Red Box, Black eye

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.

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)

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

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

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

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

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

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?

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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:

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

** 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

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

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.