When did I become my grandmother? On bad days apparently. I guess I can't get pissed at my mom anymore when I get in her car and she completely forgets how to get anywhere in town. A town she's lived in for 40 years. A town in which she drives around all day selling real estate in. But, suddenly she forgets the quickest way to downtown when I get in the car.

"Um, is it that obvious?" I asked Deli Dope.

"Yes," he said without hesitation.

Thanks. Don't mince words. For that, I will make you cut my cheese extra thick and put a layer of paper between slices.

I came home and told The Hubs his new friend said I looked like I had a bad day. He didn't think I should be that upset unless he said, "you look like you had a bad day, sir." Wise ass. No cheese for him.

Wrecking Balm, meet wrecking ball

2008-03-25T19:02:00.004-04:00

Once a month, the greatest magazine to ever land in our mailbox arrives. The Clipper. Now, for those not familiar with The Clipper, I'll fill you in. The Clipper is a great magazine chock full of coupons to some local restaurants and businesses. Now, I could care less for the $25 off a gutter cleaning but you can bet I'll be running for the scissors when I see a $5 off coupon for my sushi joint, Ocha.

Sometimes The Clipper will have a random advertisement and that is just what I spotted Friday night as I went to town on The Clipper with my scissors planning out our meals for the month. The advertisement was a full page (no expense spared there) ad for Doc Wilson's Wrecking Balm, Tattoo Fade System. Apparently, this is a balm you apply at home (after researching it further it turns out it's a DIY microbrasion kit. YIKES!) to remove your tattoo at a fraction of the cost of laser treatments.

Now, I love my tattoos and I would never remove them despite how my butterfly runs into my asscrack now after losing all that weight and "Please Call Dr. Horder" is now officially half the size it was and reads PleaseCallDr.Horder. But, I was curious about how this could possibly be a safe thing to do at home. I can't even be trusted to use Nair after an application of it left me with a mustache of scabbed over third degree burns.

So, I read the ad.

And read it again.

And again.

And once more to make sure it officially made no fucking sense whatsoever.

Now, of course it makes perfect sense in the literal sense of the word. All the nouns and pronouns are where they should be. It just makes NO logical sense. And it was the ad's inability to make logical sense that compelled me to rip the ad out with a promise that I would send them a letter to tell them they offended my senses. MY SENSES. Someone with FIVE tattoos.

The Ad:

"I'm Tina: It all started when I walked down the aisle. The smirks; the giggles; the regret - the old tattoo from college sprawled across my back. Two years of my life getting ready for this very moment and all I felt was remorse. 'My day' ended up with a fight with my in-laws and then led to an ugly divorce soon after. I knew I should have removed the tattoo years ago, but I didn't know how . . ."

Then it launches into how Tina is going to get married a second time and thanks to Wrecking Balm she's not "making the same mistakes she made in the past."

Okay, other than the obvious (How could it possibly take you TWO YEARS to plan a wedding?) one has to ask themselves, "did this tattoo say something bad?" Like, seriously, unless "the man I am marrying is a fucking idiot and I hate his family" was sprawled across Tina's back, then her tattoo is not to blame for the fight with her in-laws and her marriage ending in an "ugly" divorce. And if you are that self-conscious of your tattoo on your back, why wouldn't you pick a dress that maybe hid it? Honestely, I think the divorce had more to do with the fact that Tina, sipping champagne in the picture and giving the camera bedroom eyes; looks more like she was capable of screwing the bestman in the broom closet at her reception than the fact she had a tattoo on her back. Seriously. Temptress Tina, who you kidding?

The ad made no sense. In fact, it made so little sense that the lack of it offended me. Stretching so unbelievably far as to NOT make logical cause and effect sense offended me. Why not take the approach of, "In college I was crazy and I got a tattoo on my calf. I was young and now I work on Wall Street and I'm afraid to wear skirts because everyone will see it." That's more plausible than the tattoo on your back leading to divorce.

"I'm going to call this 1 800 number and tell them how retarded this ad is," I told The Hubs.

And of course only someone as wonderful as the man I married (with no tattoos on my back) would entertain the lunacy he married and find me something better than some helpless operator to rage at. A couple of days later he emailed me the company's email address and I am going to give them a piece of my mind.

Peppermint Patty has PMS

2008-03-23T20:56:00.001-04:00

So, Saturday I had to go to the grocery to get some eggs. I had the woolies for my wasabi deviled eggs (which btw, I still haven't made yet). Of course, while I was there I was overcome with some sort of shopping fever and was compelled to buy more food than we needed. This included a trip to the deli counter to get some cod cuts. I also had my once a year craving for liverwurst. Let's see, wasabi deviled eggs and liverwurst. If I didn't already know my period was 4 days late I might think I managed to become sperminated. But, I have already taken three pregnancy tests (all negative) because I've been itching to take some codeine for my back. So, ruling out pregnancy, I can say for certain that I'm just PMS eating . . . . hopefully.

The Hubs was with me sporting his new red and white Giants Superbowl jersey which completely managed to throw off the deli guy. It started with a simple "Can I help you?" and before I could even get out my request for a half pound of muenster he was all over The Hubs like white on rice. "Where'd you get that jersey?"

Now, I'll pause to explain. They sell this jersey at Bob's and Modell's. However, The Hubs, having the ability to squeeze a quarter until the eagle screams, got it from his friend who does merchandising. The jersey was actually imported from Hong Kong for about $30 less than the $75 they charge at Modell's. Whether or not it's a fake is up for debate although The Hubs will try and point out its authenticity to me constantly. Like I care. I carried around a fake Louis Vitton while my mom sold fake Rolexes to my field hockey coaches for most of high school. So, why The Hubs can't just say, for the sake of explaning, that he got it at Modelle's is beyond me.

Deli Guy, is so enthralled by The Hub's cheapness that he's just standing there with the brick of muenster slung over his shoulder. Hey pal, you wanna slice that or should I just get some bread and make a grilled cheese right here?

After a while, he slices it. All the while talking football with The Hubs while I eye the deli case wondering how long it's going to take me to get three packs of cold cuts. God, don't let my bologna order start a chat about March Madness. Honestly, I was drowning out the conversation. Most conversations regarding sports get absorbed into my brain like math equations.

Deli Guy hands me the muenster and says TO ME, "Anything else, sir?"

Okay. I know my hair was wet and my coat was bulky. But, I'd like to think despite that, someone can tell I am female.

"Um, a half pound of bologna." I try to catch The Hub's eyes so I can mouth "what the fuck? Sir?" But he's too busy chatting up his new friend.

Deli Guy hands me the bologna. "Anything else, sir?"

I'm starting to think he must just be so focused on The Hubs that I don't exist. I am just a female afterall. And I did almost shriek in horror when he first offered low salt bologna.

"Um, a half pound of liverwurst" I manage not to say the last part which was going to sound something like this, "FOR MY OVARIES WHICH ARE TELLING ME I MUST EAT THIS SHIT BECAUSE I AM A FEMALE AND AS A FEMALE I GET PMS."

"Here you go, sir. Have a nice day" as he hands me the packaged liverwurst.

I walk away staring at The Hubs in shock while telling him that from now on to just tell people he got the jersey at Modell's or Bob's than explain the Bong Kong connection. I'm still baffled.

We walk over to CVS and as the guy at the register is ringing me up he compliments The Hubs on his jersey and asks where he got it. Of course, forgetting what I just told him on the SHORT walk over, he launches into the story about his friend and merchandising and getting this from Hong Kong for a deal.

I was waiting for this guy to become so focused on The Hubs that he's the only one he sees in the room. I start to think he too might start showing signs of pulsating purple hearts rather than pupils. I'm waiting for the "here's your change, sir." But there would be no mistaking me this time. This time I had a basket full of Combos and EPT pregnancy tests. Mistake that, bitch.

Mess with the bull and you get the horns

2008-03-14T20:56:00.001-04:00

So, after much agonizing (all of three seocnds) I decided that I could not let Quest Diagnostic Lab get away with further screw ups. I wrote one of my infamous letters. This was was 2 pages long SINGLE SPACED. I'm not sure what pushed me over the edge. It could have been the onslaught of bills from them or the fact that because my blood test results were shared with my primary care doctor she seems to think my health is in peril and now she is sending me to yet another specialist for more bloodwork. Now. I told her that there was a screw up with my blood but nobody seems to know what is accurate and what's not so yay. More blood work.

Anyway, in a fit of rage over the weekend I mailed my letter to EVERY email address I could find on the Quest we site as well as cutting and pasting it into the comments sections of a survey AND sending a hardcopy of the same letter to the headquarters in Bridgeport.

Tuesday I received a call from the Regional Director. Of course I wasn't at home to take it and got the message after 5. She left me her number and when I checked my email, I saw she responded to my email as well. I replied and told her I didn't have much else to add the story. I mean, hello, the letter was TWO pages. I am pretty sure I summed it all up. I called her the following day to just reiterate that.

She apologized profusely for my experience. And then she proceeded to tell me that I can just go to another drawing station the next time and there is a new online appointment maker so you don't have to wait.

Hey, great, but my issue is not with the wait. It's with your employees doing their jobs wrong and FUCKING UP BLOOD RESULTS. BLOOD RESULTS THAT END UP WITH A WRONG DIAGNOSIS.

There's a time to put a positive spin on something and there is a time to keep your mouth shut and just apologize profusely. This was a perfect time to do the latter.

How is Stew Leonard's going to swing that?

2008-03-07T16:43:00.000-05:00

So. Last night there was an impromptu moment of McLovin'. The first episode of it since having my IUD removed on Monday. Of course, because I have read way more books than I needed to, I was well aware that there was no LH surge happening in my uterus so there was a minimal risk of getting pregnant. But. Of course, when you're free wheelin' it, mistakes can happen and any time you have McLovin' there is a possibility you can get pregnant.

Afterwards, I drifted off to sleep with that nagging, "oh shit, what did we just do?" thought in my head. So. It was only inevitable that I had the following dream.

I was working in Norwalk and decided (like I usually do) to stop off at Stew Leonard's on my way home to pick up some stuffed salmon and other stuff I can only get there. Of course, I would HAVE to plow my way through the greedy and cheap crowd and dig into the basket of free cookie with both hands like usual. After walking the whole store putting stuff in my basket I stumbled upon a big table next to the cakes with a sign above it that said "Babies $6.99".

Yes. You read that right. Stew's was selling babies. But. They were all laying face down with these light brown very soft fuzzy pajamas on with hoods. You couldn't see their faces. They looked like those really soft plush teddy bears. They were all different sizes. There was one so small it could fit in my palm but it wasn't like a preemie. It was totally pudgy and healthy, just really small. There were rows of them. All dressed alike. All face down. Every other customer walked by without so much as a glance. It was just me and a table full of babies for sale. Dirt freaking cheap too. Like Stew's was growing them on a farm and another truckload would be coming soon.

$6.99, certainly not the International adoption rates of $40,000 and $20,000 that I have been researching. Hey, when you are as old as I am, you explore ALL your options.

The Baby Tag Sale was in full effect on the table. And they were good babies too. They were eerily still except one. It was the weirdest one. The only one face up and crying like there was no tomorrow. This one was average baby size but had the fully developed head and picked over face of a 47 year-old meth addict. It made me wonder if all the babies were like that and that is why they were all face down and only $6.99.

So. I did what any rational person would do. I passed by the baby table and moved onto the cakes.

I've been Jewish for a week now

2008-02-24T23:11:00.002-05:00

No. I did not decide to cross over to Judaism.

I did not convert for my husband (who, by the way, is everything BUT Jewish).

Remember my 24 tubes of blood? Well. The results are in and now I am Jewish. Some people walk away from blood tests to find out nothing is wrong with them. Some may find out they have diabetes, are anemic or something else. I walked away from my blood test an Ashkenazi Jew. You can imagine what a blow this was because I have been under the impression for 34 years now that I was 100% Italian American despite the fact I spent high school with some moron kid who used to throw pennies at me and say, "pick them up, Jew girl." He's dead now which is too bad because I would look him up and ask him how he knew before me.

Now. Before you start thinking I actually believe that I am now of Jewish descent, I will say that it is MORE THAN LIKELY the fucking moron taking my blood that day fucked up somehow. Perhaps he should have taken me up my offer to help him write my name and birth date on all 24 tubes since he was complaining that he had to do that next. And he had no clue what a lot of the codes I was being tested for meant. So. Yeah, I'd say there is a better chance that he fucked up than I was robbed out of a bat mitzvah.

But. Let me just explain how all this came about. While I was waiting out a recess in court my cell rang. It was my prenatal doctor's office calling with the results. I was expecting her to tell me I was a little anemic and I had Factor V Liden. She told me I did not test positive for Factor V at all but I was Protein C deficient, Protein S deficient and I had Factor XI.

So. What does this all mean? Got me. How could I have spent the last 7 years thinking I had Factor V? Then again, how could I have spent the last 34 years thinking I was Italian? Seriously, what does it mean? Got me. All I know is her last words to me were "Well. You won't be the hardest case we've had but you'll certainly be the most interesting." Um. Thanks. I guess. You see, while all the protein C & S deficiencies are clotting factors, Factor XI is actually a form of Hemophilia. Shouldn't these cancel each other out?

She wants to send me for a redo. What did I tell you?

I went back down to my office and started researching this Factor XI. Turns out it is rare but occurrences of it are common among Ashkenazi Jews because they had a very high rate of inter-marriage. Well. I'm not Jewish but my grandparents were first cousins and since I get the Factor V gene from my dad and those are his parents, I pretty much had an answer for this mystery. It did not surprise me when a few days later I spoke to the nurse at my doctor's office and she asked if I was Jewish. A valid question, I guess, she could have thought my last name on my chart was my married name. I told her I was not but I explained the kissing cousins theory and she said it makes a bit more sense.

My sister is convinced that no matter what this test says someone in my family at some point slept with an Ashlenazi Jew. It's possible but who knows. I suppose I would never know for sure unless I sunk thousands of dollars and hours into charting my family tree. My mom is really confused. And Stew and I are kinda bummed that we could have had way more wedding fun by smashing glasses under our feet and having our friends hoist up us on chairs and dance us around the room. Oh well.

So. Now I wait on the results of the redo tests (yes, of course I went to a completely different lab where I had only slightly more confidence in the staff). Oh. And of course I called my primary care doctor who administered my tests for Factor V in 2001 and had her send the results to the prenatal doctor.

Until all the tests are back I'll hold off on my membership application to the Jewish Community Center but not my craving for corned beef on rye.

23 vials of blood

2008-02-12T14:15:00.001-05:00

I had today off. A much needed day off. Yet, I found myself awake at 7:59 stinky, itchy, hungry, thirsty and in dire need of coffee. But. Before I could enjoy my morning coffee, a cheesey omellette and a shower I had one thing to do first.

Go for bloodwork I have been putting off since November. I was waiting for a day off because usually the lab is booked solid and the wait is hours in the a.m. I decided to spare myself some anxiety and do it on a day off. I also had to fast for 12 hours and considering one last morsel of food usually goes in my mouth around 10:30 it meant I had to wait until 10:30 to go. I decided to at least shower first because I smelled and my scalp was itchy after 2 days sans shampoo.

I got to Quest at 9:45. I figured I would have at least an hour's wait but judging by the packed parking lot it may be longer. I had to park down the street and walk which was harder than it sounds because it's like negative 2 with this wind and I was lacking the energy I usually get from stuff like food and coffee. I was surprised when I opened the door to the lab waiting room there was not a soul in sight. I was hoping to be eating in 15 minutes (and that included the ride home). Just my luck that two employees were working there today, Lazy & Stupid. Stupid was on a break and Lazy was on a personal call that wasn't ending any time soon. She told me to sign in which i thought was stupid since I was the only one there. I signed in and then stood at her window with my paperwork and insurance card. She ignored me. I finally sat down but not before rolling my eyes and sucking on my teeth.

Stupid came back from his break and changed into his lab coat. He took my paperwork and insurance card. Then, he sat me in a room and said he would be right back because he had to look up some codes. "This is a lot of blood work" he said. Apparently, he was unfamilar with some of the tests on one of my forms (I had two forms from two different doctors). After 15 minutes, he came back in and proceeded to pull tube after tube out and line them up on the counter.

21 tubes later, he was ready to start.

"Oh. Wait" Stupid said, "I want to make sure that's it . . . Oh."

23 tubes later my eyes widened.

"32 is the maximum I can take from a pregnant lady," Stupid said.

"Um, I'm not pregnant," I said, "I just lost 3 pounds. This is a skinny day."

I could see how Stupid might make the jump as some were prenatal tests. The operative word being PRE.

Around the 12th tube I thought my arm was going to fall off and I was starting to feel some discomfort when he changed tubes snapping each one in and out of place.

"My arm is starting to hurt a little," I said. Not whining or anything. Just stating a fact.

"Well. My arm hurts too," Stupid said, "I have to hold it like this and these gloves are uncomfortable."

Umm . . . Excuse me, but I am the one with a needle sticking out of my arm as you extract 23 tubes worth of my blood without paying me for it, might I add. And all I kept thinking was how Stupid was more than likely doing something wrong and I would end up back here.

I decided to make small talk to make the time go faster and think less about the pain. I said how I was surprised there was not a wait when I walked in. Stupid said most people come early because they are fasting.

"You didn't have to fast so you could come later," Stupid said.

"Actually, I am fasting," I said. Something you would have known if you saw there were glucose tests on there, STUPID!!!!

Finally Stupid was done. But not without taking one more tube "because it doesn't hurt to have extra in case I missed something."

24.

24 tubes of blood.

Stupid said I was now free to eat a big breakfast. I said all I wanted was a big coffee. Food would come later.

"Well. I'm late for break but that's okay." Stupid said.

Uh . . . Thanks. I'd hate for you to be late for a break when you just got back from one. WTF? Can you say anything right? Maybe if you knew what you were doing you could have saved 15 minutes looking up codes or asked Lazy. I bet she knew since she's Lazy and you're Stupid. I left shaking my head because I knew I would be back in about a week when my doctors realize Stupid missed something and my tests aren't complete. I am sure of it

You don't sing me love songs

2008-02-07T20:27:00.000-05:00

Two posts in a row. I can hardly believe. And if anyone were actually reading this thing, I bet they wouldn't believe it either.

Actually this post was supposed to be yesterday's pot but i saw that Adnan one kicking around in my drafts box and figured i should get that out before the (pill)Pop(ping) Princess went and got herself healed. But. alas, when I came home yesterday, my favorite site Perezhilton.com informed me that Brit was out of the psych word, back in the arms of her sketchy boyfriend and quickly up to her old antics. Oh well.

So. Now. We can resume our regularly scheduled post. The other night I had a strange dream. And it was not strange in content as it was the characters in it. In my dream Max Weinberg (yes of the E Street Band and the Max Weinberg 7) was a marshal in the court house. No reason for the career switch, just that he said he needed some change. Now. I wouldn't know Max if i fell over him. But. There he was in my dream. He wanted me to help him get back into music. Not only was I holding down my same everyday job in my dream but apparently I was also skilled in music management. He approached me one day explaining his story of having fallen on hard times, booze, drugs and now a marshal. He held out a soggy piece of loose leaf for me and told me he wanted me to type up this sheet of music. Now. I say there was music on the sheet but it was not notes, it was the beat spelled out like dun hum dee dee hum hum dew. I thought he wanted me to type the actual notes. But. Nope. he just wanted a transcription of the jibberish he had on the loose leaf. That is when I knew the old man was crazzzzzzzy. But. I wanted to help him. I mean how many times in a young girl's life (aside from Patti Scialfa) can you say you helped someone from the E Street Band out. So. I gave it my all thinking he was loony tunes the whole time. I was even thinking it as I shopped in macy's for Christmas decorations. Did i mention my dream was taking place in the summer time? Far be it from me not to enjoy a good presale. And I was really pissed off because my friend, the one who I'm afraid is going to get back with his own Britney Spears crazy ex girlfriend called to tell me he fell off the AA wagon and was drinking again. I wanted to help a friend but I was trying to help Max Weinberg. Hello! Max Weinberg, takes precedence over anyone else.

Needless to say waking up from this dream I was just as confused as I was while it was happening. I tried to relay it to the boy but he is half asleep as he's walking out the door so he could not grasp the greatness of it. His wife was helping Max Wienberg. You think that would get his attention. Nope. So. I started pouting until he started singing, "you don't bring me flowers" which he promplty cocked up. So, I had to show him how it's really done singing both the male and female parts while drinking coffee. Multi-talented, bitches!

Adnan Gha(d)lib

2008-02-06T11:15:00.001-05:00

So. Wait. let me get this straight. Brit Brit dates this Papparazzi cum famewhore Adnan Ghalib for a few weeks and he starts to show his face in every media outlet known to man whoring out his 15 minutes into 20 and making thousands to boot all off the fact he stuck his dick in a crazy girl and lived to tell about it. And despite this obvious exploitation, she's still with him. They're probably in cahoots together to pimp him out and get money so she can pay K-Fed's legal bills without having to dig into her own "Money for meth" piggybank.

Between you and me, Adnan doesn't bother me as much for cashing in on his 15 minutes as it does that he answers any interviewer's question like a Dr. Seuss book. Any intelligent interviewer might slap him on the back of his head and try to stop the skipping but instead they plug right along.

Interviewer: If Britney asked you to marry her, would you say yes?
Adnan: Would anyone say no?

Interviewer: Do you think Britney is crazy?
Adnan: I think she is smarter than you think.

We didn't ask about her IQ, Adnan. We asked about her mental stability, genius. Way to give an interview without giving any answers. Would you like some green eggs and ham with all that steaming pile of bullshit you're serving up. I bet you do. One fish, two fish, red fish, blue fish.

Alas, I am glad that all this Brit-drama is coming to an end and her parents wised up that they should take control of her life like a 2 year-old chils and reign in the crazy. It was fune while it lasted but now it's getting old and sad. I'll miss that british accent she adopted. I mean, Madonna has been getting away with that shtick for years, I was rooting Brit could pull it off without looking batshit crazy. But. there were too many other factors working against her there.

Truly, madly, deeply . . . . . stupid.

2008-01-17T19:55:00.000-05:00

It's no surprise. Despite my happy go lucky nature, I secretly dislike most people. However, I outwardly dislike people who seem to repeat their mistakes over and over and over again. It's okay to screw up once. Maybe even twice. But, if you do it constantly then I begin to think that you're the one with the problem not the other person.

Remember a while back, my story about my friend with the crazy ex who not only had a few screws loose but they seemingly fell out of her head while she walked like an open toolbox. And how I told you about his extreme hate of her and his promise that if he ever gets back together with her he should have his head check.

Well. I hope he made that doctor's appointment.

It had been a few days since I heard from him. I knew that meant something bad. How did I know that? My third fucking eye . . . . and zilch faith in humanity.

So. I wrote him an e-mail that said: "Don't think I don't know what you're doing."

To which he responded, "WTF?"

And I just replied, "Uh-huh. I thought so."

Which warranted a call asking me to explain. I said, "you are back with her. I know it. So. Just fess up to it now so i can call you a loser and terminate our friendship."

See. Right before Christmas he came out to dinner with us. It ended up being a huge "woe is me" fest from him. And every time the conversation dared to move off of his favorite subject - himself, he made sure to swing it right back. And when he wasn't dominating the conversation about his undying love for crazy; he was asking me if I was eating for two and grabbing at my thighs. Exactly! So glad you invited yourself. Geeze.

Anyway, he insisted that I read a lengthy e-mail exchange between him and crazy despite my pleadings that i did not care and did not want to read it. See. That should let most of you (who know I am a prying, meddling, busy bee) know just exactly how sick I am of hearing about crazy that I wasn't frothing at the mouth when he offered to let me read e-mails. I scanned them on his phone while waiting for my jalapeno poppers to arrive but i kept hitting buttons (mainly on purpose) and bringing it back to the home scree. Whoops! Did i do that?

What i read seemed to be the same old same old bs. She was blaming him for everything that went wrong in their relationship and how cruel was to her after all the while not even taking a nugget of responsibility for being crazy and having a drinking problem. And he even said it. Plain as day. "I could actually see myself back together with her if she only admitted that she had a problem." Stew and I both looked at him like he was batshit stupid. With one look we managed to say to each other, "don't say anything, let's just eat some wings."

So. It was no surprise when my friend called me from California where he was visiting over Christmas and said that he just had a two hour conversation with crazy and she admitted she had a problem.

Sigh.

Sometimes love is so blind because it can't see past its own erection.

Now. Any rational person who is less than inch removed from the situation could see that she finally realized what she had to do out of all her desperate pleas to get him back which included, but were not limited to:

- Showing up at his house unnannounced and crying and convulsing with siezures (as my friend put it)
- Showing up at his job unannounced and crying and convulsing with seizures
- Meeting him in parking lots to pick up her mail crying and convulsing with seizures
- Calling him while crying and convulsing with seizures
- Writing him emails berating him for being so mean and cruel to her while crying and convulsing with seizures
- Telling him she was getting back together with her ex-husband
- Texting him that his match profile seemed bitter and mean and she was worried about him.

It finally clicked with her that all she had to do was admit to having a drinking problem and she was back in regardless if she didn't want to get help or anything. So. She did it and he fell hook, line and sinker.

Yes. Okay. So that is how I really knew, did you think I seriously had a third eye?

So. When he called me that night to ask me what i meant by all my cryptic e-mails I decided not to beat around the bush. "are you back with crazy?" Of course in trying to mask the answer he went on to tell me that i didn't have much business calling people crazy. I enlightened him on good crazy (me) and bad call the police crazy (her). He said they were not fully back together but it was going in that direction. I asked if she was going to go to AA with him? No. Was she willing to get any help at all? I don't know. Did it cross your mind at all that the only reason she may have said this to you was to get back together with you and has no intention of trying to fix her problem? It did cross my mind but i am madly, deeply in love with her. I hung up madly deeply offended that he spent MONTHS crying and bitching to me and this is what he does.

Today was the first I have heard from him in weeks. Of course he wanted something which is what i asked him after I finally picked up after 4 ignored attempts. I had a bone to pick with him anyway because my dad told me he ignored him at the gym and NOBODY ignores my daddy! Of course I HAD to ask about crazy. he said he hasn't heard from her since they went to couples counseling last Tuesday.

Times like those I wish i had a mouth full of water so I could laugh and spray for dramatic effect.

I'm obligated to speak the truth

2008-01-08T20:55:00.001-05:00

I said something that was mean. I know. That's not really blog worthy. Some people call me "black souled" and perhaps I am sometimes deserving of such a title. And on those days I revel in my meanness. I embrace it lovingly and prepare for a slow waltz. One da, da, da. Two, da, da, da.

So. Yesterday with little else to do, we watched Entertainment Tonight while eating our Chinese feast. This was after I indulged in Extra while exercising. I know. You're laughing that I was watching Extra, right. You wouldn't think of laughing at the fact I was exercising. Anyway, after devoting 28 to their 30 minutes to Britney Spears stories that pervert O'neil and the other one had the audacity to say how they are OBLIGATED to report on Britney news. In other words, "do not send up hate mail for fanning the flames of this girl's demise we're only doing our jobs."

Stew and I both told the TV to suck our asses. Actually Stew was nicer and said "No, you're not. You love it." I believe it was me who said, "suck my ass, bitches." Britney sells and 98% of this world is buyin'. I don't know about you but a good Brit Gone Crazy story can put a smile on my face faster than the smell of turkey bacon in the morning. Even Doctor Phil jumped on the bandwagon (Hey, Maury was legit too for a while). He gave a two part exclusive to ET talking about how he went to the hospital to see Britney. The best was the good doctor saying, "I won't talk about what happened because it's private" and then he went on to tell every detail from the moment he walked through the hospital doors to the time he left.

That's when I let it slip. "I would be really disappointed if she didn't kill herself. I mean all this has to lead up to something. There is no other way it can end." Hahaha! Whoops! Was that out loud?

Go ahead and tell me I am mean. That she is mentally ill and you feel sorry for her. I feel sorry for her too because anyone that has been spiraling THAT out of control for over a year now in the public eye MUST have something wrong with her. It's not like Anna Nicole who popped in out of our lives in various states of crazy. This has been one long wild ride that seems to only get more thrilling as the days past. And if she is indeed that mentally ill then shouldn't someone be having her declared insane and have her locked up a bit until she gets that "in patient help she so desperately needs." Those are Dr. Phil's words not mine.

Stew looked at me like I was some kind of evil. But this is the guy who sat there months ago watching anorexic twins break down on ET. And I wouldn't think this was mean had he not yelled at the TV, "I'll take ya to Vinny's" while balancing a dish on his gut and chewing with his mouth open. Then he laughed so hard at himself that the plate shook uncontrollably. It was a sight. Kinda like when I got Triscuits in my eye and now i get reprimanded when he sees me tilt a bag over my mouth.

And go ahead and tell me it wouldn't be somewhat of a relief to wake up one day and find out Brit is dead. And if that wasn't enough you can watch the two week long coverage of her funeral on ET followed by another two weeks of "what's next for Sean Preston and Jayden James."

Off the hook . . . . for now

2007-12-31T19:35:00.000-05:00

Okay. So. He's off the hook.

No. the game did not break on its own. I just committed what I found out is a first year faux pas. Apparently I broke a cardinal rule of returning a gift my husband got me before the five year time limit of truth in a marriage.

See. I hinted HEAVILY that I wanted a necklace I saw at Tiffany. Anyone who knows me knows that subtlety is not a strong point of mine so hinting heavily means asking if he got it everyday and then tiling a picture of the necklace and making it his background.

Christmas morning, before i even started opening my gifts, I asked where my card was. He told me I could have it AFTER I opened up my stocking stuffers. So. I did. then I asked again for my card. He told me to just open presents. I opened present after present, none of them looking like it could contain my necklace.

Exasperated (and surrounded by paper) I asked again for my card. I was ready to call off Christmas if I didn't get a card. He handed me my card. Finally. It was cute and he doctored it up to fit us. And it contained a riddle. A riddle that led to my necklace hidden in the room. I danced about and hooted and hollered. However, upon seeing it in real life I did not like the necklace as much as I thought I would. It didn't fall right and the double chain was not as dainty as I like my necklaces to be. Within 10 minutes I asked if we could return it.

I found out later that what i did was rude. That I should never ask my husband to return a gift he bought me. Whoops. But most womyn aren't married to a Stew. One who could laugh (although through gritted teeth) at his wife. And one who would rather spend the money on something i really like. Of course I picked out a necklace that was far too close my favorite $7 Target necklace he got me 2 years ago that i couldn't justify making him spend more than 25 times that when this necklace is still perfectly fine. So. He ended up taking a credit on his credit card for a necklace I asked for and he went through hell to get and even more hell trying to surprise my inquisitive ass with. I feel bad.

But. Not not bad enough to tell him my plan. All I need is another few Tiffany credit Christmases like this one and maybe I can get some diamond studs.

An open letter to my Husband:

2007-12-24T14:37:00.000-05:00

My darling,

I love you. Every morning I wake up and look at your face hovering over me (as you are the one waking me up) and I find new reasons to love you. Lately it feels as though something is coming between us. It's not the football that occupies most waking moments from August until the Superbowl. It's not the late night poker games. Or, the other months chock full of Fantasy Sports orgies with your friends. It's not even the weeks spent planning when you 're about to embark on an occasional Dungeons and Douchebags campaign. It is none of these things.

See, call this what it is. I guess one might call it a thinly veiled threat. But. One of the problems with having a wife who more technically advanced than she lets on is the fact that, if pushed to the point, she will begin uninstalling things that seem to hog up a large amount of your time. Yes, dear, i am talking about your Guild Wars.

You see, so far the past two weeks have gone a lot like this for me:
Work every day
Do most of the Christmas shopping
Wrote out and sent all of the Christmas cards
Did all of the wrapping
Baked 12 dozen cookies
Cleaned the entire house
Did my laundry (which I only started doing AFTER you washed my cashmere sweater)
Vacuumed and dusted every room
Took home and completed SEVERAL transcripts.
Took care of a dog

And here are the things I asked you to do to help me out:
Take the dog out at least every two hours
Pick up the bread for Christmas Eve
Pick up my mother's gift certificate at the nail salon which you offered to do MULTIPLE times.
Clean the downstairs bathroom (which I eventually did)
Empty the dishwasher

As of 1:37 p.m. Christmas Eve here is what you have done of all the things I have asked in the past two weeks:
Emptied the dishwasher

Maybe it will help you to see this in black and white. Maybe I should bold it. I know you will say that baking the cookies and doing the Christmas cards and cleaning are my choice. But you remember how the cashmere sweater got washed, don't you? I believe it was a comment about the bedroom being so messy you weren't sure if was in the dirty pile or the clean one. Forget the fact that you drove it to and picked it up from the dry cleaners for me several times in the past 4 years.

Here is what you have done for NUMEROUS hours:

Played Guild Wars

Do you see how I might be a little frustrated? And hey, I know I mess a lot with my Sims games but that is after I have done everything else I am supposed to do. I'm being pushed to the brink of uninstallation and here's why. The topic of kids coming into the picture is now a reality. But. I swear to God, I will keep this IUD in for the rest of my life and pretend like I have NO CLUE why we're not getting pregnant if you don't start pulling your weight. And the only way you will wise up to what I'm doing is if you take me to get an x-ray and I know you won't make time for that much less remember the appointment.

I recall when my patience broke the first time. I was inundated with typing and was complaining how I had to type all weekend but now I was even more stressed because I told my nephews theyc ould sleep over. You told me not to worry. That you would watch them. I trusted you and went upstairs to type. Things were good for a while until I heard tiny footsteps coming up the stairs and to my office door and then it opened. And soon I knew his brother would follow. I peeked down the stairs and what were you doing? You were on one couch with your laptop firmly planted in your lap playing your gime while the little one was racing cows but the other one was bothering me. One little thing. Do you see how this might worry me that if we have kids I'll end up doing EVERYTHING until the resentment spills over and I start taking a meat cleaver to wires?

I am sure if I uninstall your game (which I will do and anyone who knows me knows I'm EXACTLY the kind of a vindictive bitch who will do it) you will find something else to occupy your time. And you know what, that will mysteriously break too. It will all break until you are standing in a pile of broken plastic guitars, uninstalled games, busted CDs (because surely you will attempt to reinstall it) and broken up PS3s.

I'm sorry it has come to this. But. You cannot say you weren't warned. I have been telling you for months now that I'm getting close to breaking all your toys. I've muttered it under my breath. I've shouted it from rooftops. Shape up or pick up your feet when walking among the broken plastic.

Love always,

Lulu

Smoke & Mirrors

2007-12-10T16:03:00.001-05:00

** Names have been changed to protect the fraudulent and save myself from a lawsuit **

I can remember when I learned that Santa Claus was fictional.

I can remember when I found out it was really my parents posing as the tooth fairy.

I expect, as an adult, I'm going to experience some of the same letdowns on a different scale. However, I feel as tho' I have been duped twice. And frankly, I am sick of it.

I can't mention names because I'd probably get sued but if I've learned anything this past year it's how to artfully dodge the truth and not implicate yourself while doing it. A couple of years ago a very successful chain BBQ restaurant opened a few towns over. The gimmick of this place is down home BBQ cooking and leads you to believe that the owner and his wife are overweight, artery clogging hillbillys who live in a double wide and she sends him off to work everyday with a mason jar packed with pulled pork, slaw, mac and cheese and biscuits. And heavens forbid he cut himself on the job he'd bleed three different kinds of BBQ sauce.

So, one day we were eating in said restaurant for a family dinner (who am I calling a hillbilly here?) and the owner comes over and introduces himself just like any good businessman would when he $ee$ a party of ten. The menu leads you to believe the owner is in the back wearing a raccoon tail cap standing over a smoker in a wifebeater and jeans slick with grease.

At least that's what i want to believe when I bit into the smokey goodness of a my "burnt ends."

But "Big Billy" comes over to the table in his probably cashmere cardigan, khakis and loafers. And he's far from shopping at the Big & Tall. A southern accent isn't even remotely detected and when he finds out my aunt and uncle are from Rye he begins to tell them about all the country clubs he belongs to there and all the golfing he does. My "burnt ends' started tasting less smokey and more burnt as the grungy image of Big Billy evaporated before my eyes.

Enough time had lapsed for me to forget and work up another craving for their ribs. Plus, it was Good Friday and the Boy and I have a tradition of going to meat places that are usually packed on a Friday night on Good Friday because we're under the impression there will be less of a wait.

So, this particular Friday I was about ready to bite into my burnt ends when a well-dressed lady comes over to our table tastefully dressed with enough jewelry to say "I'm not flashy but I have more money than everyone in here" and introduces herself to us as "Miss BobbyJo".

Again, I wanted Miss BobbyJo to be at home eating bon bons while watching her stories and waiting for Big Billy to come home so she can fry up a ham steak. But no. Here she was looking like she fell of a page of the Ann Taylor catalog. She asked us where were from and that led to a few other questions about us and it came out about the wedding and where it was. She went onto say how Big Billy belongs to Country Clubs up there and how he belongs to about 50 different clubs and golfs all the time and how their daughter is getting married at some country club in DC (which i later looked up and found it was like $250 a plate).

Long story short. We haven't been back since.

So. A few times the Boy has tried to coax me back into BBQ food, which, honestly, prior to my low-carb lifestyle I was never into. He started raving about some Cajun place a couple of towns over that had the best food. So. one day I relented and we went there. I read all the articles on the wall and looked at all the pictures and I was lead to believe that I was about to eat some real Cajun food that will rival something I'd find in the streets of the Big Easy. That the owner spent most of his life in the New Orleans cooking for the locals and now he wanted to bring a little of that to Connecticut. It was tasty and I happily devoured everything in my plate while listening to some blues.

We had gone back a few times since that amazing day. And every time we returned the food was more delicious than the last and my desire to see N'awlins was dying because this was just like being there. This past weekend, we stopped in for some lunch and the owner was there (as he usually was). He asked us if we wanted to try some chili and when we said sure he came over with generous samplings piled high over sausage filled jambalaya.

Feel those arteries clog. A slow death never tasted so good.

He asked the boy and I if we've ever been to New Orleans and when we said no he said, "this is what it's like. Good food and jazz playing". he went onto say how so many restaurants in Fairfield County lack hospitality. Amen to that. And how they act like they're doing you a favor to get you more water when you're spending $30 a plate. Amen to that too.

Then he screwed himself. He asked us where we were from and when we said Stamford, he said "I was raised there too. West side." I said "me too" ready to start slinging some gang signs as soon as I moved my Dooney & Burke to a less sauce soaked spot on the table. But faster than i could do that the vision of eating tasty food cooked by a Ragin' Cajun disappeared faster than those FEMA e-mails. *POOF* Gone. Duped again. He told me how he was trained at an Italian restaurant I knew very well because I was best friends with the chef's daughter. Then to add insult to injury he asked if i was around in the 60's or 70's. Oh my god, do I look like I am pushing 50? Most people don;t even believe I'm in my 30's.

Moments ago i was talking to the boy about having him cater our Superbowl Party but now I may as well have been sitting in Chi Chi's.

Duped again. Just for that I threw out the rest of his free sample. Lie to me!!!!

If the eyes are the windows to the soul than your words are Saran Wrap

2007-11-14T13:59:00.001-05:00

So my friend who broke up with his lunatic ex girlfriend seems to be healing nicely. I wrote a match.com profile rife with only the sarcasm I can achieve with the attitude he can carry and he is getting some bites. I kinda figured as I was writing it that she would more than likely read it. I mean any girl who meets a guy on Match stalks him for a while after the break up to see what their new profile reads and how often they are active. I can't tell you how many phone calls from my friends that started with, "we broke up three days ago and his ad is already back up." I remember after ending things with jersey boy I was a bit disturbed that barely two whole days passed when his ad went back up including a picture I took of him. Tacky.

Anyway, I knew that the ex-loon would see his ad so I tried to be careful not to be too mean when I wrote it. But. he asked me to honest and sometimes the lines between honest and mean get a bit blurred and I can't be to blame.

So. A few days after i came home from my honeymoon my friend called. "You'll never believe this," he said. Ohhhh, I bet i will. Try me. I was scared for a second he was going to tell me he was back together with her in which case I would have to move and join the Witness Protection Program. Thankfully that was not the case.

A few months ago when he was under the impression he was going to buy her a very large and very expensive engagement ring, she sold her engagement ring from her first marriage to a jeweler my friend knows. Now she is calling my friend asking him to help her get the ring back.

"Can you believe that thieving whore wants me to do a favor for her?" he asked me.

Well. Yes. I can.

"I should have told her that i would do her a favor when she returned everything she stole from my house and repaid me for a first class ticket to San Francisco I let her use after we broke up. Technically i could have canceled that ticket."

His argument was valid but I knew he would never say these things to her. He wanted to but he wouldn't because that is too mean (even for him). I told him he should have said these things and then some and then tell her to stick that diamond up her ass. However, my interest was mildly piqued. Why did she want the ring back? Was she feeling guilty that she sold the only ring her crazy ass would probably ever get? Or was she trying to live out some deranged fantasy where he shows up with the ring to give back to her and she somehow tricks him into proposing.

"No," my friend said, "Get this. She told me she is going to work things out with her ex-husband."

Oh now she didn't. She went through the oldest jealousy BS trick in the book. She would have been better off having sex on his lawn with someone else. The old ex-husband trick is boring and cliche. I expected more from someone so batshit crazy. I expected a faked pregnancy, sex with one of the guys who works for him, sex with his dad. Anything but this old gag. All that crazy and a huge let down.

"Well. That's nice." I said. Maybe those two crazy kids can make it work this time."

Then he told me how she sent him some text messages saying how she read his match profile and how she is concerned about him because it sounds so angry and she loves him, cares about him and wants him to be happy.

Um. Okay, hons, if you are trying to work things out with your ex why are you cruising match and looking at your ex boyfriend's profile? Genius. Why not just give yourself away.

Oh. And Angry? Obviously she has no sense of sarcasm and humor. Or maybe the line, "I like a girl who knows how to have fun as long it doesn't result in a 3 a.m. call from the police" hit too close to home.

Hell on earth has a home away from home

2007-10-17T12:45:00.000-04:00

I used to think the phramacy line at CVS was hell on earth. And it still is but now I discovered there was another place that was hell on earth - the Stop & Shop deli department.

I know. It is dreadful to think that one might spend a few moments on a Friday or Saturday night grocery shopping. And I'm not talking after work hours. I'm talking 9 p.m. when most people are doing normal Friday night activities. And now, it's not because I am married now and have no life, but because the store is not weighed down with the mass of morons drunk driving their carts while trying to calm screaming kids or old people who think it's okay to park their cart in the middle of the aisle while they take 20 minutes to decide on what brand of prune juice fits their needs. I go to the grocery store only at these times. But sometimes I find myself having to go after work to pick something up for dinner. I hate these moments. In fact, it's these times that warrant eating out okay even if we ate out all of the preceding evenings as well.

The last time I braved the afterwork grocery store rush I knew it was a bad idea as soon as I stepped inside. The joint was FREEZING. Granted, I was in produce but this odd new sensitivity to the cold instantly turned my feet numb and blue. I went to the deli counter and took a number 194. What does that tell you? They have this new thing now where you can punch your order into a machine and they will have it ready for you while you shop for other things rather than wait. This is a great idea except I was only here for cold cuts.

My number 194 looked bad but looked less scary when I looked up and saw they were on 190. It should go fast. But my hopes were dashed by the fact that despite 6 people behind the counter, there was only one person slicing cold cuts. That means 5 people were there to do nothing but raise my blood pressure. And the one worker . . . . well slow would be an understatement. I watched as she could not find the Land O' Lakes white American in the fridge. Obviously, this called for the opening of a new one. But rather do that, she talked to the fridge for a few minutes trying to coax it out of hiding.

I realized there was an unusually large crowd gathered by the deli counter because it was raining the day before and rain, you know, melts people.

By the time the counter called for 191, my fingers were white with frostbite and it had been 5 minutes. I started pawing through the pre-packages cold cuts but became angry when I realized that you are paying about $2 more for the conveninece of that and I wanted more than a quarter pound of proscuttio. Call me crazy. Five minutes later they were still on 191 so I began collecting prepackaged cold cuts fightig back the hot stinging tears of defeat as Stop & Shop took my money because they failed to hire proper management to get the deli department in working order.

Screw that!!! No way would I let them win. I put the cold cuts back and decided to wait.

192 was called and I saw another deli person washing their hands as if ready to pitch in and help his slower than slower than slow co-worker. I realized then what took so long. The clerk would slice a piece of whatever and hold it up for the customer to see if it was cut to their liking. Now, who is watching their deli clerk that intently that they would see them hold up a slice of ham. Most people are talking on their cells, walking around produce getting other things or watching their kids trying to wriggle free from the confines of their cold steel cages with wheels. And rather than just let the customer slide, these clerks were waiting for the customer to acknowledge them without making any attempt to get their attention.

Here's a concept. How about just slicing your cold cuts to a usual standard unless the customer specifies a different way. I always specify and therefore I am always fast to answer when the clerk holds up a slice for me to inspect. Not specifying = not caring. So, slice away deli people. Slice away.

By the time they got to 193, my feet were so frozen walking was painful and I thought for sure they were doing this on purpose. I began collecting my cold cuts again while carefully watching the counter to see if it would change before I finished. I balled my number up into a tight little ball and just about pitched into the trash when I thought, "You waited this long, dummy. What's one more number?" So i waited . . . and waited . . . and waited . . . . and waited.

194 Finally! I over ordered everything on purpose and threw in a few extra so that the people behind me had to wait like I had to wait while the Suzie Homemakers before me ordered enough cold cuts to feed army troops. I highly doubt all those people were making antipastas. There is just no excuse.

$22 later, I left the store and vowed to never returned.

Boiling rabbits

2007-10-16T17:46:00.001-04:00

I have a theory and sometimes that theory is right. Okay, it's OFTEN right but I hate going around saying, "I told you so" because, really, what good does it do? I don't claim to be a relationship expert and I only claim to have made about four good decisions in my entire 34 years so far so really, who should listen to me? I'm crazy but in an okay way. I have really weird unexplained quirks and I'm the only person who begs to be on trials where afflictions of the skin are involved. These are weird and a bit crazy but I like to think I am the good crazy not the kind that requires you to have the police on speed dial.

But this theory I have is one that a lot of people (except the people going through it) agree with. It's the theory of couples counseling.

Now. For the record, let me state here that I'm not against couple's counseling. Sometimes couples just need a little extra help communicating. They need an unbiased party to set their shit straight and put them on a path to success. Couples counseling has helped people I know avoid divorce or decide to divorce. It certainly has its benefits. However, I have seen an awful lot of people I know lately who aren't even engaged going to counseling.

Let me just throw this out there as food for thought. If you have to go to counseling before you're even engaged, isn't that setting off some kind of red flag? Isn't that saying, "gee, we're having a problem communicating now, let's get married and cure it." To me, it's like having kids to save your marriage. I can understand it. You love this person, you want to spend the rest of your life with this person but they need some work. All couples need work. All couples have growing pains. Every person walks into a relationship with a clusterfuck of issues. It's a fact of life. If you think you're not going to be effected by this then you live in a fairytale. Sometimes these issues can only be helped by a professional. Sometimes they can only be helped by that individual but the fact of the matter is that person has to really want to overcome their issues for their sake and the sake of their partner. They have to be open to being helped.

So, it's not a very big surprise to me when non-engaged couples who are in therapy break up. It's also no surpise to me that when I'm looked to for encouraging words about said break up I bring aboslutely nothing of emotional value to the table except a a very strong urge not to say, "well, duhhhhhhhh!"

I got nuttin'. I know that may come off as cold and I've been called "black hearted". But, wouldn't you rather have that than me blowing Doctor Phil psychobabble up your ass? Recently a friend of mine broke up with his girlfriend. I saw all the red flags practicaly shooting sparklers and he chose to ignore all of them until he had to change his locks to protect himself from them.

Red flag #1 - I pegged her as crazy (the bad crazy) the minute I met her. I know I make snap judgments about people but I'm not usually wrong. On the rare occassion that I misjudged someone I am the first to admit it.

Red flag #2 - At a dinner party more than one of her friends (and one guy who didn't know her all that well) suggested she had an alcohol problem. Granted, they may have been joking but there is truth in every joke.

Red flag #3 - He's witnessed more drunken rages than he cares to admit to. I learn about a new one he failed to tell me everyday. During one rage he witnessed her display Herculean strength pushing a heavy, filled armoire across the room like it was a cottonball in an effort to cause him physical harm.

Red flag #4 - They don't even live together yet and they are in therapy.

Red flag #5 - They narrowly escaped breaking up twice before they were six months into their relationship. Six months is still the honeymoon period as far as I am concrened. You should still be on your best behavior around your significant ther. This means that you're not farting in front of eachother and you're still closing the bathroom door.

But of course all those times he told me he was enaggement ring hunting and I kept telling him to keep the receipt, I was being "mean." And all those times I said, "she is crazy, could very well have a problem with the vino so beware" apparently wasn't enough because when they broke up this past time, I was blamed for not telling him what I thought about her. Mind you, this is the second girl in two years who displayed a major crazy side. Both of which I said, "you know she is crazy, right?" after meeting them for the first time.

And now he wants supportive words. I had to tell him I am not good with break ups. I never have been. In my thought process you break up because you're not compatible. End of story. If the other party is having a hard time accepting it then it is their bag. And we've ALL been in the place of unacceptance before. We've all said something so mean and hurtful to our exes with the intention of having it sting like a swarm of bees. I know it's hard to watch someone you care about cry and convulse but it's pretty shitty of them to think that breaking up with them had no effect on you whatsoever so they can carry on like they're having an epileptic fit. You just happen to be in more control of your emotions than they are.

I'm probably the last person anyone should want encouraging words from right now. I'm still a newlywed (despite the fact it feels like I have been married ten years already) so everything is all roses and kissy faces and shit. But, I've always had that, you live and you learn now move on attitude about relationships. I guess I just naturally assumed there is someone else out there who is better for you if you deserved it. Plus, I sometimes find it an exercise in futility to console someone who has a track record of getting back together with their crazy ex. I mean why expend the energy if it's ignored anyway. I learned that the hard way which is probably why I am the way I am.

He said he wants to know how to tell if a girl is crazy or not. I told him that I would be his crazy barometer. Invite them out and have me meet them, if I tell you she is crazy then dump her. So far I haven't been wrong.

No rules must mean no reservations

2007-09-30T11:42:00.001-04:00

This will be short. Can someone tell me, please, what the hell is the difference between a regular reservation and what Outback calls it - "call ahead"? They do not take reservations. I'm sorry but if I call a restaurant to make reservations I give them my name, how many people in my party and what time I want to come and when I get there, my table is ready.

Usually.

Unless it's a case of what happened a week ago. A week ago, I put hubby in charge of calling P.F. Chang's in the Westchester mall. When we got there after a long evening of shoe shopping, they said our reservation didn't exist. We waited a while, eventually sat down and ate and came home. That is when my darling realized he made the reservations for Woodbury, New York and not Westchester.

But this past Friday I wanted Outback. Friday and Outback are never a good mix. That place is always busy. However, I used their call ahead system and when we got there, we were escorted past waiting diners and right to our seat.

Again, I ask, what is the difference between this stupid call ahead and a reservation. Just call it what it is. I'm sure they want to reserve the right to bump a party of two for a party of six but that's not good business practices. When my Mother-in-Law and I were planning the boy's surprise 30th birthday there, they wouldn't even guarantee me a table for 15 so it really can't be for the sake of the bump that they don't take reservations.

Beefer-ella

2007-09-20T08:22:00.001-04:00

Mirror mirror on the wall, who is the most bitter of them all?

You are Beefer-ella, you are.

Damn skippy. Beyotch.

So. I got suckered into a responsibility at work because I lacked the common sense to share something with my co-workers. I mistakenly shared the fact that I have half a brain. Now I am being punished for it. I got roped into being the "go-to" person for the software we use. Being that there's 30 or so computers in the building that use this software, I don't get a moment's rest. It's my fault really. I mean, I can turn a computer off and on so I was an obvious mark to take on this thankless duty. I figured it would give me some kind of job security and then I realized with a state job, there is no such thing. It's all about tenure. Technically all i have to do is show up every day and try not to fuck up too much and so long as people come in after me, I will slowly move up the ladder. So, taking on the additional responsbilities is an exercise in futility. I used to do nice things until I saw that I was being taken advantage of. And by being taken advantage of, i mean people were asking me to fix their personal computer and software issues and asking me to email the helpdesk when they were perfectly capable of such duties.

I used to pop down to the mailroom and get the mail if I had nothing to do. I had another motive as I was always hoping there would be a check for me. Even if there wasn't, I would still bring all the mail up and distribute it. Now, i go down, sift through it and if there is no check for me, I leave it. I leave it even if there is a check for me.

So, yesterday I was ready to beef as soon as I got in. I tend to walk in at 9 to a desk full of bullshit notes. I wouldn't mind so much if a good chunk of these issues were not someone simply forgetting to turn on a switch or not knowing where the master volume on the computer is. Honestly, i don't know any more about computers than the next person but I am not afraid of pressing buttons to figure out what the issue is. I know that the way our techs have the computers set up, it's virtually impossible to change a setting so much that a good old fashion restart couldn't cure it. Our administrative duties on the computers are very limited.

Needless to say, it is virtually impossible for me to get any work done during my two fifteen minute breaks a day and one hour lunch. So, while the helpless are taking their lunches or smoking outside I am working. Constantly. I've taken to making up imaginary doctors appointments just so I have to leave the building for lunch. I used to sit at my desk and get some typing done but now I dread going back to the office because I know as soon as I walk through that door I am going to get inundated with BS. Like I said, I wouldn't mind if 95 percent of the issues didn't make me want to smack them on the forehead and say, "Uh-duh!"

The feeling of swimming in a pool of dopes continued after work. On may way home I happene dto get in front of a driver who was paying no attention whatsoever to the road. I only noticed this because he looked familiar and I thought he was one of my mom's friends' husband. I am not sure what he was doing. It appeared that he was reading a book, newspaper or trying to dial a cellphone but when I stopped at a red light, he would roll to a stop behind me. There was a lot of traffic so I had to wait at a light for more than two rounds before passing. Each time I moved up, he was digging into another chapter and would let a space the size ofa football field come between us before rolling slowly while reading. I kept looking at him in my rearview mirror. I could care less if i recognized him, his complete lack of attention while driving was pissing me off.

So.

Of course.

A few seconds after thinking this. I watched the asshole slowly roll right into me. There was no damage. he was rolling so slowly, I knew he was just going to bounce off my spare tire anyway. But, he didn't even look phased except for a momentary look of guilt on his face and then he went right back into being a clueless ignoring-the-road asshole. I was going to get out but I was so pissed off all i would have done was yell at him and ended up in jail. However, i did take his license plate number down in case there was damage. I know it's harder to prove later but I figured if anything I would have my dad run his plates and crank call him at 3 a.m.

Good luck? What kind of a shitty thing is that to say?

2007-09-17T01:22:00.000-04:00

Sundays are lonely for me now that football has started. The boy usually takes off to sit with his friends watching the game in some lousy bar with lousy service and lousy food that I have to hear an incessant amount of bitching about when he comes home. Meanwhile I'm trapped in the house most of the day (because I equate going out with spending money and now that I am married I seem to have no money) with a TV that I can't work because there are way too many remotes and I have no clue which is which.

This past Sunday the boy was feeling guilty for working an overnight on Friday and losing Saturday night to a family gathering so he decided he would stay home Sunday and spend some time with me. Here's how spending time with each other goes these days. I play Sims in one corner of the living room while he sits behind me and watched football.

But, we're together, right?

I began dropping hints around 2:30 that I was starving. So, he did what any football fan would do whose wife said she was starving more than 6 times in 10 minutes. He took me to a bar he knew would have food AND TVs. I don't mind, I actually happen to like this place and frequent it at least 2 times a week during every season, not just football. I ordered the usual, a salad pizza and some wings. Now, for those of you not familiar with a salad pizza, it's pretty much thin crust with cheese melted on top and layer of cold tossed greens with vinegar. I particularly love dousing it in grated cheese, crushed pepper and salt. Actually, sad to say, I smuggle this in in my purse.

Try it and seasoning will never be the same.

http://secure.cartsvr.net/catalogs/catalog.asp?prodid=1111107

So, anyway, where was I?

We're sitting there munching on wings and the bartender brings over the salad pizza.

Two men to right remark, "I've never seen that before."

I didn't think they were saying anything to us so I continued my ritual of grated cheese and Hot Rocks.

Again, the man says, "I've never seen that before. What is it?"

I looked up and he was pointing at our pizza. I said, "It's salad pizza." And the man asked again what it is because apparently he never heard of a salad and a pizza. DUH! I explained (fighting the urge to speak slowly, loudly and use small words), "It's a salad on a pizza. It's good."

"Interesting," he says, "Good luck."

Good luck?

I thought it was the strangest thing I ever heard. The last time someone saw my salad pizza they ordered it and quickly became fans. But "good luck"? Exactly what did that mean? I thought about it for my entire meal. The only thing I could think of was the guy thought I was on a diet hence why I ordered salad on a pizza and he was wishing me luck on my diet.

This upset me for a couple of reasons. I know I put on a few pounds since the wedding but I reigned myself in with 135 grams of protein a day and under 50 carbs. So, this was my splurge day. Actually, despite the fact I was eating a salad, I was still being bad because my salad was on a crust. That rationale led me to think the man thought I was fat and SHOULD be on a diet so I got really self-conscious. But, hello, he just saw me shovel some wings down my gullet and I was pouring grated cheese on it thus canceling all the good out of it being a salad. Hmm . . . Maybe he meant good luck because I was OBVIOUSLY failing at my diet by doing this.

I wanted to ask Stew what the guy meant. Sometimes I think Stew can translate guy-ese better because he's a guy and therefore he must know what men are thinking all the time. However, with the guy sitting so close I couldn't ask Stew. So, I waited the whole meal (which felt like forfuckingever) and when Stew and I were safely in the car (okay, so it was really right when the door to the bar closed behind me), I asked Stew what the guy meant by saying good luck. Of course, Stew being a guy, forgot the whole event even transpired and I had to give him a play-by-play of something that happened twenty minutes ago. Ignorance is bliss. I wish i was a guy and forgot about shit like that so easy.

This was Stew's explanation.

"Maybe he doesn't like vegetables so he was wishing you good luck eating it." Like I was eating something exotic you'd find on a menu in some foreign country. Good luck with that plate of live worms and side of fried locusts.

"You know, Lulu, some men just don't like vegetables."

I patted Stew's sweet face. I think his baseball hat was too tight and cutting off circulation to his brain with that explanation. "Well, I guess I'm lucky to have found the only guy out there who will eat vegetables with me."

He made the face. You know the face. The face that almost looks pained because he is only doing something because I want to do it but he doesn't have the heart to tell me. "It's different," he explained, "those vegetables are sitting on cheese and crust so they're okay."

So, it's official. The guy at the bar thought I was fat and should be on a diet. However, he wishes me all the luck in the world.

My husband, the size queen

2007-08-29T21:17:00.001-04:00

I always thought it was a few hormones and genitalia. But it's not. The difference between man and womyn is much more simple than that. It's not biological, hormonal or genital.

It's electronic.

All my life I could have cared less about a TV. I mean I watched it. I enjoyed it but I could care less about the size. Twenty inches, twenty five, twenty seven, whatever. I was fine with it. My whole freshman year of college I lived without a TV. I remember if we wanted to watch 90210 we all crowded around my friend Marcie's 12-inch tv.

I had no issue with my TV since my parents got me the one for my first place. It fit into my beloved entertainment center (the recipient of MANY compliments) and life was good.

Until.

It took a couple of weeks after the boy moved in for him to start dissing my TV. The one he had at his place was enormous. I gave up my office so he could make it into his den and fit his TV. His TV would simply not fit into my entertainment center and I wisely chose my entertainment center over that monstrosity of a TV. I was not sacrificing Pottery Barn life for a corner of Best Buy. No way. I got my satisfaction when the mother of a Halloween trick-or-treater poked her head inside my crib and said, "wow, what a beautiful entertainment center." I closed the door, looked at Stew, who by the way was dressed like a pirate, and said, "did you hear that. She called it beautiful. It took her breath away." He immediately dismissed her as "a broad' and said my entertainment center lacked entertainment. he went on to trash the fact that it only had two outputs and I committed the sin of all sins by adding to my crappy TV a DVD/VCR combo which he practically threw up knowing we had to watch a movie on it. Geeze, don't hold back. He told his friends about my small TV and my combo and they ridiculed me incessantly. I fed into it by sending them pictures of how my crap-tastic TV would somehow change to Spanish subtitled around 9 p.m. every night. It annoyed Stew but i loved it. It helped make me bi-lingual and that comes in handy.

So. It was no surprise when Stew's parents gifted us with a check ear-marked for a TV on our wedding day. Anticipating this I put an entertainment center I found comparable to mine on our registry. I knew nobody was going to buy it for us but just having it on there would earn us 20% off when we did purchase it. The week after the wedding we sat in Fortunoff's as the saleslady went nuts trying to figure out how to discount it. Sadly enough we didn't have the TV yet but I knew it was just a matter of time. I pushed the delivery out as far as I could go and within a couple of weeks, Stew happily wrote me an email saying he picked out his TV. He sent me the link (like I actually had an input on it) and I pretended like I actually cared. I only cared about one thing, how much was delivery of this thing going to fuck my day up. When he got home he told me how pissed his friends were because his Tv will be two inches bigger. TWO INCHES. That is when I realzed, a man's TV is like a how a girl compares her boobs with those of another girl. Size does matter.

The entertainment center came first. Actually, we cheated a bit. The one I had was vanilla distressed wood and so was the new one so we just bought the expandable stand and the bridge saving ourselves about $1000. I did a little returning, some gift card schmoozing, "what do you mean that promotion had an expiration date, nobody told me. Can you go get your manager?" It ended up costing us a lot less. I never take no for an answer. Unacceptable. When the entertainment center came, Stew literally sat on the couch in front of the new and improved LOTSAENTERTAINMENT center with a huge smile on his face. I swear if he could have put his hand down his pants at that moment, he would have. I quickly put my 20 inch TV in the massive void. I thought the smile was disappear but it didn't. He was thinking ahead.

We both played hooky the day the TV got delivered. They gave us the generous window of 12-6. Stew "worked from home" and I just took the day off. I actually did work at home tho'. Stew spent the day pacing, perking up and running to the window every time he heard a truck. We live next door to a shopping center and trucks are always making deliveries so stew's hopes were dashed - A LOT. The TV came around 5 like we suspected. As soon as he confirmed it was the right truck he quickly (seriously, I never saw him move that fast) pushed the door open and waited there like a kid at Christmas. As soon as the guys left he quickly got to work with the wiring (special cables only), hooking up the Blu-Ray dvd player. We had some minor set-backs with the cable box but as soon as everything was done, his world was complete. He misses the TV more than me during the day now.

I guess he won't miss me then when I reclaim my office so I can get some work done since the TV is always on. I need some compensation tho', he made me get rid of my beloved L-shaped desk and that's going to cost a trip to Ikea.

Pie in the sky . . . or trash

2007-08-22T23:05:00.001-04:00

The sugar free "pie" lasted until this evening. It's Wednesday for you late comers. I decided to give it another whirl when I walked into the kitchen to get some Cadbury mini-eggs.

Now, I know what you're thinking:

1.) How did you score mini-eggs in August?

The answer is simple. I have an Easter candy addiction. As we know Easter is my favorite candy holiday so I leave no shelf unturned in every store I go in around Easter time. Normally, I buy Easter candy after the official holiday to get it at 50 and sometimes 75% off but those mini-eggs have to be scooped up early. They are almost NEVER left on clearance racks. So, i buy a few bags and that way i have them throughout the year. In fact, I recently opened a bag I had leftover from LAST year. As in Easter 2006. Oh yeah. I still have Peeps too. It's Easter everyday in my house. I went a wee bit crazy this year and came home with about $25 worth of candy every time I went to CVS or Target. It got to the point where my chocoliscious loot was taking up and entire cabinet in my fridge. The sick part of me feels safe having it. Knowing it's there. I do not eat some everyday. I save it for PMS moments. I save it for the peanuts when they visit. I offer it up when a visitor says, "i wish i had something sweet." I'll share . . . unless I am down to my last cream egg and then you're on your own, pal.

2.) Why would you go into the kitchen for sugar ridden mini-eggs and suddenly get side-tracked by sugar free "pie."

Again, the answer is simple. I already had a handful of mini-eggs a little earlier and now I was planning to undo the damage (or curb the urge for another handful of mini-eggs) by attempting the "pie" again. Maybe another go at it wouldn't be too bad.

Two bites later that thing was in the garbage and I was digging in the freezer for some Reeces eggs.

Throwing out pie is unheard of. Unless it sprung mold (not that it lasts that long to turn bad) it is a sin to throw pie out in this house. But alas, it went bye bye.

Sugar Free Pie

2007-08-20T13:16:00.000-04:00

Okay folks, let's face it. Sugar free and pie are two words that should NEVER go together in the English language. Pie without sugar, may not affect your glycemic levels while giving you the illusion of eating pie but the fact of the matter is Sugar Free pie tastes like shit.

Actually, I take that back. It does not actually taste like shit. The first bite renders some satisfaction that this Sugar Free confection may not be so bad afterall. The second bite tests your endurance and the third bite makes you throw your fork down and just give up.

In case you don't believe me. There is still some pie left. Pie left untouched since Saturday is unheard of in my house. If anything that pie would have been wolfed down for breakfast Sunday morning.

But, alas, I am glad I tried it because I would have always wondered. Now I know. It tastes like shit and gives you a horrendous case of garbage ass.

Spiders in my ear and Triscuits in my eye

2007-08-06T13:32:00.000-04:00

So. Imagine this. You are me and you have NO insurance. None. And you're eating Triscuits and you finish the box and you get to the best part. All those yummy salty crumbs in the bottom of the bag. You run into the kitchen, grab a scissors and slice off the crinkled messed up part of the bag so you have a smooth, straight sailing, easy slide right into your mouth. How many times have you done with a bag of chips? many. You don't think that this particular time will be the time that may cause you great embarrassment and shame.

I tip the bag so that all the deliciousness goes to one side. I tilt my head back and prepare for decadence. I forgot to close my eyes realizing this after it was too late and dozens of triscuit shreds (they were cheddar flavor too so nice and fake orangey yellow and salty) poured right into my right eye. It felt like I have several shards of salty glass scratching at my eyeball.

I panicked.

Stew was upstairs in the den playing a computer game and I was covering my left eye and blindly flailing about in the living room trying not to DIE from embarrassment that I may have to go to the hospital because I had Triscuits in my eye. Not only would they look at me like I was uncontrollable chubby wubby who has just to put the Triscuit bag over her face like a feedbag and couldn't face the fact the bag was empty; but this was going to cost a small fortune. I'd almost rather go blind and tell people a lie like I woke up one morning and was blind in my left eye than admit I went blind because I had Triscuits in my eye.

I could not stand the pain anymore and ran up the stairs. Stew heard the clumsy stomping and opened the door to his den. I couldn't really see if he was coming so I casually screamed, "get outta my way, I have Triscuits in my eye." That's right, pal. You married Mama Cass. I'm only a good 10 years away from choking on an Italian combo. Who loves ya, baby?

Stew just stood back while I ran into the bathroom and put on the water with every intention of flushing out my eyeball. Those plans quickly ended after the first splash revealed I put on the hot water. Stew stood there looking at me and wondering what he did to commit himself to a girl who blinded herself with Triscuits.

"How did you do that?" He asked but answered his own question. "Lulu, were you pouring the bag into your mouth."

You know. I wear glasses. they should be just as good as safety goggles in events like this but apparently I contorted my head far enough back to reach Linda Blair proportions. Stellar.

"Yes," I growled at him as I inspected my eye looking for soggy bits of yellowy orange wheat shreds. "I feel something way back there."

Stew told me it would work itself out but I was convinced it was going to rot first and cause an infection in my brain and produce maggots in my head.

"Just try not to rub your eye," he warned.

Um. Okay. Easy for you to say. Your eye didn't just get sprinkled with granules of salt and dried fake cheese.

Eventually, the feeling went away. I don't know if the Triscuit bits did work themselves out or if they just got soggy enough from eye juice that they broke apart and went away. By the time I went to sleep that night, I just felt a mild scratching behind my eye. However, for some reason there was this bad itch in my ear. Surely it was a spider.

"Stew," I said from under the covers, "My ear itches. I think it's a spider."

He assured me I was wrong. "I'm sure you don't have a spider in your ear."

Hah! How does he know? I have Triscuits in my eye.

Love, Honor and What . . . .

2007-08-01T16:33:00.000-04:00

For those of you wondering, I do not feel any different. I probably would if Stew and I did not live in sin for almost two years before we got married. But, it's not like I'm suddenly picking up his dirty boxers off the bedroom floor. I've been doing it far too long to admit. However, strategically placed hampers have now eliminated that problem.

The only time I feel slightly different (and it's more weird than it is different) is when I refer to him as "my husband." I never really referred to Stew as my "boyfriend." I always just called him Stew. Rarely did I say "my boyfriend" because I remember being single and internally rolling the shit out of my eyes when some broad used to say, "my booyyyfriend." And even after we got engaged, "fiancee" rolled off my tongue about as well as if I tried to speak French. Even when I talked about him, his title was still "Stew" or "my boyfriend" but almost ALWAYS Stew. So, you can imagine how much I stutter the word "husband". I have to get in the habit of saying it but everytime I do, it jolts me something fierce and I have to start asking myself, "really? a husband? Are you sure? You barely look a day over 22, you can't possibly have a husband." Heck, if it weren't for my dental hygenist pointing out my gray hairs I wouldn't look a day over 13.

Having a husband has led to the great name change debate. Everybody keeps asking me what I am going to do. Am I going to take his, leave mine or compromise and hyphenate. The plan was to leave it alone. If someone wanted to call me Mrs. Doodyhead, I was fine with that. I wasn't going to take their head off and say "I am still Lisa Craplips." The other option was to hypenate but honestly, doing that makes me sound like a staunch german womyn who wants you to make her lick her boots. And, if you have ever looked into changing your name, it is a GIANT pain in the ass. I need my marriage license to do anything and THAT is currently being processed. I was just going to leave well enough alone until I met the branch manager at my bank.

A few days after the wedding I went to the bank to DEPOSIT the monetary gifts we received. The account has BOTH of our names on it. When I log into my account online I also get the joint accounts listed. From there I can move money around all I want. I can take from the joint and put it in my account and I can do whatever I want with it.

However, going there that day to deposit money into the joint account where they could see I was REALLY Lisa Craplips was probably harder than robbing that very same bank. Because some of the checks were made out to: "Mr. and Mrs. Stewart Doodyhead" or "Lisa and Stew Doodyhead" or "Mr. Stewart Doodyhead" or "Stewart Doodyhead and Lisa Craplips Doodyhead". I had Stew sign the back of every check. That was not good enough for the manager. The manager, who was talking to himself. The manager who was sniffling and choking on his own phlegm like a 2 year-old. The manager I wouldn't even trust to count my change jar. Suddenly, despite my having FULL access to this money online; I was trying to pull a fast one on him. I pointed out that I have online rights. I also pointed out that until this very moment I made weekly deposits into that same account without there ever being an issue.

I smiled. I made small talk with the girl he was training thinking this was going to be a very good lesson for her. I sat there while he looked like he was genuinely struggling with the decision to let me do this or not. I made this phlegm-bot's decision very easy for him. I sat back in the chair, crossed my arms like Sitting Bull and simply said, "all those checks are signed by Stewart Doodyhead so they are as good as cash. I am not leaving until all those checks are deposited." We were both there in person when we opened it. We both gave them our licenses. There was NO reason he could not do this.

He did it. But not without warning that there might be a problem. There wasn't.

And not without saying that he really shouldn't be doing this. Give me one good reason why? I am DEPOSITING money.

He said I should change my license. That some piece of identification on me needs to say that my lastname is Doodyhead or Craplips-Doodyhead. Something. Anything. So, I came home and looked into it and you know what, it's just too much f-ing trouble. I'd rather change banks.

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Flavor my coffee with coffee

2007-07-16T13:43:00.000-04:00

I get annoyed by little things. That's no shock. Big things do not annoy me as much as little things. Little things annoy me because most people think that it is so small and insignificant they can get away with it not making any sense. And, most of the time they sit back and have a laugh over how dumb the consumer is to fall for a ploy like that. Well, not this consumer.

The other day I heard a commercial for McDonald's new iced coffee. The announcer said, "now available in three flavors, french vanilla, hazlenut and regular."

Regular is not a flavor. Infact, it's UNFLAVORED.

How can coffee be coffee flavored?

I may have to write McDonald's a letter.

Wheelchair Asshole

2007-07-13T12:05:00.000-04:00

I know, from the title you thought I was going to make fun of people in wheelchairs. Well, the truth is, I am. But, not until a bit later in this blog. This blog is actually about entitled assholes but the direct quote “Wheelchair Asshole” was too funny not to spotlight.

The term entitlement seems to reign supreme in my family. I think it has a lot to do with the fact that we have no fear of red lights, stop signs, speed limits and the like. It’s not that we don’t obey the rules of the road but just that if we should get pulled over by the po-po, it’s not going any further than radioing in our plates. This has carried over to other aspects. Recently, the final stages of wedding planning has caught me in a time bind. While I understand that I have to work around the schedules of others, my mother can’t grasp that concept. She is ready to throw down with my wedding coordinator. When I informed her to believe that the weight of our name was leaving the confines of our small town, she refused to believe me. REFUSED.

Everyday , when I pull into the parking garage at work, I am faced with the inconsideration of others. It seems like everyone here cannot park their cars. They either pull over the line or park crooked. This results in me having to park miles away because every car is taking up two spaces. And one person had the nerve to shoot me a look because I pulled in straight next to her crooked ass. My apologies that I can park and you can’t.

Often, I am faced with some traffic dilemma near the bakery by my house. People like to park in the firelane outside the bakery because parking in a space like everyone else must just be too fucking inconvenient for them. The problem is, the area where the bakery is a corner and the road in front of it where the firelane is a two lane road. It makes rounding that corner when a car is stopped at the Stop sign next to a vehicle parked in the firelane IMPOSSIBLE and forces the person trying to make a left to drive through the parking lot way out of their way because someone was too fucking lazy to walk 20 feet.

I feel like following these people in the bakery and asking them what makes them think their time is ANY more important that mine that I can spare the few extra seconds to walk from a legitimate space to the door but they can’t. Instead the inconvenience a few people.

This brings me to the wheelchair asshole. The boy and I went to a fancy party hosted by a vendor. There was a gentleman there in a wheelchair. At first he had my admiration because despite being in a chair he was one of the few people on the dance floor most of the night. You go sir. You go. But my admiration quickly turned to dislike when I felt something ram into me at top speed a few hours later. I looked down to see what almost knocked me over and it was wheelchair asshole. See, he had plenty of room to pass but instead he decided that he needed to weave his way through the group of people I was standing with rather than wheeling an extra foot over. But I gave him the benefit of the doubt and figured it couldn’t be easy to navigate a chair. However, it didn’t stop him from saying, “Oh, I’m sorry” and stepping to the side while speaking to him like he was a cute 5 year-old boy whose cheeks I wanted to pinch.

Later in bed I expressed my frustration at wheelchair asshole and the boy said “that guy was an idiot.” I was like, “Oh my god, you can’t call someone in a wheelchair an idiot.” The boy explained that I didn’t see the half of it. Apparently, while I was in line for the raw bar, the wheelchair asshole rolled up to our table because wanted to help himself to the box of cigars. One of stew’s co-workers was using the top of the box to put her plate on because the tables were very small. Wheelchair asshole rolled up, moved her plate while sticking his thumb in her shrimp and helped himself to a fine Cuban cigar. Who remembers that Denis Leary song. Oh yeah. Sing with me.

That is where the term was born. The words I knew I had to spotlight in my most offensive blog ever.

“He was an idiot acting like he was entitled because he was a wheelchair asshole.”

Bridezilla attacks

2007-07-11T16:34:00.000-04:00

The gods must be crazy.

I woke up today before the boy. That is not a shocker if you think of how I have been sleeping lately . . . or not sleeping. As I went to carefully sneak out of the bed as tho not to disturb sleeping beauty, he wakes from his slumber and asks me to tell him a story. It's far too early to be creative and all that is running through my veins is poison at the forces around me trying to push every button in my body as I try to plan this huge wedding I did not want to have to plan.

See, yesterday, I got a call from my Bridal Shop who I now consider to be holding my dress hostage. Let me go back to July 28th , 2006, a lovely Friday when I had summer hours. On Friday, July 28th, against my better judgment, I purchased my wedding dress because I was advised by the lady at the bridal shop that I should purchase a gown at least 9 months ahead of time. She measured me and we plunked down a deposit. Now, knowing how my body is (ever changing) I stated this point to her and she still ordered me the size she thought would fit me like a glove because "they usually are big when I get them."

A cold day in March, my dress comes in. I rush to the shop to try it on and it's way too tight. She accuses me of gaining weight. While I did put on 6 pounds, that hardly means my dress should fit like I went up two sizes. She says they can let it out. In April, I find out they can't. After much finger pointing where she even tells me that when she measured me I was between two sizes but "I went with the smaller size since most of my brides say they will be that size that day." I explained, I am not like most brides and I would have told her to err on the side of caution instead of being where I am now, WITH A DRESS THAT DOESN'T FIT. I now see why people pay thousands of dollars for a dress as an uppity bridal salon because I don't think this would have happened at one of those. I also don't think I would have to wait for Sally Teenybopper to vacate the dressing room with her $99 prom dress. Long story short, we had to order another dress. The same dress. Just a larger size. Well 4 sizes larger since they didn't have the next size up in my dress in stock. I had to also pay a restocking fee, a shipping fee and a size fee tacking on an extra $150 to the cost of my dress. My new dress comes in some time in May. We begin the alterations.

June 20th. That was my last fitting. June 20th, all she had to do was hem it. I went. She measured, she pinned. I figured the next time I came in, I could take my dress home. When I went with my mom on July 5th, my dress still had not left the shop. So, yesterday I called to make an appointment. I was asked if I could come in on my lunch. I said I could only if she promised to take me as soon as I walked in at 1:10 and I HAD TO BE DONE by 1:50. That meant if Sally Teenybopper was trying on a $99 dress or she was not done with her appointment before me than that girl better sit down and wait until I was done. She did not like that. She asked if I could get there any day before 5. I explained that I work UNTIL 5 and while, yes, sometimes I get out early. I don't know what days I can get out early until that day and any day I told her I could be there by 5, I always got stuck at work until 4:58 and then I had to deal with a snotty attitude when I walked in. My mom told me she had a Saturday morning appointment open so I asked if I could have it. She said she would check with the seamstress but if I came in, I had to be done by 10:15 because she had another appointment.

How come everyone else can get appointments except me? Apparently, I was not being an enormous Bridezilla with the attitude that everyone is there to cater to me.

She called me back a few minutes and yelled that I had to make time. That my wedding was in 10 days.

I took a deep breath. I had to before I spoke or only fire would have shot through and I can't burn my bridge with her until my dress is out of that shop. Yes, My wedding was in 10 days but whose fault was it that my dress was just sitting in her shop for two fucking weeks? Not mine. But now I have to pay the price of her poor customer service. I have two words for thsi bitch. LENS CRAFTERS. Remember my vendetta against them? Well, that was nothing compared to this.

Lucky for me (and her) I was scheduled to leave work early Thursday so I scheduled something for 2:30 Thursday. Itw as dicey for a minute there. Later when my mom called to make her appointment, teh lady said something that really set in stone the fact that she was batshit insane. She said, "I swear. These brides. They act like work is more important than their wedding gowns."

Without a job. I wouldn't have said money to buy said gown. Ih-Duh!

So, this comes full circle when the boy asked me to tell him a story this morning. It went a lot like this.

There was a girl named Lulu and she could not sleep. It's too bad because Lulu loves her some sleep. But she woke up one morning with her heart pounding and determined to solve the insomnia issue. She went downstairs and filled up all her water bottles with gasoline. Then she went to her rag bag and stuffed the rags inside the bottles soaking them real good. She left a little bit out to act as a . . . .

The boy ruined my story.

"Lulu burns down the bridal shop, doesn't she?"

Ruiner.

There is a fine line between insult and flattery

2007-06-29T07:47:00.001-04:00

I went for a cleaning yesterday. I only have 21 more days to brighten and whiten this smile the cheap way. I had a different hygenist an Asian/Korean/Japanese/Chinese/Contonese/Taiwonese (I'm sorry but I don't know the difference) womyn who was so gentle with me that I almost forgot she was there.

I wish I were Asian/Korean/Japanese/Chinese/Contonese/Taiwonese because these people don't seem to have a filter on what is appropriate to say and what's not. I'd kill to go through life dissing people in broken Engrish and then smiling and laughing a slight shy laugh that makes the person you dissed wonder if it was a insult or a compliment. A friend of ours married a Korean girl who said to him on their first date, 'You're really fat, you must want to lose weight, huh?" And when he went to Korea to meet her family they mocked him incessantly about being stocky. He told us how her uncle would giggle and say, "fat boy, I bet you want some ice cream, don't you?" if they passed an ice cream place.

So, yesterday, I sat down in the chair and started flipping channels which is always a moot point since I have to take off my glasses when they start the process. It wouldn't be so bad if they didn't have a "fixed volume" and I could at least hear what's going on even if I can't see it. And to add insult to injury, it's permanently on closed caption. I may as well have been Helen Keller. The hygienist kept rolling back and forth looking at me and looking at my chart.

Then she finally said, "I had to look at your chart because I thought you were a teenager."

Wow! A teenager. I am genuinely flattered. I have been mistaken for a college student or in my mid-twenties but never my teens.

"But then I saw the hair and knew you couldn't be a teenager. Not with that."

The "that" she was referring to (and pointing to) was the patch of gray hairs that were starting to break through from my last hair appointment. And she had to have really good vision because they are still so new they're barely noticeable still.

"Well, thanks . . . . I guess," I said. One might think my engagement ring would give away the fact that I was not a teenager (since we don't live in Alabama) not the less than a quarter of an inch of gray roots on a one-inch section of my temple.

"You look really young," she kept saying, "I would have thought you were a teenager if not for that. I didn't think you would get that so young. Your chart has your birth date so that is why I looked."

Ummm.... okay, you wanna stop making me feel really old and just get to the scraping and polishing, lady.

After a few more minutes she asked me if I work. Now, mind you, between the broken Engrish, the mask, the fact she is soft-spoken and dental equipment is whirring she is even more difficult to understand. I explained that I took the day off because my appointment was smack in the middle of the morning for two hours (following the cleaning I had to see the real doctor and get my temporary crown put on) so there was no point in my going to work and telling them they couldn't put me in court when it was my job to be in court. She asks me what kind of court I work in and I tell her I am in every court from family to criminal and she said that my job sounds like fun. I told her it is but her work seems like fun too.

"No, it's not," she said. "It's boring. It's really boring. Like you. You are boring. I'm bored."

I've been called a lot of things in my life including (but not limited to) "Hitler," "black souled" and a "black widow" but I have NEVER been called boring. How do you respond to that? That's even a worse slam than the aforementioned in my book.

"Some people are really boring," she elaborated. "You're boring because there's not much for me to do. Your teeth are pretty clean."

Okay. I felt a little bit better. At least I was boring for a good reason and not because I wasn't entertaining. I pride myself on being entertaining . . . even if I am the only one who thinks that. I wouldn't want to be old AND boring. Heavens no!

After a few more minutes of scraping and awkward silence, she puts the goggles on me signaling its time to administer the baking soda power washing. She turned around to set up and I quickly put my glasses on under the goggles (because scraping dried on baking soda off glasses is a real bitch) just in time for the Breakfast Club to start on one of the channels I landed on.

When she turned around and saw what I did, she laughed. "You so funny and cute," she said.

Hah! I'll show you boring and old.

"So funny. So funny. Do you have kids?"

I told her I did not have kids yet. I had to get through the wedding first and then I'd think about kids.

"I can tell," she said. I was waiting for some sort of backhanded compliment. I was starting to think she should just cut me in half and count my rings (read: scar tissue) so she could know everything about me.

"You're still very . . . " and she made this gesture with her hands and her face (which was half obscured by her mask). It's hard to describe the half that I did see, but she kind of put her hands up by her head and waved them around while bobbing her head. Its the gesture you might make if you found someone to be an airhead or flighty. However, it could also be interpreted as carefree and without worry. Did she just call me immature by way of charades? Her confusing gesture, much like her, was like a fortune cookie. Confucius say what?

"People who have kids are very . . ." and she made stern face and held her arms in a rigid manner. "I don't like them. They very different. Very . . ." and she made the gesture again.

Okay. I get it.

Finally she was done. I couldn't get out of the chair fast enough even if they were at my favorite part in the movie where they're all in the library taking out their lunches and Judd Nelson launches into his "woe is me" routine. Whatever happened to Judd Nelson?

She bid me farewell and wished me good luck and sent me off with a toothbrush and trial of floss. "Thanks," I said muttering "for nothing" under my breath.

I came home and told Stew what transpired between me and my Hyde-gienist. He started complimenting me in a Chinese accent saying he was reversing the days misfortune. 'You so young," he said, "so young and not boring." Later he put it into perspective. "She basically backhanded you for an hour or so and you paid her to do it AND because there was barely anything left to clean, you paid for nothing."

Way to make me feel better.

B.Y.O.D.C. - Bring Your Own Damn Coffee

2007-06-23T11:15:00.000-04:00

It started. The end of my convenience.

I can only function in the morning after a cup of coffee. I reheat some cold coffee from the fridge and chug it before I get in the shower. Then, because I live right next to a bakery, I drop in there to get a cop before going to work because the cafeteria in the courthouse charges $1.50 for about 6 ounces of coffee when I can pay $1.75 for 20 ounces at the bakery. It doesn't take a genius to figure out what is the better deal . . . and better cup of joe. I don't care of the guy at the courthouse has a sign by the exorbitant price that says, "it's not quantity, it's quality" it's bullshit and it sucks either way.

The bakery is stop is not without annoyances because they have the coffee station set up in some half-ass manner. One might think they would put the trash by the station at the end where you stir your coffee and maybe have to use a napkin or two. But now, they have the garbage all the way in the middle of the station where all the coffee is. It's a narrow aisle and it's usually clogged so getting back to the trash is not an easy feat. Everybody that goes in there comments on what a dumb place that is to have the garbage but apparently those complaints have fallen on deaf ears. Other than that, the only other minor annoyance is that they occasionally run out of half and half. Sometimes, it is for a couple of days which blows my mind as to why they would even let this happen because they are next door to a grocery store.

After the third day of having to use milk (I know it doesn't seem like a hardship but i HATE milk) I thought I was going to have tos tart bringing my own cream. I thought of how if I had to bring my own cream, I deserved some sort of discount. But that is when I noticed the sign posted to the empty black holder that housed Splenda stating, "Please ask for Splenda at the counter."

Okay. People steal Splenda. It is completely retarded that people steal Splenda and my mom is one of those people. So, I get their rationale for hiding their Splenda. But, how many people are standing there in that narrow and totally exposed aisle stuffing their pockets with Splenda that you feel the need to hide it. And I go in there every morning (albeit only for a few minutes) and I have never seen anyone hoarding Splenda. Also, if you are charging $1.75 a cup and I see you sell at least $10 worth of coffee in the 5 minutes I am there, I think you can afford some Costco Splenda . . . . and some f-ing Half and Half.

Ask for it at the counter. In theory it seems fine. It seems effortless. But in reality, it's not and here's why:

I have a system for doing my coffee up which goes against the flow of the ass backwards way they have their silly station set up.

Step 1. Grab a cup

Step 2. Walk past all the coffee to the opposite end of the stations to pour in some half and half (if they have it)

Step 3. Walk back to the mid-point to fill my coffee cup. If nobody came in behind me it's easy, if someone did, it's a bob-and-weave maneuver.

Step 4. Go back to where the cream was to add two Splenda packets and stir some in.

Step 5. Bob-and-weave back to the midpoint to throw out my stirrer in the trash slot which is at crotch level with most of the patrons so I have to be careful not to give some stranger a morning thrill.

Step 6. Pay.

But now that i have to ask for Splenda, my flow is ruined.

Step 4 becomes - Go to the counter and wait for other customers to finish up deciding how many scones they want until the girl (because there are usually two girls but one is always busy and the other one is missing) is freed up to get my Splenda. Meanwhile my coffee is getting cold at the end of the counter with the lid off as strangers shuffle around it while they are helping themselves to the real sugar which seems to grow on trees judging from the way they just leave it out for anyone to use.

Step 5 - Go back to the counter to put in the sugar and stir.

Step 6 - throw out my trash.

Step 7 - Pay.

Yes, I am well aware there are ways to avoid the extra step. I have tried waiting patiently to get the Splenda when I first walk in but there is usually a mob of people there. I have also paid for my coffee when I get the Splenda to avoid having to go back.

But honestly, the only way to really save the time is to just bring my Splenda and if I am now bringing my own Splenda and my own cream, I should just get a coffee pot with a timer and a travel mug.

I liked your cookies, bitches!

2007-06-21T10:49:00.001-04:00

Dear Dunkin Donuts,

I have to say that i really dig your new cookies. I dug the old ones at 69 cents a pop but the new, larger and more expensive ones are a pretty good trade up.

However, I couldn't help but notice that you have altered the peanut butter cup recipe. The point of the peanut butter cup cookie is that it was loaded with hunks of melted peanubutter cups. Sweet fancy goodness!!! The last two I got looked like peanut butter cookies with peanutbutter chips and maybe one piece of "cup." Not cool. It's just a peanubutter cookie. It's almost too much a good thing and void of that delicious combo of peanutbutter and chocolate. That is okay if you want to start selling peanutbutter cookies, but then you should advertise them as such and drop the "cup" part completely. Seriously, if it ain't broke, don't try to fix it.

Bring back the original recipe. I don't know a single person who didn't find that cookie to be out of this world.

Both Coke and the Colonel messed with their original recipe and took a lot of heat for it. You know what happened? Original recipe and Coke Classic back on the market. Learn from them.

- Dr Horder

Hep C and a Wii

2007-06-14T07:58:00.000-04:00

As you know I am on a Coke cap quest. My goal is to get enough caps to get a Nintendo Wii. We averaged it out and I have to drink like 5 Cokes a day for the next year in order to get one. Considering I only drink about 1 a month that is quite a jump.

I've started soliciting my friends to send me their reward codes. When I see someone drinking a Coke, I ask for their cap. It's more or less co-workers at this point but I am starting to consider asking strangers. When I see an abandoned bottle on the ground, I unscrew the cap, wrap it in tissue and bring it home like a coveted prize.

Sunday, after feasting on gyros and souvlakis at the Greek Festival, we were walking back to the car when I spotted a crushed Sprite bottle. I pulled my sweatshirt sleeve down over my hand and unscrewed the cap. Stew tried to tell me not to, insisting I was going to get some disease but I did not care.

157 Reward points baby. Less than 6000 to go.

One, extra hot Hoff with whip

2007-06-11T13:41:00.001-04:00

I had this rather disturbing dream the other night. I'm not quite sure what to make of it so if anyone is good at deciphering dreams, give this one a crack.

I know there was way more to the drea than this part but this is the only part I can remember. And for good reason.

I was in Walmart shopping for some things quickly before I came home. For soem reason, Walmart had a hopping (and might I add packed) coffee bar. It was Starbucks-like but with Walmart prices. I scanned the menu and decided on a latte. The line was huge but I waited. I gave my order to the Wal-rista and she whipped it up amazingly fast. This was a dream for the simple fact I didn't have to repeat my order ten times. It came time to pay and I asked the Wal-rist how much I owed. She said, "$1.60." I got out my wallet to pay when she snagged the latte back behind the counter and said it was only $1.60 if I saw the episode of Sienfeld where David Hasselhoff played a pizza delivery guy.

Now, I was fucked for two reasons. One, I was never a regular Sienfeld watcher. I mean, i mwatched it but never tuned in every Thursday night. Two, i am 99% sure David Hasselhoff never played a pizza delivery guy on the show but never having watched every episode, I could not be sure.

I told the Wal-rista that i was not familiar with the episode and asked what the non-Hoff price was. She said, "$3,000."

I argued with her about why this episode was so great that it warranted a "2,998.40" price increase. Apparently, i was the only person in the line that never even heard of it because the whole line was aghast at the fact I let this episode slip by. I was offended for two reasons. One, i am a pop culture queen and if i even heard anybody talking about it, I would have done everything in my power to find it somehow and watch it. Two, christ people, it was just one scene in one show.

I paid $3,000 for my latte (I musthave needed coffe somethig fierce) and went to find the manager to tell him that his employees are running the coffee bar any way they choose. I found him berating some younger employee about how if he doesn't pay attention to detail he will never become a Wal-mart manager like his almighty greatness that stands before him. "You'll never be worthy of wearing a blue vest with a gold star if you keep this attitude up, young man."

I interrupted him by saying, "after i am done with you, he won't even want to be the shit on your shoe. Did you know your Wal-rista are charging anything they want for latte? They charged me $3,000 for this latte because I didn't see some lame ass episode of Sienfels thathad David Hasselhoff delivering pizza."

They both recoiled in horror. Even the young employee who I was sure was going to take my side just to give his manager the "what's up, how you like me now, punk" look.

The manager told me it was store policy. I debated what a silly policy it was. I'd like to add that teh scalding hot latte was searing my hands. I guess a hand protector ring was extra. I'm not sure why i accepted this policy and di not empty the contents of my moletn latte on his head but for some reason I didn't.

I swear. I think I am going nuts.

It's 3 a.m., do you know where my sanity is?

2007-06-06T03:09:00.000-04:00

I like sleep.

Actually, let me amend that. I LOVE sleep. If you asked me to describe my perfect day it would surely start off with me sleeping in as long as I possibly could. Sleep it does the body good.

But here I am. Staring at my computer for what will be the fourth consecutive night of having no more than 4 hours. Tonight, it will be around 90 minutes. And all this wouldn't be so bad if I didn't have RAGING cramps and drinking the mass amounts of coffee I need exacerbates the crampage.

Catch 22.

Flow was two days late and she is making me pay. It's not like i didn't have her room all ready for her. She just missed the train.

Among the things keeping me awake tonight other than cramps and my usual amount of bitterness is the phrase, "you're too much?" Can someone tell me what this means and is it a compliment?

I was in court the other day and an attorney who is relatively cool comes in and starts commiserating with the clerk and I about having to "hurry up and wait" in this particular courtroom. She looks down at my foot and asks if that is a tattoo on my toe. I say, "yup" and she laughs and says, "you're too much."

What does that mean and why am I too much because I have a tattoo on my toe? I know it's just a figure of speech but if you think about it, it makes no sense. Is being too much a good thing? Should people be scared? Watch out for her, she's too much. Too much of what?

Too much crazy apparently because any sane person would be sleeping now. I have nothing to really say. No enlightening thoughts, news or otherwise. What I have learned today? There are a ton hymen disorders out there (don't ask). While interesting, this bit of knowledge is virtually useless to me having never had a hymen disorder and not having a hymen for quite some time now.

Why have I taken up a Triscuit addiction and Stew is helping himself to my Red Stripe? And why does he think that I am crazy to think that every place should carry Red Stripe? They looked at me like I was smoking crack when I was at T'Gin last and asked for a Red Stripe. Okay, so it wasn't a Guinness, go ahead and boil me like a freaking potato but don't insult yourself (and me) by offering me a Corona instead because if you're going to turn your nose up at a Jamaican beer don't get all UN on me, Mon. That would be like me saying I want Mexican food and Stew taking me to Taco Bell.

"Not every bar has Red Stripe, Lulu," he says like I'm asking for something so exotic.

Why f-ing not? If almost every bar we go to has Guinness. So I insult Stew's senses and order a Heineken just for spite.

Actually, I am off the sauce. The last time I was out I had 3 pint glasses of Stella and despite the fact I was buzzed after half of glass one I kept swallowing anyway. Stew had to pretty much lead me to the car where he said I quickly became "a mess." I passed out but apparently not before thinking i could have an entire conversation with Stew using a series of gutteral "mmmmms" "nnnnths" and "mhhheemmms" I still can't believe he couldn't understand me. If I have to learn to tell the difference between a witnesses' "uh-uh" and "uh-huh" the least he could do is decode my mumbles and not force me to use words. Anyway, I was hungover so bad the following day that just thinking about it turns me off of drinking despite the fact that I want to.

It's wing night tonight. Salad pizza and wings. Twenty cent wings. Yum. Sad to say the thought will keep me going all day despite the fact I have had no appetite for anything not coated in chocolate for the past three days.

Will you still love me even after a lap dance?

2007-06-01T16:59:00.001-04:00

There is something going on around here and I don't like the smell of it. Don't get me wrong. Stew is usually very attentive and wonderful and thoughtful and sweet to the point where I often feel unworthy. But lately, it has been poured on sticky sweet giving you a sugar rush with the first whiff.

It started on Tuesday night.

"I'm not going to poker tomorrow night."

"Why not?' I asked, "Were they not able to get enough people?"

"No, they were but I want to spend time with my Lulu because I am leaving her this weekend."

"Ummmm. Okay." I said before realizing what an ingrate I was. "Thank you. That is very sweet."

"Oh and where do you want to eat on Friday night?"

"It's only Tuesday. I don't even know what I want for dinner yet tonight." Then the ingrate feeling crept in more. "Brasita's" I suggested.

"Okay," he agreed. "I'll make reservations."

"Oh no wait," I said remembering a place we haven't been to in about a year despite it being the most phenomenal food we've had altho' quite pricey. Why not cash in on the niceness? "How about Columbus Park?"

"Anything you want."

And he was on the phone making reservations for two.

But wait, there's more.

"Okay, I may as well tell you."

"There's more?" I asked growing more skeptical by the second.

"I am going to get us tickets to see Knocked Up too after dinner."

This was a big step because we RARELY see movies I want to see altho' it's hardly like I drag him to chick flicks. Knocked up is by the writers of The 40 year-old Virgin. He acts like I ask him to rent Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants or something.

"Cool," I said fully aware of what this was all about but willing to ride it out.

And with that, he quickly jumped online and ordered the tickets. He didn't even want to use our AAA cheapy vouchers or make me wait for the second week to try and use them. This was no hold barred wooing.

Wednesday night after filling my belly with wings and salad pizza we're laying on the couch and he is sucking up a head massage.

"I was going to surprise you . . . . " he starts to say.

Now, keep in mind, Stew often says this and then blames me for spoiling the surprise. Hellooooo .... does that make sense?

"I was going to get you a stuffed baby Shrek so you could sleep with it when I am gone this weekend."

Okay, that was kinda low. I am totally in love with Baby Shrek and now he was holding it over my head yet reminding me I was going to be sleeping alone this weekend while he is off to Atlantic City with his head buried in some stripper's implants partaking in lord knows what else.

"But i couldn't find one like the girl had," he said referring to the little stuffed one I saw some 6 year-old hauling around on Monday afternoon. "The only one I found was like a Cabbage Patch kid with a hard head."

Bitterness starting to fester thinking about titty bars, I stopped massaging and said, "Well, maybe you need to look harder."

So, I helped him look only able to locate stuffed baby Shreks at Build-A-Bear, the enemy of parents everywhere.

"Looks like you're going to the mall tomorrow." And then I danced around giddy with the thought singing, "I'm gonna get a baby Shrek baby Shrek." You'd swear I was less the girl about to be married and more a 5 year-old.

Thursday night, Stew came home defeated. Both Trumbull and Danbury were out of Baby Shreks.

"I feel like the parent who couldn't find the toy my daughter wanted. I feel like a failure."

And rather than offer support and tell him it's okay, I patted his back and said he could order it online which he ended up doing.

All this because he wants to go to Atlantic City with the guys for his bachelor party and he doesn't want me to come unhinged thinking about all the trouble they could get into. And even tho threats were made and wooing was in full effect, I still didn't feel like I could relax about it. So, out came the contract which he said he would not sign but ultimately did.

I, _________ , promise not to do any of the following things during my bachelor party festivities on Saturday, June 2, 2007 and Sunday, June 3, 2007 in Atlantic City, New Jersey or the surrounding areas of New Jersey, Philadelphia, New York and Connecticut.

Breaking of this contract results in the cancellation of my wedding. In the event the wedding is cancelled due to my breaking any of the following rules, _____________ of ______, Stamford, Connecticut is allowed to keep the engagement ring, both wedding bands, my big TV, game systems, games and DVDs so she can pay her parents back what they have spent for the wedding and all articles relating to the wedding. This includes, but is not limited to, invitations, postage, down payments, apparel, and etc.

I, _____ , will not do the following:

- End up in the hospital. Exceptions to the rules are car accidents (as long as I was not driving drunk or a passenger in a car where someone was driving intoxicated), a fire in the hotel/club or restaurant.

- Allow myself to get intoxicated to the point of blacking out.

- Allow my friends to peer pressure me into drinking more than I can handle.

- Get arrested.

- Get in a fight.

- Become injured by my own stupidity. Refer to Mr. Olympus.

- Kiss strippers or strangers in clubs.

- Have any physical contact whatsoever with strangers met in clubs/bars/boardwalk haunts or hotels.

- Gamble more money than I have.

- Take a stripper or stranger home

- Get a stripper’s or stranger’s number

- Touch a stripper’s or stranger’s private parts

- Have sex (oral or otherwise) with a stripper or stranger. This applies to giving and receiving.

- Do body shots off females.

- Go to a filthy massage parlor.

- Meet up with Sweet potato.

- Meet up with Zoobas.

- Not forget to bring Lulu home a magnet.

- Not cast my photo identification or other identification I need on the floors of clubs/hotels and bars.

I, ______, sign this contract in good faith, willingly and fully aware this will hold up in court.

Dear Sirs, you suck.

2007-05-30T20:41:00.000-04:00

So, Dunkin HQ actually wrote me back. They wrote to say that they appreciated my letter but they were returning it to me. However, I would like to note it has not been returned. For starters, I emailed it.

But regardless. They assured me that they "have entire departments whose job it is to come up with fresh and exciting concepts, products, flavors, programs, advertising, etc. We also receive many unsolicited suggestions from our friends outside the company . . . Most of the time, the suggestions are things our teams have already thought of and may be working on."

Ummmm..... they seriously should be working on this as a cup of properly made iced coffee could make or break someone's day.

"Therefore to prevent any possible misunderstanding, we are returning your original letter to you. we cannot accept or review unsolicited ideas including: patented or unpatented, trademarked or un-trademarked ideas, copyright protected materials, advertising slogans, marketing programs, promotional programs, patent applications, trademark applications, copyright applications, product suggestions, prototypes or models."

Now, you and I both know they will end up using my idea. Within a few months you can bet your bippy you will be seeing a sign in a Dunking advertising that their flavors are sugar free. And, within a year, you will no doubt see new cups with mysterious lines so the workers know how much milk/cream and ice go into an iced coffee. Honestly, I am fine with that as long as it means that anywhere I go, I am guaranteed a properly, well-made cup of iced coffee.

I would like to add that they did include a $5 booklet of Dunkin bucks. Personally, I thought they could have spared something more, maybe $10 or $15 but it was almost enough for stew and I to each get a large iced coffee. I still had to kick in $0.38 out of my own pocket.

So, that got me thinking, I should write more letters, sending more unsolicited ideas and get more free stuff. No sooner should I get this idea than a coupon for a free medium ice cream from Coldstone Creamery comes for me in the mail.

Coldstone is my enemy. For two reasons.

1.) I am not much of an ice cream fan.
2.) I think their ice cream is way overpriced.
3.) They never have enough help.
4.) They ruined my Valentine's Day.

You see, Stew likes their ice cream and last Valentine's Day I took advantage of this promotion they had for $2 off a Valentine's Day cake for two. The coupon said nothing about having to pick it up on Valentine's Day just that it was only good while supplies lasted. So, I went there the day before Valentine's Day and that was when I was informed I had to wait until Valentine's Day. The kid behind the counter was young and I was feeling particularly cute that day so I pretended to be way more bummed than I really was and gave him the sob story that V-day was our anniversary and we had 6 p.m. dinner reservations and I got out at 5:30 and had to hightail it to the restaurant with no time to come back for the cake. So, the kid went into the backroom, got me a cake (which was actually two small chocolate cakes with chocolate hearts in the center and could not have looked more like two boobs) and rang me up.

So, this past Valentine's day, I thought i would re-create the magic and stew was all excited. there was no coupon offer this year so I had to wing it. I figured being an ice cream shop they would have tiny pre-made cakes like they USUALLY do. It was a Monday and I was early but I figured I had time to order it. While waiting on line (because they only had one person mashing up ice cream for a long line) I was commiserating with a lady who was pissed off they had no Birthday cakes for her daughter's birthday. However, she couldn't bitch too much because what shitty mom waits until the last minute to get her daughter's cake.

I asked the girl behind the counter if they had any tiny cakes in the back. She said no and I would have to order one that would be ready no earlier than Wednesday after 5:30. So, i placed an order and left. Wednesday came, the night of the HUGE ice storm. I got out of work early because they forced us to leave the building. Stew came home early too and we risked life and limb to get to Coldstone around 5:30 and the place was closed.

I'm understanding and I am sure they closed early because they were worried about their employees and I am cool with that. But damn, they could have at least called and said they were closing early and if i wanted the cake for that night I had to come get it before they closed at X time. So, I wrote a letter to the headquarters. A few days later I got calls from the store manager and owner telling me to come and get my cake free of charge. I called to arrange a pick up and the cake was not there. I wasn't going to really push the issue. It was just principle. A few days later a coupon came and now I just got another one.

Stew is on me to write XM radio because he wants to know why Opie and Anthony got suspended for Bush jokes. I mean, isn't the point of satellite radio paying to hear radio that is not being censored? But, I say pick your own battles.

I have coffee wars to win and free ice cream to get.

Wake up and smell the coffee

2007-05-15T22:33:00.000-04:00

After having the scariest ice coffee ever. Seriously, i broke two straws trying to get through all the ice I decided to write Dunkin Donuts and revolutionize their business.

To the wonderful people at Dunkin who keep me caffeinated all day,

You make the best coffee. Hands down. Starbucks are chumps with their overpriced lattes and calorie filled drinks. When it comes to choosing between green and pink and orange, I always choose Dunkin.

On my last Dunkin visit, I was able to enlighten some customers to some wisdom that is not common knowledge. However, I know from writing you in the past, that all your delicious flavor shots are sugar free. For some reason, that fact is advertised only on your site and not in the shops. When I filled these customers in on that bit of INVALUABLE information they were elated and quickly added shots to their drinks. Their only question was how come you don’t say that in the store? A lot of your employees may not be aware of this or customers may not believe them but if it were posted somewhere, they could not dispute that.

My only guess for why it’s not posted in the store is that you may be apprehensive about people thinking it has an aftertaste or has some cancer-causing additive in it. Believe me, if fake sweeteners really caused cancer I would be dead. If you are going to offer “healthier” drinks like lite lattes and such then go ahead and tell your customers that the syrup they crave contains no sugar.

Another thought for you is to bring all your workers up to code on making a consistent cup of coffee. Sometimes, I’ll ask for a coffee with milk or cream and they put so much cream in that it tastes like I am drinking straight up cream. Or, I will ask for an iced coffee and get a few chips of ice that melt quickly or an iceberg in my cup so big I can’t get the straw in without it getting obstructed and crushed the like Titanic. This resulted in about 4 sips of coffee fitting into a medium cup but enough ice for at least two and a half drinks. I rarely find a happy medium.

So, here is my idea and it is completely free. However, feel free to hook me up with a loaded gift card should you like my idea and use it. On your cups, you should have lines that tell your employees how much ice to add, how much milk/cream or sugar. Or, you can just have a standard 4 squirts for a medium, 6 for a large and then add one if the customer prefers it lighter.

You pride yourself on “authentic” iced coffee so why not make it consistently perfect? I depend on Dunkin to deliver a great tasting cup o’ Joe and more often than not that is what I get but the times when I get something different like 4 sips of coffee and a ton of ice or a mouth full of cream I’m disappointed. I know the Dunkins I can depend on in each town in New England. Sad but true.

I hope that you read this letter. I know it’s long but it comes from a very dedicated customer who wants the world to appreciate all that Dunkin has to offer.

Sincerely,
Dr. Horder

I'm changing lives one iced coffee at a time

2007-05-12T12:47:00.000-04:00

So, I gave up my weekly indulgence of a sugar free cinnamon dulce latte after boredom drove me to the nutrition section of Starbucks' Web site. Even with skim milk I was taking in half of my daily allotment of carbs. Frankly I'd rather eat those carbs in the form of pizza than drink them. Granted, i can swap to cream instead of skim milk but then I would be piling on the fat 25+ grams vs 0. So, I am back to my trusty standby summer drink - a large toasted almond iced coffee with cream and three Splenda.

Anyone who knows me knows that I was absolutely devastated when Dunkin Donuts announced they were no longer brewing french vanilla and hazelnut flavored coffees. Instead they announced all their great new syrups. Knowing how much sugar those syrups pack per tablespoon, I was banished to a life of plain tasting coffee. I figured they had to come out with sugar-free syrups eventually but that day never seemed to come. It got to the point where I was buying an assortment of sugar free syrups and adding them to my coffee when I got home. But, more often that not, I grabbed my coffee on the go so the syrups were going to waste. I had enough of society's contradiction that they want to make us healthy by offering healthy things but screw us in the end by finding some way to add sugar to it. I took matters into my own hands and wrote Dunkin Donuts headquarters. It took a few days but I finally got an answer and that answer made me the happiest little coffee lover alive. Every single one of their tasty flavors was sugar free. Not just like lame ass Starbucks who only offers caramel, vanilla and hazelnut but EVERY SINGLE ONE. And endless possibility of flavorful concoctions

I told everyone I knew (which basically consisted of about 5 people) who would actually care enough and not think I am totally insane that I took my concern all the way to Dunkin headquarters. Come on, I could not risk throwing myself into some sugar coma because the guy behind the counter would say "yes" to anything because that's just about all the English he knows. If you read my old blog you are well aware of the insane conversations I've had with Dunkin employees including the one who asked me if Stew's attitude changed towards me after we had sex. Not to mention all the times I asked for iced coffee and ended up with a hot one on the counter in front of me. And just last week I said "no sugar" three times only to take a sip of my coffee and get a straw full of sugar granules. It took everything in me to take that bit of heaven in a cup back and demand one sans sugar.

So, I really can't blame anyone for what happened yesterday.

After dropping off my clothes at the tailors, I stopped by Dunkin to get my congratulatory-you-survived-another-week Friday iced coffee. I walked in on mayhem in progress. Two ladies were engaged in a full-blown argument with the two employees (who I happen to know and like despite their prying questions). One customer with a condescending Aussie accent was interrogating an employee on why they don't offer sugar free syrups. His only defense was "no ma'am, no sugar free syrups." I took one look at her extremely dark looking iced latte and knew I could save the day because that was about to taste like a bitter turd if I didn't.

"Actually," I said, sounding like my 9-year-old nephew who starts off any fact he's about to correct you on, "They are all sugar free."

Aussie whipped around and glared at me. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, 100% sure."

The other lady in line turned around to join the inquisition, 'how do you know?"

I stood proud. I don't care who in that Dunkin was about to think I was a freak for taking my question to the top banana. I was about to let my freak flag fly high in orange and pink.

"I wrote headquarters and asked and they said that all their syrups are sugar free."

BOOOOYAAAA MATEY!!!!

"Even the chocolate?" She asked.

"Even the chocolate," I said and then I corrected myself because I remembered the time in Florida when I asked for chocolate and they put Nestle chocolate syrup in it and I had to differentiate calling it syrup and referred to it as a "flavor shot."

"Why don't they advertise that?' she asked and the other lady backed her up by tapping a sign listing all the flavors and saying, "this should say sugar free."

I had no answer. I think it is insanely retarded that they don't mention it in the store, only on the Web site that the flavors are sugar free. My guess is maybe they think that most people who want the flavors don't want to know it is sugar free because they'll think it is made with artificial sweeteners and has an aftertaste and causes cancer.

Let me tell you something about that artificial sweetener causing cancer thing.

M Y T H.

If it were the case my ass would be long dead by now. In my 33 years I can count on one hand how many times I drank regular soda and juices that were not Crystal Light. I'd be a goner.

"Well," Aussie said facing the employee, "I will have two shots of vanilla in this because this concerned customer cared enough to write headquarters and find out the truth so now you know and you can tell all your customers."

I liked it. Concerned customer . . . finding out the truth. I felt like Michael Moore.

'You've opened up a whole new world for me," said the other lady.

Cool, they should have a parade in my honor and throw sprinkles and gift cards at me. I'm opening up whole new worlds for people. Wait until I tell stew.

"That information is invaluable," Aussie said. "Invaluable."

Shit yeah. Suddenly my being crazy served a purpose. I changed lives and opened up new worlds.

License to Ill

2007-05-08T08:11:00.000-04:00

I think Stew is getting a bit worried. See, he hasn't been hearing many good things about marriage from his unhappily married co-workers. While Stew admits to getting excited about he wedding, I think a fear is growing in the pit of his stomach. As the weddings of his friends near they express some frustration for their future spouses and tell stew to heed their warnings. "Lisa will get crazy right before the wedding. Brace yourself and just roll with it."

Truth be told, I may get a little wonky before the wedding but there is a slight chance I may not. I hated this wedding business from Day 1 so all my craziness reared its ugly head early on. I was hoping if Stew saw the craziness early on, he would rethink wanting a wedding before we dropped too many non-refundable deposits.

Apparently, I was not crazy enough which is shocking because I was pretty damn crazy.

A lot of it came from being overwhelmed and not knowing where to start. So, after I resigned myself not to winning the war I waged, I bucked up and broke it down. The plan was to tackle everything I could early enough and map out the rest. It frightened me how organized I was and what a drill sergeant I became about deadlines but Stew knew it was either drill sergeant or crazy and he liked the idea of drill sergeant much better. However, I dragged Stew along with me to every meeting, every registry selection. If he wanted this wedding, he had to be tortured just like me. This included, but was not limited to, watching endless videos of DJs, a lot of rhythmless crackers dancing to Bon Jovi, meetings with a florist who tried to take us for $2300 for an archway and the constant barrage of "what about this invitation/bridesmaids dress/color/song/favor?" questions which I demanded answers to. Not to mention any of the flack we had to take from our respective parents about the location and the decision to have a JP instead of a priest.

When I say uphill battle, I mean in an ice storm while it's raining grease.

Every time he looks a little stressed or beaten, I silently snicker to myself and asked him, "Aren't you glad you wanted a wedding? Don't you wish you listened to me about eloping? Isn't this so much fun?" Of course he would say this is what he wants but he said it through gritted teeth leading me to believe otherwise. Then I will not-so-gently remind him that for the next couple of months his time and attention belongs to me so don't go making any plans. I know this is mean but I'm not going down alone.

All that BS crap you see for weddings with a phrase that alludes to two hearts beating as one is no joke because as a couple you either killed your partner or you're around them so much you are now a single-celled amoeba.

My left foot . . . . both of them

2007-04-11T08:28:00.000-04:00

I should write a book. I know I've said that before about online dating (and I still think I should and i eventually will if i ever learn to like typing again) but now I should write a book about weddings. The side you don't see. The side they don't want you to know about. The side that requires me to put aside my hormones and put on high heels. The side that not only forces you to lose your mind but hands you your once sane (albeit slightly) mind to you on a silver Tiffany platter and then quickly rips it away when you reach out to reclaim it.

It's not even the crap you think will do you in. It's the crap you didn't even think about when you said "yes" after you were blinded by a shiny ring. It's the invitations. Double envelope or single? French flap or regular? Thermography or engraved? Lined or unlined? When the hell the postage rate is going to go up (incidentally 5 days prior to our planned mailing date). It's the flowers. What's in season? Would you like an $1800 archway that we're going to zap you a $500 delivery/pick-up fee for? Do you know what color your bridesmaids dresses are? No, why not? You only have a year to figure this out. It's the bridesmaids dresses. Don't even start me on that. It's the music song list. What music do you want to walk in to? What music do you want your bridal party to walk in to? (stew did not like my idea of having them walk in to "The Dope Show") Your wedding song. The song you'll dance with your mom/dad to? Songs to play during dinner? How will your wedding party stand? What order will they come in to the reception? It's the hor de' voures. You don't want anything too messy but you want something they can eat with their hands. Who has food allergies? Who needs a kosher meal? Who needs one that's gluten-free?

Most of that stuff we managed to work past. We pretty much told our florist where she could put her archway. Actually, I think we said something to the fact like, "We have the ocean as a backdrop, why do I need a $2300 archway to stand under for 20 minutes?" I asked our wedding coordinator to allow us a fourth vegetarian option. As for anyone with food allergies, well if you don't note that on the card when you send it back, that's your doggybag of hives you're bringing home.

One thing we didn't give much thought to was our first dance. I mean, we had the song picked out. And our photographer was kind enough to set our engagement photo DVD to our wedding song so we could get a good feel for how it would translate to the cuteness that's us. The bottom line is Stew and I are cute in person but not so cute pictures. Oh well. Good thing one of her expensive selling points was she has photoshop skillz that pay the billz.

But back to the dancing.

I dance.

Stew does not.

I grew up the pudgy kid wearing a tutu shuttled around to ballet, tap and jazz classes. Stew was too busy starting fires in the woods of Monroe and planning his next Dungeon & Dragons campaign. In the two years Stew and I have been dating, we only danced together once and we were both drunk and it was thug rap so it hardly required skill. My mom was pushing for a routine and I had Dirty Dancing Time of your Life flashbacks and and screamed no. Nobody puts baby in the corner. I was not concerned with my dancing skills as much as I was with Stew's. Let's face it. I love the boy but he could be a bit stiff in situations that require any attention be on him. After polling some people we knew, we decided to take dancing lessons.

Now, I don't know if you ever looked into dancing lessons but they are expensive. And when you're planning a wedding and you drop a grand on invitations, $300 to have someone address them doesn't seem like much in the grand scheme of things but $750 for someone to teach you a few dance moves is outrageous for the brief moments you will actually be on the dance floor seems like a giant waste of money.

We went for a $15 private lesson. We bought a CD with our wedding song on it and the song Stew is going to dance with his mom to. We also had one of my picks for the father/daughter dance. We were looking for something simple. However, "simple" was not in the vocabulary of a lithe and flexible Euro-trash instructor. And I would have called her European but she was sporting a case of cold-sore herpes that neither stew or I could take our eyes off of. We wanted to do something romantic. She made us do the rumba. I guess that could be considered romantic but when your partner is staring straight ahead like a programmed robot counting steps in his head and you're trying hard not to go limp in his arms with laughter, you look like you're both competing for the gold . . . . in the special Olympics.

Obviously my request for simple was lost in translation. The last thing I wanted to think about as I glided onto the dance floor with my new husband and people were taking our pictures was counting steps and following leads. Sure enough, that is what she had us doing to the point where I was falling over my own two feet and Stew looked like he'd fall to pieces if he broke his concentration for a second. Oh no, this will not work.

The clincher came when she heard the song stew wanted to dance with his mom and said that it was a swing song. Um, nothing about Green Day is swing, lady. NOTHING. True, the song is neither slow or fast but swing ----- no. When she puckered that cold-sore ridden mouth and said "swing" I saw Stew's face go death-white.

"We'll work on that later," she said trying to ease the blow. And that is when I knew she was going to suggest the 10 lesson package.

I'm onto you Euro-herps!

My favorite part was her lack of remembering that I could hear everything was saying (altho' it was muddled with that accent). She kept telling Stew, "This dance is all about you. She is just jewelery. The entire wedding is about her but this dance is about you."

Then, she would turn to me and say, "This dance is about you and your dress and your beauty and grace. It's about every bead on your dress, your shoes. It's also about your ring so make sure you are always holding your hand this way." And then she spent every step bending my hand in unnatural positions so that my ring was never hidden.

After our hard work out, we went for Sushi and started thinking hard about what we signed up for. By the time we went to bed, we decided the lessons were not for us and Stew was going to call the next morning and get his money back. We hoped we were making the right decision to sway our way through it.

On Easter, we gave my family a quick demonstration of what she wanted us to do and they laughed so hard I knew we made the right call.

i just wanted you to be unhappy, is that too much to ask for?

2007-04-10T17:56:00.000-04:00

So, I read this article on CNN.com today about how people Google their potential dates before or after meeting them. I don't know anyone who would do this. I also don't know anyone, who just for shits and giggles, would look up an ex to make sure they're unemployed/getting a divorce/dead or anything but happy.

I'm not saying i wish ill will on many of my exes, I'm just saying that I like to know that I'm doing way better than they are. That I am happy and healthy (wow, I just totally mistyped "healthy" and put "lethal" instead and I am sure in some parts of the tri-state area and the Mid-West that whether i am healthy or lethal is probably being debated) and delieriously in love with a boy who worships me (read: puts up with me) and planning my wedding by the sea where the two of us fell in love almost two years after doing so. Too cute, I know!

So, during my lull of jury duty selection today something made me think of Jersey Boy which led to the nagging thought, "I wonder what that ass is up to. Did he sell his trailer like he talked about doing for more than a year but was reluctant to get off his fat ass and do it?"

Idle hands are the Devil's playground so I went to work.

I found his grandfather's obit which listed him as a survivor and HIS FIANCEE'. He's engaged. So, of course I had to whitepage his hass to see if he was still trailer dwelling and he is already married. Married! already. We broke up in the Summer of 2005. You mean to tell me you already courted, proposed and had a wedding already. Holy moses.

I told Stew. Stew told me I had to let it go. Stew doesn't get broads and their constant need to know that they are always doing 600 times better than their ex-boyfriends. I let it go. He is yesterday's news. I shake my head and physically cringe when I think about having dated him and that two-pack-a-day ashtray he called a mouth.

"That relationship was a springboard to marriage," Stew said.

God, doesn't that boy ever see the bad side of things? Everything is a ray of positivity and hope. The cloud is not only lined in silver but it's encrusted with diamonds. I often feel like when I do something productive he's going to award me with a "great job" puffy sticker from all the positive reinforcement he blows up my ass. I've tried to warn him.

So, of course, it is my job to bring him back down to Planet Depresso by explaining my theory that it was tehs tory of my dating career. Lisa meets boy. Boy dumps her. Boy marries the next girl he meets. I used to tell that to my boyfriends too, 'the next girl you will meet you will marry. I am sure of it.' Kinda like how I tell Stew his next wife will love cooking, won't conduct bathroom business with the door open and certainly will not pass gas that Stew describes as "destroying him."

At least i don't have the luxury of running into people I've dated like Stew does. I owe this to the fact that they don't live around here and the ones that do must never leave the house. But, mark my words, the next time I see the girl Stew dated before he met me sitting across from us at the bar (yes, it has happened), I am going to buy her a drink and invite her over to talk.

I'm going to hell and picking steak out of my teeth the whole way down

2007-04-06T14:30:00.000-04:00

The wait at Outback on a Friday is hell. It could be hours before your ass sees a seat and at least another hour or so before it sees the calories from the victorian horseradish encrusted fillet you are about to inhale. I've spent more Friday nights waiting for my Matey beeper to vibrate and blink than I care to admit. That is how stew and I started Pagan Good Friday fests. Any good Catholic knows that Good Friday means no meat. I haven't observed this since moving out from under my parent's roof and partaking in a meatlovers pizza party one Good Friday many moons ago.

And now that Stew and I have been officially labeled Heathens by our families for our refusal to get married in a church, we rightfully eat meat on good Friday and love every chewy, bloody bite of it. Every year we pick a new House of Meat Worship that is usually swamped on a friday night and we just show up during prime eating time. Sometimes we have to wait because other heathens and Jewish people have to eat too but usually the wait is no longer than 20 minutes. No beeper necessary. We're the epitome of "no rules" so bring on the meat.
Right now, as I am writing this at 2 p.m. on Good Friday, I am taking breaks to bite into my roast beef sammich.

FEARLESS.

However, they did screw it up and leave off the pickled ginger and the wasabi mayo that i was the ONLY reason I got this stupid sandwich and paid $2 extra for double meat.

So, tonight is pagan meat fest and then Sunday we'll please the families by donning pretty Easter bonnets and giving each other baskets full of stuff because after having a big meat meal, you know you want some candy. Of course Stew has a list full of things I require to be in my basket like a Just Hatched Peep and a Reese's peanutbutter egg. And, because i still have to keep up the illusion that I care about what I eat, Sugar Free Peeps (They are actually pretty good.) I also keep hinting (albeit not at all in a subtle manner) that I'm also expecting something i picked out in Tiffany a week ago. It's unlikely that it will be there so I have already braced for the sadness. Even more unlikely now that Stew got a speeding ticket on his way to work that is more than the item I want. So, when he is in Court fighting it, he should keep that in mind and write the check and put it in a blue box with a white ribbon.

And before you think I am mean. Okay, I am. But still. I got Stew a basket full of really cool stuff that he is not expecting and will really like. Now, I just have to wake up before him so I can hide it.

An open letter to someone who ruined my Friday

2007-03-13T22:45:00.000-04:00

Dear Space non-Invader,

I like you . . . sometimes. I like that when i am in store at the register, your cart is not parked up my ass waiting for me to finish. I appreciate the freedom to be able to get back to the ATM and pay and not feel rushed. It warms my heart to know there are people out there who respect personal space. Please don't take what i am about to say next as an insult that infringes on your kind and generous etiquette, but really we need to come to a happy medium.

I was in Starbucks behind you. I can tell how perky and cute you are, even from behind. You waited patiently while the lady at the counter finished ordering her vanilla no fat double soy latte half dry extra hot. You didn't even bat an eye while I grew increasingly annoyed by her abuse of adjectives and disregard for my time. You see, it was Friday and it was time for my reward. After a long hard work week toiling away at a computer, I reward myself with a $4.86 cup of coffee. I do not need it, I simply want it and driving up High Ridge Road is a ritual to get it. For I know my reward is near and it's officially Friday.

But you, Missy. You! You were being your usual space non-invading self waiting patiently, not putting any pressure on Miss Soy whip to step on it and get her shit together and walk away. My problem with you is not that you were being patient and waiting your turn. Bless your little heart. That is actually a welcome pleasantry in this day and and age of grab, swipe and go. But you were standing so far away from Miss Soy Whip that I wasn't even sure you were in line or just hanging around looking blankly at the board. Like I said, a happy medium. There comes a time when some space is too much and you have to close the gap to avoid the cutters or the questions, "are you in line?" Because you know you are in line and you'll just want to sneer at the poor questioning soul and just say, "no, I just enjoy standing here." You are much too sweet for that no matter how much I think their question was totally warranted.

I used to be you. But now I am the anti-you because of what happened last week. Last week, i was in line at marshal's, which any bargain shopper knows is hell on earth no matter how many people they have working the registers. What good is having every cashier on when 99% of them have to stop what they are doing to get a price on something? And, as you know, most of the crap in Marshal's has no price.

Anyway, i was standing there with two pairs of pants that I wanted. It was my second attempt at buying the brown pair. The first time I tried to buy them, the line was too long and I had PMS. Not a good combination. This time I was determined and saw them still being there nearly two weeks later as a sign that they were meant to go home with me. I get in line and some little boy (whose mom was MIA) got in line behind me. I made the fatal mistake of making eye contact with him. He said, "Hi" and I said, "hello." The line moved amazingly slow like it usually does but I was in a good mood so I didn't mind. I had a $1 movie rental in my purse and new pants that looked great on me draped over my arm. I was at a fair distance behind another customer but apparently, not far enough. The boy started inching his way up, looking at the socks that were along side of me. I inched up. Any closer and the lady in front of me would have been buying my clothes. He inched up too, pretending to read the gift cards that were displayed on the register putting him right in front of me but not directly because I was still close behind. I figured once he was done, he would venture back to his place in line. But he did not. I contemplated saying something but the kid didn't look like he was playing with a full deck and I thought how it might look if i got into a fight with a kid who was not mentally all there ifyaknowwhatImean. The womyn in front of me (who he was now behind) made eye contact with him and he said, "Hi." She did not speak English so she just nodded and turned around. So that was his hook. I let him go because it wasn't worth a scene over but if his mom were there, I'd let her have it.

That is why I am not you anymore, Miss space non-invader. So, the next time you feel rushed at a register or feel the sharp, cold metal of a carriage grazing your ass, it's me. And I wouldn't turn around if I were you.

Dr. Horder

Stealing my wedding band

2007-03-12T17:12:00.000-04:00

I wore my wedding band on Friday. Okay, so I totally cheated, shoot me. Stew said I shouldn't have it until I successfully make it down the aisle. He says it's my reward for going through with it. I say, "what is my reward for cooking dinner four nights out of the week, cleaning the bathrooms, picking up snotty tissues he leaves laying around and wiping pee of my seat. Not to mention sometimes having to actually put the seat down?" And he smiles, when I ask this and bats his eyes like that's my reward. Whatever skippy, I'm not that easy!

I'm only wearing it because my engagement ring is too lose and when my hands get cold (which every minute of every day) I am afraid it is going to fly off and take someone's eye out. and I am in the in the position (daily) where a hundred lawyers would descend upon the now eye-less person shoving their cards in his/her face. So,i wear my band as a guard of sorts which furthers my case that i need another one to wear behind it where a wedding band normally goes - closest to your heart.

The first couple of days I had such a gift in my presence I stared at it and was reminded that soon I would be married. I did the same with my engagement ring but now with T minus 127 days, the shock of that ring lost its luster. It reminds me that soon I will walk down the aisle in my pretty pretty dress I am unable to breathe to marry this messy boy who slowly but surely scooped up my heart like he was making a mud pie. Granted, i can barely remember to call him my fiancee, but does that matter? It also reminds me that dating life is well behind me and affords me the opportunity to look back on it with some perspective that i should have been using at the time.

i am pleased to report that i have successfully managed to block out all boyfriend except the last couple. This is not because they were so great that i could never forget them, but rather they are the freshest. I was unpleasantly reminded of Jersey Boy this past week when Stew told me my Yankee Candle addiction was teetering on the edge of needing rehab. Considering the case of gaming minis that arrive at our doorstep weekly, I'd say i am able to quit at any time but choose not to. He suggested buying candles from his friend who sells them and with a discount. I immediately boiled because during one of my last trips to Jersey, I spent $21.00 on some fruit punch candle from JB's friend and the following week we broke up. He claimed she was going to send me the candle but she never did. Not that I think Stew is going to break up with me, but it is the association I don't need if he wants to start this marriage off right. I warned him I held grudges and they don't even have to be against the person who fucked up.

Anyway, it got me thinking about Jersey Boy and how insane it was that i dated someone who not only lived in a trailer but had some of the trashiest friends I have ever seen. I used to tell JB all the time that we came from two different worlds, mine being Fairfield County and his being a place where it was okay for your home to have a title. Eventho I think sometimes Stew's friends and I are worlds apart, it's only because I don't take part in their favorite activity - boozing my face off. But all the common things are there like good jobs, the fact we'd rather have nicer things in life rather than a car stereo that could register as an earthquake. And camping is our idea of hell not fun.

I remembered one Jersey outing in particular. We were hanging out in his friend's backyard for something. Al their kids were running loose and one little girl was alone in the pool. She was the outcast child, mainly because she didn't belong to anyone there. It was JB's roommate's daughter and his roommate was MIA as usual and this little girl's stripper mom was MIA as well. The little girl was playing with dolls - a Ken and Barbie. She was making barbie slap Ken and demand money from him berating him that she knew he had it and he should give it to her and buy her things. One of JB's friends looked at her, looked at JB and said, "I see she is learning from her mama." Everyone laughed. Even more. But out of sheer embarrassment for this poor child who was really hell in two pink high-tops.

But looking back.

PHEW!

Ninja of the nasty and a pregnant Suri Cruise

2007-02-28T18:17:00.001-05:00

Stew is nasty. can I just say that?

Nasty. Nasty. Nasty. Nasty.

I was showering yesterday afternoon when I came home from work. I like to do this because for some reason the AC is on the in the court room all day and I am frozen solid when I come home. Despite having on a turtleneck and very thick cardigan. So, I take a really hot shower. REALLY hot. So, i am showering away and Stew comes home. I am cut off from him all day so I get excited when he comes home because I can tell him all the craziness I saw that day. After a few attempts at yelling from a shower down the stairs, he came upstairs and into the bathroom. We chatted for a bit and then he walked out. That is when the smell hit me.

"OH MY GOD!!!!!' i screamed. "Did you fart in here?"

He came in to investigate and immediately let out an "oof, I'm sorry that is bad."

It was like the fan pulled it up from the depths of his bowels and then was blowing the rank down onto me in the shower. I was trapped. With my legs coated in shave gel - trapped.

I called him every name in the book including Hitler because I literally felt like I was in a gas chamber clawing at the walls to free myself. It was terrible.

so, where does Suri Cruise fit into this?

Well, nowhere really. A few nights ago I had this crazy dream that Suri Cruise was being bred. She was a year old and was preggers for the seond time. As if a pregnant 1 year-old was not a disturbing visual in itself, for some reason she lived under my desk at work and it was my responsibility to lead care for her during her pregnancy. I kept forgetting to feed her and she was in so much pain with her distended belly. We had to be so careful with her too. careful not to apply any pressure whatsoever to her protuding belly.

No wonder i couldn't sleep.

Super Stench Sunday

2007-02-05T11:12:00.000-05:00

Superbowl Sunday is always a bittersweet day in our house. It is always just plain happy for me because football finally ends and I can stop planning our weekends pretending Sundays don't exist because stew MUST watch football. For Stew, it is the day he waits for all year. An entire day of gut gluttony spanning the alphabet of debauchery from beer to towering nachos. He usually gets together with his guy friends and they hole themselves up like some "no girls allowed" clubhouse in one of their apartments with a gigantic TV and half a supermarket worth of of food. I don't hear from him for hours and I always feel guilty if I have to call and interrupt "guy-time" so I make sure I only call for extreme emergencies or computer disasters.

However, this year, because Stew's friends are all growing up and getting married, the event failed to become an all-guys event. For the first time in their Superbowl history, girlfriends and girls were allowed to infiltrate the clubhouse. I was actually a little bummed. I start work soon so I was looking forward to basking in the final few moments of time to myself. But, I was torn because Stew was gone all of Saturday visiting friends in Massachusetts so we didn't have much time together this weekend at all. I figured we would take two cars and that would free me up to leave whenever when I had my fill of food.

By halftime, you could tell the few guys that made it to the party this year (which wasn't many compared to previous years) were sorry they let girls share their day when they were outvoted on Prince's halftime show. I left around 8:40 so I could get home and watch the Surreal Life Fame Games which ended up not being on anyway. So, really, I came home for nothing except . . . .

Except buying myself some time away from the noxious fumes that would emanate from Stew's ass the second he walked in. I should have been more prepared. I should have started burning Yankee candles the second I walked in. I should have strung matches about the room and began burning them so that the sulfur would cancel out any of the choking gas he expelled post Lard Fest.

I just should have known.

Last year, Stew came home. I was already reading in bed and he slithered in next to me. I put my book away and went in to steal his warmth. One thing led to another (what can I say, living together was still pretty new) and we started fooling around until I smelled a SBD toot he must have let sneak out. It hung there in the air like a thick shield of just plain nasty. I turned away in disgust and began choking on my own breath trying not to open my mouth for fear the stench will get in my throat. I don't use the word horrendous often because it is a powerful word only used to describe the ugliest of misadventures. However, I will say it in this case, it was HORRENDOUS.

This year, he tried to take all kinds of precautions by planting himself on the couch behind me which is clear across the room. As thick as that gas was, it wasn't going to be drifting my way anytime soon. He also warned me if he saw me coming too close like a fart alarm, "Stay back, Lulu. You don't want to come over here now." And when I did make an attempt to join him, my weight on the cushion pushed out a cloud of rank like seconds for me to enjoy.

I should have made him sleep on the couch but against my better judgement, I let him share the room with me. Before he fell asleep and couldn't control it, he would get up when he knew one was coming and leave the room. Sometimes, it followed him in like an aura of rot.

He started to drift to sleep and I knew I was DOOMED. Once he relaxed so would his sphincter muscles and and it would become a no holds barred Fume Fest in my bedroom . . . . where I sleep. God help me. He woke himself up once and jolted out of the room.

"Turn around 10 times to shake the stank off before you come back," I screamed and continued reading.

A few seconds later I heard what sounded like bare feet turning around several times on a wood floor and I thought, "Is he really turning? I was just kidding. That doesn't even sound like logical advice." I laughed at the thought and then said to myself, "No way."

"Wow, I'm dizzy," I hear from the other room.

Hahahahaha. I laughed and laugh and laughed.

"You actually spun around 10 times?" I asked.

"Yeah," he said emerging into the room while holding his head. "It sounded like good advice."

The scary thing is, it was. Not so much as a dull whiff followed him in. I was suffering after he went to sleep tho'. I actually thought about sleeping on the couch.

Next year. I will be ready.

Oh crystal ball, tell me what is in store for me

2007-01-25T08:21:00.000-05:00

Note: I started writing this yesterday and posted it today. I meant to do it last night but when I came home I was STARVING so we had to go eat our weight in 20 cent wings and then I just plain forgot to update it.

So, today I have a second interview at the dental office which just about sent my fingerprints to the lab to see if i came up with any homicide matches. Yes, a second interview. Let me reiterate. A SECOND interview for a receptionist job. Oh, and I found out today they have been calling around for my references. Nothing like doing that 14 days later!

So, I think they are hauling me back in today to meet with the doctors. I am making a prediction now and then I will put this aside and tell you if I was right.

I am going to spend another two hours in there while I wait 10 minutes to meet with each doctor for two minutes and I have to answer the same questions over and over again.

Let's go see if i am right.

I was totally right. I was there for 90 minutes and met with two doctors and the coordinator (who I waited 20 minutes for). They offered me the job but not before trying to shake my confidence with shady head games and everyone knows how much I LOVE that. So, now I have some thinking to do.

Dush Dush in the bush

2007-01-23T17:00:00.000-05:00

I did a focus group.

Everyone who knows me knows I make my unemployed living off focus groups. I am not even picky in times like this. I suppose that is how I ended up doing one on douche and feminine wash yesterday. Yes, you heard me. DOUCHE. As in the feminine version of the Stick-Up. As in my favorite term to call people - douchebag.

The group consisted of seven girls. That is seven vaginas and seven mouths who have a lot to say about their vaginas. However, five people of those seven insisted on pronouncing "douche" as "dush". For a while I thought I was in the wrong group. I thought they were saying "dish" and actually wondered, "what is this dish they are talking about? Satellite TV? I am here to talk about my vagina. Maybe it's a new term or some new product like that menstrual cup thing." Yeah, i was obviously up at 5 a.m. for that to even make a lick of sense to me.

Anyway, there was one girl in the group who thought her vagina was above all other vaginas when anyone referred to a feminine problem like too much wetness or a strange odor.

"Well, then you have to go see a doctor" she would say.

Maybe the person did have to go see a doctor but every female has an odor and it sure as shit ain't roses! In my house we call it "Stanky Pachang" or "Smelly Fish Butt." But apparently, Fresh Snatch over there thinks her vagina is supreme. Maybe it is. But she didn't look like she was doing anything with her vagina that led me to believe she was clean as a whistle "down there." I'm not saying this to be mean but when we went around the room introducing ourselves she did say she lived with her three kids and her mother. There was no mention of a husband/boyfriend/babydaddy. However she did go on about spermicide and that being the reason she doesn't dush after sex. She is afraid the dush will clear out the spermicide and enable her to get knocked up . . . again. Do you see what kind of ignorance I am up against?

Despite the fact that the only reason I was there was to extol the virtues of douching and feminine wash, I felt the need to remind everyone that "dushing too much is bad for you." I am such a rebel rouser. Seriously, my gyno told me years ago that douching will wreak havoc on the Ph balance of your vergander and cause all sorts of infections. I said this, making the comparison of protective bacteria to nosehair.

The moderator had her work cut out for her getting us back on track after such tangents about dushing myths. The purpose of the group was to get dushers to use feminine wash instead and she was there to show us an array of feminine wash. Fresh Snatch of course claimed to use feminine wash everyday. What the moderator wasn't getting was that douching and using a feminine wash had two different purposes. One was an internal flush and one was . . . well . . a WASH.

However, I did hear some words unknown to the English language that I wish I wrote down.

Cleansier - I suppose she meant cleaner but who knows.
Vaginal - which is a word but ceases being one when pronounced Vah-jy-nal.
Moistier - Heck?
Translute - As in "I like the bottle that is translute because I can see what color the wash is."

And yet, I was the only one at the table without a job.

Amusing. I type these missives in gmail so I can save them, catalog them and revise them as needed. My sponsored links are: Douchebag t-shirts, Dr. Laura and John Kerry. Random. Apparently Gmail likes to think that democrats are douchebags.

"What do you hope to get out of this job?"

2007-01-11T17:18:00.000-05:00

Ok, now I have seen it all.

Since being unemployed I have only been able to score a handful of interviews. Five to be exact unless I am missing one which is entirely possible.

Yesterday's interview took the cake. It was a receptionist job. I know what you're all thinking. "Receptionist job, Lisa? I mean, really." The fact of the matter is admin and receptionist jobs are the only jobs currently out there not to mention the only jobs willing to call me back because my resume is so "diverse". I had so many different jobs. It's all over the board, sales, marketing, research, journalism, customer service. One thing is for sure, I certainly dabbled.

So, this particular interview was at a dental practice. I thought my dentist's office was a nice comfortable place to go but this place has it beat. There is a masseuse in the waiting room and ladies can have paraffin waxes while they wait too. There is a fridge stocked with water, a babysitting service and they even give you lipgloss on your way out if your lips took a beating from keeping your mouth open all that time. Swanky.

I walk in and I am all ready for my interview. I have my resume in hand, recommendation letters and references attached and I am red to go. The receptionist handed me an application. An application. What is up with companies still making you fill out applications like a freaking mall job. List your jobs. Your education. Seriously. It is absurd but I'll play along. This is the second time I witnessed this insanity. Finally, I grew tired of repeating myself and just clipped my resume to the application. I flipped through to make sure I got everything and that is when I saw it.

Page 3.

Page 3 of the application was a graphology test. For those of you who didn't work in the autograph biz or don't know anyone in the FBI or CIA, a graphology test is a handwriting analysis test that can determine your personality by your handwriting. And you sillies thought it had something to do with your zodiac sign. Hah! Theses particular questions focused on your past job. I guess that was an added security measure to see if you were lying. Sometimes, they can tell if you are lying by how small or tight you make your letters. Well, wouldn't you know, i was ready to run. I completely forgot how to write cursive. I haven;t done it in so long that almost every letter escaped me. They also requested you not use lined paper but the page happened to be laying right over a lined page so it was impossible not to. Visually, the line was there. My writing will probably deem me a serial killer. But careful, I might be lying that I indeed do know how to answer the phone.

However, I was somewhat prepared for the interview that would follow. When the guy called to pre-screen me he asked what i consider a silly question that makes me want to scream "Duhhhhhh" followed by an air horn. I get it a lot because the jobs I am applying for are not anywhere near what my experience is in. I guess it is valid from their point of view. They want to make sure they aren't going to take the time to train me and I am out the door when something better comes along. But really, in this job market, you should be grateful you have people with half a brain applying for these gigs.

The question: "What do you hope to get out of this job?"

Well, let's see, it's a receptionist job. I'm not quite sure anyone actually seeks these types of jobs and surely you don't want to hear me say "um, a paycheck and some benefits" so what else can I say? I give the standby. I am looking for stability. A job that i don't have to worry how the market is going to affect it because everyone has teeth!

The guys asked me this on the phone and again when he was meeting with me. Honestly, I am sick and tired of this question. I mean anyone who reads a newspaper knows that the job market is not great. Why else would you be getting people who have accounting backgrounds or marketing backgrounds applying for admin jobs. HELLOOOOO!!!!! Ace!

Anyway, I was there for almost 2 hours. I met with the employee coordinator, some chick who i am not sure what her role is and the doctor who owns the joint. They mentioned me coming back for a second interview. I wanted to say, "um, are you hiring me as a dentist because I didn't have two interviews for most jobs I had that didn't require just picking up your phone."

My favorite was that he grilled me on my Excel knowledge and then when I asked if it was software they used, he said no. WTF?

Sim-ply Addicted

2007-01-09T15:18:00.000-05:00

I blame Stew.

If Stew hadn't been so supportive of me playing video games while I'm unemployed there is no way I would have been persuaded to buy Sims 2. I knew how lethal The Sims were. I prcatically had to break the game CD to stop playing. Well, actually, all i had to do was to break up with the boy who I was borrowing it from prompting me to have to return it. Still, do you see the lengths I went to to rid myself of the evil that was The Sims?

All that.

And what does Stew do?

"I'll buy it for you if you really want it. I want you to be entertained."

Ohhhhhh, noooooo, Stewwwwwww! Why didn't he just hand me the belt and needle? Heck, why he's at it, give the vein a few good pats to get it to show its face. Its ugly ugly pixelated face.

"No," I said. "If I want it, I'll buy it."

I couldn't let Stew buy me the eqivalent of crack. Granted, I let him buy me Cold Stone ice cream and S'mores fondue and that might be considered my own personal crack, but The Sims was a whole different drug. I made it look like a decision I was struggling with. I even said a few times out loud, "I don't know. I may get addicted." I was hoping Stew would tackle me to the floor and rip it out of my hands and drag me out of the store. Alas, he didn't. He stood there thinking where we should go to dinner and why the hell is it taking me so long to buy a stupid game.

"Wait," Stew said, "You should buy this. It has The Sims 2 and the Holiday Stuff expansion pack. Why would anyone buy them separate when they are both here for only $10 more. Stupid."

Oh my god. Not just crack, holiday crack. I skipped to the register. I didn't want dinner, I wanted to go home and start installing.

It did not take long for me to rediscover why i have a love/hate relationship with The Sims. The Sims are very time consuming and like pets they must be trained when to eat, sleep, bathe and go to work. Being unemployed and playing Sims while polishing off a pot of coffee doesn't exactly give me the right to start running other people's lives. But, hell if i tried.

Sims 2 is like 900 times better than Sims. It is much more advanced and your characters eventually learn when to pee, poop, eat, go to work or bathe. Altho' sometimes when one of my Sim hears the horn for her job, she immediately runs to the living room to watch TV. That would be my favorite Sim, Stony Burner. More on Stony later. The new sims even get fat, lose weight and have sex. They also have aspiration meters so you can start your Sim off with high ror low aspirations from birth. But they whine a lot when they don't reach their goals.

So, i am addicted and what does Stew go ahead and do?

He buys me more exansion packs for Christmas. I got Sims University where i can send them to college and make them join fraternities or sororities. Sims Open for business which is a really involved game about having your Sims starts businesses and buld empires. And, Sims Glamour Life where I can buy them more expensive funky stuff.

I'm in Sims Hell.

Happy New year

2007-01-05T11:45:00.000-05:00

Happy 2007!

I know. I have been slacking. I promise to be better. That is my New Year's resolution. With my nephews off from school this past week and holiday stuff I barely had a moment to myself. And yesterday was a great start to 2007. My crawlspace received a nice healthy dose of water. Stew was going down there anyway to retrieve the Christmas bins so I could undecorate. His, "uh oh Lulu, we got some water down here" started a 12-hour project that included a shop-vac, trips to Goodwill to unload some junk and Target to get bins for more junk and no rest for the wicked. Tonight, after the floor dries, we're planning on putting the rest of the bins down there so my dining room looks less like a storage facility and more like a place we would eat if it had a TV. We lead such an exciting life.

Christmas was fun. Stew and I cheated by opening up a few presents early because we couldn't contain ourselves. Plus, I wanted to wear the jammies i knew were under the tree when I woke up Christmas morning. The only way to do that was to open them Saturday night. Stew got me a whole bunch of Sims 2 expansion packs and I am so addicted that my digital exploits deserve a blog of their own. The Chronicles of Stony Burner and her father, Rad Burner.

Some highlights of my days since I last wrote:

1.) well, Stew unveiled that surprise he has been holding over my head for months now. Christmas night, I was presented with a red bag. Inside the red bag were two envelopes and a wrapped cd. Envelope #1 contained a menu to a restaurant called The View. It had the same logo as the show so I was shocked that stew would give me tickets to see The View. But the logo just happened to be a coincidence. The View is a restaurant in the Marriott hotel in Times Square that spins and overlooks Times Square. The second envelope contained tickets to see Avenue Q. Yay! Dirty puppets. The cd was the soundtrack so we could hear what we were getting ourselves into. The city was a bit crazed but the evening was really fun and nice. I will post pics to my smugmug page soon.

2.) I think I found my invitations. After spending a few hours looking through books with my mom, I finally found something I like online. My mom is against ordering them online eventho they cost way less because there is not store overhead so she insisted we go to a stationery story. It's her dime so fine with me. This store carried the line of invites but did not have the book that contained the sample of the invite. But, they got it in for me within a few days. Just to show you what a rip off everything wedding is. I found the invites online for $189 per 150. That is just the invites, don't even get started on envelopes, response cards, reception cards and placecards. At the store they want $189 per 100. Uhhhhh.... I'm going to mention this to them when I go to order them and I may have to add a few things in like a design on the placecards in order to get a deal but I WILL get a deal.

3.) Unemployment offers training courses for computer programs like PowerPoint, Excel and Access. They are not super in-depth but if you have half a brain you can figure it out. So, I took a PP one because i see that one mentioned a lot. The first day I went the computers weren't working. It took the instructor an hour to get through one slide. I suggested she should reboot the computers but she looked at me like I had six heads. She was probably thinking, "I am the employed one here missy, if you knew anything you would have a job like me." So, after wasting a couple of hours just watching her, the two other ladies an I started a revolt and walked out. When we went back on Thursday the instructor said she rebooted the computers and they were working much better now.

4.) I gained 10 lbs over the holidays. Every year I do my indulgence routine where I avoid the scale for 10 - 12 days during the holidays and eat whatever I want. I have actually been doing this for a while (eating whatever i want). Anyway, in the 2.5 weeks or so of debauchery and scale avoidance, I gained 10 lbs. That is almost a size so believe me, I feel it in my clothes. Lucky for me, once I get my sorry ass back on track, I can lose it almost as fast as I gained it. I already lost 3 since Wednesday. I'll lose it all just in time for PMS week to start when I live on chocolate, salad and carbs. But, with only 195 more days until I have to fit into my dress, I better swap out the carbs and chocolate for more salads and lean meats.

Back to my Sims

The "sell by" date on sushi isn't a suggestion. It's an order!

2006-12-20T16:05:00.000-05:00

I get cravings for sushi. Actually i get a craving for the wasabi-soy mustardy looking mixture I like to plunge my sushi rolls into. Yum. Something about that feeling right when it hits the tip of your tongue and shoots hell through your nose that i need every now and then. Plus, anyone who has seen me eat knows I keep a fork in one hand and the salt shaker in the other/ I love me some salt. Oh yes I do. After you gasp in horror as I salt my roastbeef sandwiches after every bite, I will tell you I have to eat salt. It is doctor recommended. I have to eat it because my blood pressure is so low if i don't, i will be dizzy.

It's a lie.

My blood pressure is really low but my doctor didn't order me to shake it on everything like a salty Nor-Easter me to. He did say that it certainly wouldn't hurt me since I drank 3 liters of water a day and my blood pressure is so low, but he didn't write it in my chart or anything.

And, as you know what I have been going through the past few days with things not being in your chart like they should like Codeine prescriptions then it MUST not be law. Btw, I managed to get 6 pills out of my PCP. Thank you very much. Oh, and her jackass of an assistant called me the following day leaving the test results for someone else on my machine. I will have killer cramps but at least Kathy has a normal result for her bone density tests and her hip growth for the year was good.

Anyway, Stew asked me last night why I don't buy sushi in Stop & Shop. I will at Stew Leonard's tho and usually when I buy store-bought sushi, it's vegetables or imitation crab, something that can't kill me. Otherwise, ewwwwwwww.

Today, I went to Port Chester to get m aunt and uncle a giftcard to a movie theater they frequent. let me tell you, Port Chester has become a shopping mecca. In one shopping center there is a BIG cine-plex movie theater with two restaurants attached, a Costco, Marshall's, DSW, Michael's Arts & Crafts, some other shoe store with discount shoes and a Stop & Shop. All they are missing is a Home Goods and I could live there in the parking lot. Oh, it's a free parking lot too. Even for the movies. Any time you go not just between the hours of 1 and 4:30.

Because S&S was right there, I figured I may as well pick up a few things. Stew and I were talking about having stuffed salmon Thursday night. Why we are thinking about this with an all-you-can-eat fish-filled Christmas Eve in a few days is beyond my comprehension. I usually get it from Stew Leonard's or Costco. Costco was right there but I don't have a card. Stew shares a membership with his friend Kenny so Kenny has card #2. I can use Stew's but i don't know if they are going to bust my chops because we're not married and have totally different names still. So, eventho I can go at times when Costco is virtually empty like mid-day, I can't. We have to wait until Stew gets home at 6:15 and then eat something really fast or go through Costco hungry which you NEVER want to do because at that time, they have stopped handing out samples. You'll have to take out a second mortgage to pay your bill that night.

Man, i am tangent girl today. Wait until I blog about my Sims.

Anyway, I cruised by the seafood dept and spotted stuffed salmon. They looked good so I looked at the sell-by date. It said, the 18th. People, today is the 20th. Sell by Dec. 18. Now, i know they didn't mean Dec. 18 of 2007. I threw the package down. I wanted to throw it at the 15 year-old behind behind the counter but resisted. I wanted to show her that shit was supposed to be sold 2 days ago and ask for something fresher. But I knew, she would go right into the backroom, and just make a new label for it. Not chancing that one. Then it hit me. the craving for wasabi-soy mixture of death. I wandered over to the sushi. Again, those were supposed to be sold by the 19th. Ewwwwwww.... I found one that appeared to be the freshest (sell by the 21. It was probably just restamped) and it was veggies so I knew I wasn't entering level orange ecoli danger. I chose that one. I was feeling risky.

But the 18th?

Ewwww.

Canadians have it made

2006-12-15T11:27:00.000-05:00

So, I got in touch with my doctor's office yesterday. Actually, I spoke to her assistant who was about as helpful as a brick. Apparently, the fact that i have been working on the same bottle of codeine since February 2006 makes me look like a junky now that I need a refill almost a year later. She asked me 2,000 questions before telling me that my former doctor (who has since retired from that practice) was the one who prescribed it to me and not the current doctor.

Let me tell you something about this practice. It's one of those places where they have 4 doctors on staff and I don't think I ever saw the same doctor twice. Seeing that they all worked together, under one umbrella, if one doctor prescribed something for you then all the doctors should see that in your chart and honor it. But that seems to make too much sense. I was told yesterday that the doctor I saw last only wrote in my chart that I should continue my extra strength Tylenol and never said anything about Tylenol with codeine. I was also told that this particular doctor doesn't like to prescribe pain meds. I explained my no insurance having case to the assistant so coming in so that the Dr. could see me before giving me what i can get on the Internet without a script was not an option i could afford right now and she was like stone on the other end of the phone. Jesus lady, it's Christmas, have a freaking heart.

Let me tell you something about my cramps. Thanks to 20 years of having irregular periods, my uterus seems to be making up for it now. I have about two days where I pass out from the loss of blood and can barely function because my cramps are so severe. They're made worse by the IUD which gets pushed into my ovaries when they swell to what I figure to be the size of watermelons. I can only describe the pain as feeling like someone is sawing me in half. I wish this pain could be held at bay with extra strength Tylenol but I would have to start taking 3 every 4 hours now for it to have any impact on my pain and frankly that would give me an ulcer before I even got the Aunt Flow drop-by. Why bother when all i have to do is take a shot of Malloxx and two T3s a day for just two days?

So, today, I found Tylenol 3s that i can get online from Canada for super cheap. The only problem is a $30 a month fee to join this site and a 1 - 4 week wait on the pills. The deal turns out to be not such a deal after all and the wait will not help me when my period is 7 days away. So, I looked at the bottle again today and noticed that this doctor's name happens to be on the bottle as the prescriber. So, WTF? Why isn't it in my chart. I called her assistant back to inform her of this and advise her to talk to the Dr. again. We'll see what happens.

I may have to move to Canada.

All I want for Christmas is some insurance

2006-12-14T13:22:00.000-05:00

I have this foot pain.

It really hurts.

This pain travels all the way up the top of my foot, through my ankle and into the core of my shin with every step i take. I don't remember when this pain first occurred or if i did anything to cause it. All I know is it hurts.

And I can't take my insurance-less ass to the doctors because I decided to try my luck this time and reject the COBRA offer because any other time I paid for it, I paid to never use it. Now that I went with a cheap insurance (six months for one month of what COBRA wanted) means I have a $1000 deductible. I already went to the doctor once already and even had to get a script.

It could be a blood clot. In which case I don't want to screw around. Or, it could just be because I sit at this computer for hours at a time with my feet all cocked up beneath me. The veins are looking a bit bulging and the ankle somewhat swollen but that is how this foot has been since I busted it in the 8th grade falling down a flight of cement steps. Yeah, that was graceful. That one slip caused a variety of issues in this leg but busting my right kneecap left that right leg in pristine condition. Go figure. Just lucky I guess.

And yesterday, I thought I was getting a "yeasty beav." I haven't had one in several years and I write that off to not consuming a diet high in chocolate and white carbs. I thought, "oh crap, do you know what a trip to the gyno is going to cost as well as medicine? I may as well start selling my eggs." But alas, I found the itch culprit and everything is fine. However, I did notice my Tylenol with codeine script is running low and Aunt Flow is only a mere 8 days away. So, i have to call my doctor anyway and beg her for a script with hopes she doesn't need to see me first. last time they wanted to see me and i managed to convince her she didn't need my $20 co-pay to write me a script. I literally need 6 pills, enough for two of my worst days. It's not like I'm selling this crap on the street corners. I have hydrocodone and dilaudin for that. That crap gives me a headache and constipates me for weeks.

I am stalking my doctor's office. they said they are open from 8:30 to 4:30 but closed between 12 and 1 for lunch. It's 1:15, where are they? I'd be less apt to do this if I had something else to do but all I have to do is go to the Post Office and stand there in the huge line of people waiting to mail Christmas packages because I have to mail half.com crap who seem to spread out their purchases enough to make me go to the P.O. at least three times a week.

Ohhhhh yes. PMS.

Great, now my doctor's office phone is busy.

Poop.

Pay-lo J. Lo

2006-12-13T13:13:00.001-05:00

I don't know why I dislike Jennifer Lopez so much other than I just do. For some reason I can't explain. Maybe it's her shitty movies. Maybe it was the whole Bennifer thing. Maybe it was her crossover from dancing to acting to singing to clothing designer to perfume creator. Maybe I am just jealous.

However, I always get taken by this broad.

A few years ago, I was walking down the hall at work to go to the ladies room. A womyn passed me and I smelled her perfume. I was taken aback by how great it smelled so I asked her who made the perfume she was wearing.

"It's Glow by J. Lo" she said.

I cringed.

"I know," the womyn said. "I hate her too but I love how this smells."

I was determined to find an equally awesome scent. I discovered Vera Wang and despite it's pricey tag, I put it on my Christmas list and laughed every time I saw a bottle of Glow at T.J. Maxx for a fraction of my Vera Wang.

A year or so later, I was browsing the lingerie section at Macy*s and came upon a great piece that was perfect for a body conscious girl like me. It was long enough to hide my problem zones yet sexy enough to still light some fires. I jumped for joy and rubbed my eyes to make sure I wasn't dreaming. That is when I saw it - the J. Lo tag. I thought long and hard but ultimately put it back on the rack.

One night while talking to Maria, I mentioned this issue.

"Oh my god," she screamed, "I know exactly what you mean." Maria faced the same issue when J Lo came out with these adorable empire waist cami jammies she wanted but couldn't bring herself to buy.

Hating J Lo means we missed out on some really cute things. Damn her.

A couple of weeks ago, my mom took me to Lord & Taylor to buy a new coat because my other coats just weren't warm enough. After seeing the price of the only coat I liked, I decided that I would rather have the money to pay for the new computer than coat I didn't really need if i owned a few heavy sweater to wear under the coats I already have. Besides, none of them really made me "ohh" and "ahhh." The following night Stew and I hit Macy*s to do some Christmas shopping. I dragged him to the coat department to see if anything struck my fancy.

I spotted it from across the department. A heather green pea coat, tailored to perfection with enough funky tabs on it to make it look less like a military coat.

I gasped.

Seriously.

I gasped.

The cuteness of the coat took my breath away. It was nothing that I told my mom I was looking for. It was not long and it was no thicker than my black wool dress coat but it was cute as hell. Big buttons, princess seams, tailored back and side and a hood!

I ran over to it. I don't think Stew ever saw me move so fast but I stopped dead in my tracks when I saw the white and pink label read "J. Lo." Ugh!

I jumped up and down (yes, in the middle of the store) screaming "NO NO NO NO NO" stomping my feet.

"What's the matter?" Stew asked, eager to get what we came for (wine glasses) and get the hell out of the mall before he turned into a pumpkin.

"It's J.LO!" I said.

I may as well have said it to a brick wall because all I got was an empty stare.

"I hate J. Lo," I explained. "I NEVER buy her things. Ever. And do you know how many great things I passed up on?"

"Ok, then" Stew said, "Are we done here?"

I ignored him because I was too busy examining the jacket hoping and praying to find something about it I hated. Something that was a deal breaker. Something like a gold glitter design on a pocket. Nothing. Not a thing.

'I'll try it and maybe it won't fit or the double breasted action will make me look like the broad side of a barn," I said taking it off the hanger.

Not only did it fit perfectly but looked great.

I looked at the price, "$220? Is this broad nuts."

Stew pointed to the 40% off sign and reminded me I had a 20% off coupon in my pocket.

'Still,' I said, 'It's too much money."

But I scanned the price anyway, it was actually 50% off and with my coupon, that means its 70% off.

"I'll buy it for you," Stew offered. "I was going to get you a big gift but wasn't sure what to get so if you want the coat, I will buy it for you."

Ohhh, tempting. And so ensued a 10 minute debate where I tried to justify walking out of the store with the coat. Technically, I wouldn't be buying it since it was Stew's money, but I would be wearing it on my person. And Maria would kill me. But she even broke her "I will never buy from Walmart because I saw some movie about how awful their employees were treated" because she was thirsty and the water was right there by the register where she was standing with me.

I walked away. I came back. I walked away. I came back.

I took it off the rack and carried it around trying to force myself to find something equally as cute and as much of a deal to get instead. But there was no such thing so I let Stew buy it for me for Christmas and I have not taken it off since.

Damn J Lo.

God Save the Queen . . . and Cher

2006-12-11T14:15:00.001-05:00

Saturday was a fun filled sugar-fest which means I won't lose a pound this week. In fact, I will only stay in the green (by a hair) if I manage not to gain. Most of the afternoon I was at a cookie swap where I was having so much fun decorating cookies that I narrowly forgot to swap. Then it was off to a party where I had an absolute blast talking to two gay men.

I'm just going to put this out there so there is no misunderstanding. I LOVE gay men. LOVE them. Why? Because they are creative bitches and I just do.

While I was hanging out with my new friends, another girl got in on the mix. She is getting married too so the wedding talk started. Now, normally, I hate when wedding talk overtakes my conversations with new people but when you're at a party where you only really know the host and someone else is also planning a wedding, it becomes the easy ice breaker. However, when it comes to wedding talk, it more than breaks the ice, it chisels away at it until the one piece of ice breaks off and sinks or floats away. It can go on forever. You have no clue what this person does for a living, but you know every minute detail of their wedding.

Go ahead . . . ask me what her centerpieces look like.

Yeah, see.

Now ask me what mine look like and wait for it . . . . wait.

No clue

Discussing marriage in front of a gay man is a slippery slope. Some think, "oh wow, yeah, this is too straight of a conversation for me, I'm going to get some more cheese." And some think, "ohhh girl, let's talk weddings . . . and stay away from the cheese, we have to stay slim for photos." I was talking to the latter. Yay!

While I was telling them about how my friend and her fiancee expressed themselves through music at their wedding down to a heavy metal quartet during the ceremony and cocktail hour, Michael blurted out his plan.

And I do have to say, I LOVE this plan.

"I want a classy affair," he said, "I want it somewhere really nice, outside, black tie with . . . . "

His partner interrupted "He wants Cher."

"To sing?" I asked, "I can't imagine how much she costs."

Um, yeah, like Cher is doing weddings these days. I mean, maybe, since gay men kept her somewhat of an icon, she might do it for them but if I wanted to rent her out so she could sing "Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves", it would cost a mint. No doubt. Yup, all of this actually went through my head to justify my stupid question but it was too late, it was already out there.

"No," Michael said,"I want a black gospel choir to sing. I really want Cher impersonators to usher people to their seats. But not just Cher, 80s Cher."

Ok. Wow! See, that's specific. You're not just asking for Cher impersonators, you are special ordering them. Where was Stew when I had proof that I'm not the only person who special orders subjecting myself to lord knows what according to his theory?

Stew's Special Ordering Theory: If you special order anything, not only is it going to be fucked up, but somewhere between the kitchen and your table, your food will get spit on.

It's one thing to special order some eggs but we're talking people. We're talking Cher impersonators. Classic!

Michael elaborated. "I want the works. Big feather hats. I want the ushers to take the old ladies by the arm and say I'm going to show you to your seat, bitch."

So what if I dream the future and it's slightly off?

2006-12-07T14:58:00.000-05:00

One morning I woke up pissed at Stew.

We didn't have a fight.

He didn't keep me up snoring/coughing/stirring around/stealing the covers.

He did nothing at all.

However, in my dream, he was very bad. He was the gigantic asshole that I waited for him to become our entire courtship but the giant asshole never surfaced. Lucky for him. But in my dream, wowie, the boy was pure evil.

It started out nice. Stew and I were dating and living together. Everything was good. The planets were aligned and in my favor. Then came our anniversary. See, Stew, the once party boy who was the life of any party he was invited to, has been, as he likes to put it, RUINED. Our anniversary falls on December 30. So, being that the next day is New years Eve, we usually do something cool that combines our anniversary and NYE. This is how we came to go to Philly last New Year's and Stew was in bed with me seconds after the ball dropped instead of being at some raging party probably passed out in the corner.

So, either way, he would have been asleep.

Back to my dream.

In my dream, Stew told me that he had to spend our Anniversary/NYE weekend with his other girlfriend, Hannah. Hannah was some tall, leggy Irish lass with long flame red hair. See, I harbor some secret fear that Stew is going to leave me some day for an Irish girl who drinks and parties and thinks books are something she can lay out like a makeshift dancefloor and dance a jig on. He told me his plans included taking Hannah to a Yankees game on NYE. Oh yeah, did I mention that Hannah, the anti-Lisa also loved baseball? I'm not sure what knotted me up more in the dream - that Stew was blowing me off for another girl or that he was blowing me off on our anniversary/NYE weekend. I don't remember much more of the dream but I remember waking up FUMING at Stew.

He was clueless as to why I was a rage-a-hol so I clued him in and he laughed and now it's a joke (to him). If he gets texted or is texting someone and I ask who it is, he says "Hannah." I hate the name. I can add it to my list of Heather and Dawn. I hate the name so much that i was torn when buying our favorite Costco item - Hannah's tatziki sauce. My boyfriend ain't going to be eating another womyn's sauce. Especially a tall leggy red headed Irish girl who now makes Greek delights. Oh hells to the no!

So, for the past few weeks Stew has been holding some surprise over my head. He had 4 possible days on the calendar when said surprise would happen but now it's narrowed down to Dec. 30th. I tried guessing it and tricking him into telling me but all my attempts were worthless.

This morning I wake up and check my email. There was an email from stew asking me if i wanted to go to a Ranger's game on New year's Eve. Apparently, some guy he worked with got an extra ticket and asked Stew but Stew didn't want to leave me alone on NYE unless maybe he could score another ticket and I could go.

Wow, it was like my dream except, unfortunately for Stew, Hannah was this angry racist guy that stew works with and not a tall, leggy red headed Irish lass. Hah! I was so overcome with joy that at last he wasn't dissing me for another broad that I almost said he could go without me. But I thought better of it and said i would only go "if they found a ticket" and "it wouldn't be my first choice of something to do on NYE is go to NYC when it is next to IMPOSSIBLE to catch a cab and encounter all the masses of drunk idiots being more idiotic because it's NYC and it's NYE." Hey, i just wanted to get my point across.

But about an hour later, I got an email from Stew telling me I was spared. The game was actually on Dec. 30th and we couldn't go because of my surprise.

Of course I had to ask if the game was really my surprise.

It's not. So I still don't know. Damn.

Enhance this!

2006-11-30T12:00:00.000-05:00

Unemployment is at it again. Seriously, they make it impossible for you to get a job.

Yesterday, I got a letter in the mail. I was randomly (yeah right) selected to participate in a MANDATORY (Yes, it was in all caps, bold and italicized. They mean business) in an "Enhanced Re-employment Services Orientation" session.

Now, let's just pause to look at this. Enhanced means it's new and improved and all I know is when I collected unemployment the other three times I got laid off, they never once helped me find a job. In fact, all they ever caused me was grief. But hey, apparently I am not doing enough applying to three or four places a day and now UE wants to help me. Sign me up. What can I bring?

That is where things get tricky. I expected them to say bring a resume as they may have a resume workshop. That is useful. Or, bring a list of the jobs you have contacted so we know you're not just sitting home on your ass all day decorating for Christmas or playing online Scrabble. No, they asked me to bring "any information regarding previous job search assistance programs you have completed or are currently attending." Um . . . none of the above. I have nothing to bring to the table. Maybe I can borrow' Tim's T-shirt that says exactly that - "I BRING NOTHING TO THE TABLE." So, I have to show up empty-handed (except for the coffee I plan on toting) all the way in Bridgeport from 9 a.m. to noon. It sounds like their only enhancement is heavily based on whatever you bring to class and they are going to steal ideas from other programs.

When they learn i will be of no use to them, do you think they will realize they made a mistake and send me home. I bet they hold me there captive just to further torture me. I am convinced Unemployment is purgatory except they pay you (barely) for the time they spend torturing you but the second you step out of line, they are there to point out your mistake and start garnishing your wages. If you dare to speak out against their mistakes, you are laughed at and told you are wrong.

I just called. I had to. I wanted to make sure (I was hoping and praying) they didn't have (read: did indeed have) the wrong person. Alas, they did not. I was tempted to say that I could not make it. That I had open heart surgery scheduled for that day but they have my SSN# and can probably tell when I am lying. In fact, I think the second you register a claim with unemployment, the Labor Fairy plants a tracking device in your ear in the middle of the night and they know everything about you.

So, let's all cross our fingers that this job I have been trying out for pans out by the time I have to attend this class or at least I am going for my drug test that day so I can have a valid reason to call and say I can't make it. It's like jury duty I guess in which case I hope there is an amputee I can stare at again.

Type casting? Ask yourself, don't ask me.

2006-11-29T14:11:00.000-05:00

I am amazed at how many of my friends go after guys and girls who are polar opposites of themselves and then get mad when that person doesn't get their humor or doesn't understand that if you don't pay your bills, your electricity may get turned off.

I have super responsible friends who own homes and have mortgages and pay their bills in full (crazy!) and on time actually write to girls who fully admit to being financially irresponsible. I think they find some charm in this at first with little realization that it will eventually grate their nerves. More than likely, when they are in the middle of watching a movie at her place and the powers gets shut off.

I'm not saying opposites attract. I am the perfect example of such strangeness occurring. I wouldn't say Stew and I are overflowing with things in common and the boy doesn't find me the least bit funny. Which really, when I am standing there dancing around, giddy with my own puns, how can you resist laughing. But if he walks in with an oversized pack of graph paper balancing on his head and says he has a new flying nun hat, I'm supposed to drop to the floor clenching my sides in a fit of hysterics. Umm.... no. But, despite our differences of opinion (mainly on the opinion that I'm funny) we have enough in common to make it work. Actually, it's all a lie. He tolerates (for some reason not yet known to science) what no other man could so that is how it works. Any sane man would have been worn down by now and run away. Maybe he is just as crazy as I am. Hmmm.... there is some food for thought.

What I am saying is everyone has their "sticking points" as to what makes someone girlfriend/boyfriend material. Someone who can't take care of themselves and lets their rent lapse is not the person you want tied to you for the long haul. My friend was wise enough to recognize this in a guy she dated for a bit. He took her out a couple of times and then started talking about how short his check was that week and could they just hang at home. One might let this slide IF the guy did not live at home and didn't have any rent to pay. But once she let it slide with this guy, they never went out again, despite her suggestions of a movie and dinner and despite her offers to treat. So, despite the fact that he turned her on more than any guy she has ever met, she cut him loose.

A friend of mine wrote me the other day. He was having some email banter with a girl he thought "probably too young and dumb" for him. So, he baited her by writing something that was ripe with innuendo and had way too many big words for her. When he showed me what he sent her I told him that she was going to miss that. "Wait," I said, "I think I just heard the plane fly by . . . and was that a honk?"

"Why am i always attracted to the stupid ones?" he asked.

I don't know. If I had the answer to that, do you think I would be home sitting on my unemployed ass trying to create the perfect egg salad? Do you think the highlight of my day would be seeing brown rice sushi at the grocery store? No. I would be self-employed, writing an insane book and charging $100 for it because it can only be found on the net. Oh wait, I guess that means i would have written The System.

Maybe the financially responsible soul seeks someone less responsible because that is how they wish they could be. Or, maybe they do it because they feel like they'll prove useful to that person if they are there to keep her in line or write out a check when her check bounces. Maybe the intelligent guy goes for the dumb girl because he harbors a secret desire that ignorance is bliss or maybe he is lazy and knows he doesn't always have to be smart or funny. Maybe the shy quiet guy goes for the outgoing girl so they don't have to worry about making small talk because she'll do it all.

I just feel bad because I can see my friends getting totally screwed over when they date their opposites. I can see it coming from a mile away.

Maybe I should go into fortune telling.

Wisteria Wishes and Caviar Dreams

2006-11-27T15:17:00.000-05:00

I have been shopping for other people since June.

If you were thinking in the Christmas sense of the word, you'd imagine I'd be done by now. But, I'm not talking Christmas. I'm talking bridesmaids. And it has been hell for every party involved. See, usually when a girl gets engaged, she gets all giddy with delight thinking about her dress, the friends she wants around her that day, what they will be wearing. Not me. I didn't even have my dress picked out when I started the task of looking at bridesmaids dresses. I knew that would be the hardest. It is way more difficult to find a dress that flatters the very different bodies of four girls than it is to just fit myself. When I strolled into a bridal shop one afternoon, I had every intention of looking at bridesmaids dresses and getting that out of the way first until I was informed by Lovely Lynda Bridal Shop Guru that I had to pick my dress first and work from there.

I wasn't ready to take that step. Granted, my mom was with me but that was more for opinion than purse strings and I had my period which meant the bloat factor. Nothing says good time like trying on white/off white/ivory dresses under harsh fluorescent lighting when you're bloated and crampy. In fact, nothing says "I'd like to go home and kill myself" more. I happened to have some pictures of the dresses I liked and Lovely Lynda Bridal Shop Guru just happened to carry that designer. After four run-ins with entirely too heavy dresses, maxed out with crinoline with beads and sequins all over them, I had enough. I put down my foot. NO MORE CRINOLINE AND NO MORE DRESSES WITH SHIT ALL OVER THEM. So, I ended up with no crinoline but a dress with shit all over it. But, now that my dress was out of the way, the real joy could begin. Having my dress picked out meant that none of the bridesmaids dresses i liked were going to work with it.

The true test of sanity would be selecting the bridesmaids. I pretty much knew who I was going to ask before they knew. I knew the one who would need the most convincing would be my friend in Seattle because we both hated the girly wedding factor. Since Stew wanted to do this the traditional way, I knew fishnets and doc martens were out of the question. They would no doubt be frowned upon on the lush lawn of the resort we are getting hitched at. So, when I asked her I had to throw in something about fully understanding how huge of a task I am asking her to undertake and what a hardship it will be to wear a princess dress and play girly matching dress-up for the day. She responded by telling me she could not guarantee her hair won't be fushcia by then or that she might be covered in tattoos. She also said, "you can put me in a traditional dress and shoes but the fact that i am not traditional will shine through."

I said, "Buck up camper. I'm wearing white, the hypocrisy is starting at the top of the food chain for this shin dig."

All agreed. All my ladies were in. It was time for the real joy. My only requirement in the search was that the dress be under $200 and it would be nice if I found something they could use again. Sounds easy, right? Well, it's not. I'm a pretty simple girl. I dress simple and I'm known to check clearance racks first. But, for such a simple girl, I was cursed with expensive taste. Even dresses I thought would be under $200 were super expensive. Stupid silk. Every dress I showed them, they hated. People told me I was being too nice even letting them have a say but I did tell these nay-sayers that these girls were buying the dress. But, after a while, hearing their opinions (of which there were a lot of) I had it. I picked a dress I wasn't too thrilled about because Lovely Lynda Bridal Shop Guru told me the dress was flattering to every figure. However, it didn't come in any of the colors I liked so i went with the lesser of all pastels. The girls (myself included) weren't thrilled about the choice but I was sick and tired of the process. In a brief moment of temporary insanity I told them to scout for dresses that they liked under $200 and get back to me. I gave them the guidelines that the dresses had to straight across on top and long. They were also encouraged to go try these dresses on and report back to me how they looked on a real person. They reported back to me but very few of their selections fit the bill and even fewer were summer appropriate. We had to remember that this was July . . . . outside . . . so light was the key.

So, I went back to the drawing board and found something we couldn't really all agree on but it was the better than the dreamy chiffon dress I almost went with.

The toughest was choosing the color. Again, i had visions of a rich sapphire blue but this dress did not come in that color. Or, anything near it. So, i went with gold, switched it to rose and then vomited from thinking about all that pink I'd have to look at all day. So, i changed it to wisteria which is the lesser evil of all purples.

Thank moses.

Always Ring Unemployment Twice

2006-11-22T12:09:00.000-05:00

Unemployment. As great as it is at keeping money in your pocket and helping to pay your bills is really terrible. They make it damn near impossible for you to get a job.

I'll explain.

I recall a scene, about 6 years ago when I temped for one day, against my better judgement. I made $150 and it ended up costing me $1900 thanks to Unemployment's rules and regulations as well as the misinformed individuals behind the counter. Before I took the temp job, I called to see how I had to file. The rep told me to file normally for the week and claim the one day on the following week's claim. So, that is what I did. Apparently, that was wrong but it wasn't her fault. It was my fault and I ended up having to give unemployment $1900. I tried to appeal it but it became a he said/she said thing and UE, being a Government agency is ALWAYS right.

Lesson learned: When you have a question for Unemployment, call and ask more than once until you get two answers that match. Also get the Rep's name so you have a name to hate for the rest of your natural born life. You'll never get this person fired or even reprimanded. You will just harvest a hatred for that faceless name FOREVER.

I'm getting really bored sitting home and waiting for someone to hire me so I started thinking about taking on some part time work. So, I call UE to find out how taking a PT job affects your eligibility to collect.

Here is where it gets tricky. They don't allow you to take classes to enhance your marketability or career goals unless you take them at night. Their rule is that you have to be eligible for work during the day in the event a job comes up. Ok fair enough. However, they say it is ok for you to take part-time work. Umm . . . ok and if you work PT during the day doesn't that mean you can't go on interviews as well? You file your hours the same week you work (ok, got that from my past mistake) and then UE deducts 2/3 from you UE benefit check and you get the rest. Really, this only works out to be maybe $50 more a week and honestly, not worth the trouble.

So, yesterday, I went on an interview and they want to give me some test stories to write because I have been away from Journalism so long. While my AP skills may be a little rusty I'm a firm believer in the fact that as long as you never stopped thinking, you can still construct a sentence. Oh and when you minored in Journalism and every job you have ever had included writing, you probably didn't forget how to report a story. But whatever. So, giving me test stories means that they have to pay me freelance rates and i have to fill out a tax form and UE will get wind of this and I know how to file for PT work but how on god's green earth do you file for freelance work? So, I had to just write the editor and ask him if i can go unpaid to avoid going to jail or getting penalized by UE.

See, impossible.