Dare I?

threatened a boycott
come on, who am I kidding
nothing will stop me

Even Ryan Seacrest cannot tear me away from what is sure to be the trainwreck of all trainwrecks – this year’s Emmy’s. With no acting nominations for Deadwood, the Wire, or Battlestar Galactica, it’s kind of pointless to even watch. (At least BSG got a directing and writing nom.)


My Tina Fey girl crush requires me to watch, as does my love of Weeds and my love of the character Joy on My Name is Earl. So I’ll watch like I always do, I’ll be disappointed as I always am, and then I’ll promptly forget everyone who won while I wait for the next awards show.

I have a bad habit of liveblogging these things (and other things, and even more other things), so stay tuned. I make no promises, what with the wee-er one being ornery about sleep and this being a school night and all, but I might just make an attempt. I also might just make that attempt while drinking a margarita.

You have been warned.

I have not forsaken you

lingering sweetness
cinnamon blobs of grit – yum
you make me love you

Normally I only eat chocolate for dessert. And I eat it unmussed. Do not put fruit in my chocolate. Do not put mints in my chocolate. Chocolate chips in my chocolate? OK. Chocolate sauce on my chocolate? OK. Nuts in my chocolate? Are they chocolate-covered nuts? Then OK.

But last night I went out on a limb. Something inside me went a little haywire and instead of Ben & Jerry’s Brownie Batter ice cream (or possibly Phish Food) I grabbed a pint of the new Cinnamon Buns flavor. Crazy, right?

Well, let me tell you. I didn’t want to brush my teeth last night because I was sad to think the cinnamon-y sweet goodness in my mouth would be erased by evil Sonicare machinations. The lingering grit of the cinnamon-caramel streusel allowed my tongue to search out leftover pockets of crunch for several minutes after I’d finished my ice cream. Mmmm.

Oh lordy, that stuff was divine. Caramel ice cream, cookie dough sized chunks of gritty cinnamon bun dough, a swirl of cinnamon caramel streusel. I get a little shiver just thinking of it.

I have not forsaken chocolate, but I’m taking my first vacation from it. Thank-you Ben & Jerry’s for broadening my horizons (and my hips).


Let’s write a story…

OK. I’m going to start a story, and then you all can keep it going as long as you want. Just make sure that you leave an open ending to your part so that someone else can jump in next…



Once upon a time there was a boy named Sue. As you can imagine, he wasn’t happy to have a girl’s name, even though his dad assured him that many famous – and manly – men had girl’s names. Like Babe Ruth and Leslie Neilsen. Sue wasn’t buying it, though, even with the song that dude who was named after money sang.

One day, Sue was trying to figure out how to change his name by adding another letter to it. Maybe he could be "Sued." That sounded threatening. Or maybe "Suez" – that one was exotic! Sue was busily writing down all of his ideas when he suddenly heard a weird buzzy/flappy noise. He looked to the sky and…

well, now my ass is chapped

it’s too bad that boobs
somehow make me invalid
you hillbilly prick

I am not amused. Maybe the dumbass just picked the wrong couple of days to mess with me. Or maybe this is something that would bother me even it wasn’t 95 degrees sprinkled with humidity and hormones. Whatever.

So we bought a new house a few months ago, and as it settles and we settle, things get noticed. These are things that fall under our warranty; things we want fixed. For example, the air conditioner dampener was installed backwards so our system keeps seizing up and we have to go without cool air for a day until the dude can come half-ass fix it because he doesn’t have what he needs to replace the dampener. This is something I would like fixed. Pronto. And there are other things… a back door that sticks so that the wee one can’t open it to get in and thus screams like an axe murderer is after him until someone can open the door.


My husband and I sat together the other night and used up valuable, precious alone time to fill out our warranty request. We emailed it off and waited for someone to call to schedule the fixes. Simple enough.

So the guy calls at like 2 in the afternoon and asks to speak to my husband. I reply that my husband isn’t at home, he’s at work, but I’d be happy to talk about scheduling a time.

"Oh, no, ma’am, I have to talk to your husband to schedule a time."


"I need to find out the best time to come do a walk-through to see if your requests are warrantable."

"Well, I’m the one who’s here all day, so you’re going to need to schedule that visit with me."

"Well, ma’am I really need to schedule it with your husband."

[this is when I start getting testy. Because, really, WTF?]

"Oh, OK, do you do walk-throughs before 7am or after 7pm? Because that’s when he’s here typically."

"It’s going to have to be sometime Thursday, in the afternoon, before 5."

(again, WTF, asshole? If you ALREADY KNOW what time you have to come, why are you giving me shit?)

"Well, sir. You’re going to have to make that appointment with me. I’m the one who’s here. I’m the one who can pencil you in between meals and naptimes."

***long pause***

"How does 1:30 on Thursday sound?"


[end of phone call]

And then, THEN, the guy shows up yesterday, rings the doorbell, shakes my hand and says skeptically, "So you’re the one I’ll be dealing with today?"

Oh my fucking god. Because I am a woman, a *gasp* mom who stays home, I am incapable of discussing a broken air conditioner and a sticky back door? It took everything in me to stop myself from apologizing for my boobs and lack of external genitalia. I wish I had, though, just to see the mortified expression on the guy’s face.

The kicker to this whole story, though? My husband came home for lunch a few minutes after the asshole got here, so he ended up being the point of contact ANYWAY. And now the asshole is calling my husband to schedule maintenance visits and my husband has to call me to verify the times and I have to say, "no, that’s a shitty time" and my husband has to call the guy back and on and on and on. Because a vagina makes it impossible for me to talk to this guy on the phone and schedule a visit from the fucking painters.

It’s lucky I’m so lazy or else I’d kick this chauvinist dumbass right in his chauvinist scrotum.

Why do simple things have to be so difficult?


I pine for your suck
where art thou, fancy vacuum?
the stairs, they need you

I was sitting here, trying to think of something witty to blog about, but really I’m just very grouchy. I don’t know why, but I suspect it has something to do with not leaving the house all week and yet still having piles of crap everywhere.

There’s some kind of snowball effect of not leaving the house, of having no playdates, of too much TV, and not enough groceries. Instead of snapping to it and cleaning the kitchen, washing some laundry, making a few beds, basically prettying up the place a bit, I just stare at it all and try to wish it away.

I sit at the kitchen table and grouse about too salty pumpkin seeds and no brownies. I sit in the living room and grimace at the filthy carpet. I lay on my bed and close my eyes so I don’t have to stare a piles of dirty clothes. I go online and buy a vacuum but make no note of when it will be shipped.

Why not get off my ass, then, and take care of some of this? I have no answer. I know I’ll feel better if the house looks better. But right now it’s oppressive. And the more suffocated I feel by all of the crap, the more I want to just sleep all day and forget about it. It’s much like the extreme heat effect you get out here in Texas. When you step outside and it’s 95 or 100 degrees, you feel the air being sucked out of your lungs; you feel the heat burn your eyeballs; your body’s physical response is to curl up in a ball and lay down and wait for everything to cool off. This is how I feel in my house. Not hot, but suffocated.

I know the wee one isn’t very happy with me, either. Because of his weird vomiting spell earlier in the week, I’ve canceled the playdates we set up. I just want to make sure there’s nothing festering before we slobber all over other kids, you know? But this means we’ve had SO MANY DAYS of not playing with other kids. That leaves me and the wee-er one as play mates for the wee one. Neither one of us appreciate wrestling, and I can only play pirates for so many hours before I want to become one myself and ship off, alone, for uncharted islands.

Next week the wee one has a half-day camp every day. I hope he likes it, but I’m afraid he’s going to be so excited to play with other kids his giant head will explode. Fingers crossed that doesn’t happen. And fingers crossed that the wee-er one’s four lateral incisors FINALLY come all the way in so that she will fucking sleep. Oh my God I am so tired of waking up every hour all night long and then being up for good at 6am.

Man, I have to shake this funk. I guess the best way to do it is to clean house and then get the hell out of it for a while. Can’t write a book while I’m grouchy. Well, I could write a grouchy book, but that’s not what I have to work on right now.


Oh, here’s one good thing – The Loop is returning to Fox on Sunday. Crapsnackers, that’s exciting!

I am like sponegbob under a heat lamp

parched, dry hills and plains
landscape is also itchy
tableau of dry skin

I was reading some snarky magazine article the other day and the writer insulted someone by calling her "moisturizer challenged."


I can’t help but be insulted by this because I am always and constantly and forever and non-stop scritch-scritch-scritching away at my dry skin. I mean, when I walk down the street I don’t think I’m some disfigured piece of parchment breaking off clumps of appendages when the wind hits me right, but my skin is dry and I don’t do a very good job of keeping up with my Aveeno regime.

But "moisturizer challenged"? What does this bit of snark mean? Aging before your time? An unfortunate bearer of premature old lady hands? I just don’t know how someone could look at someone else and judge them by their moisturizer use. And I don’t mean that like "I don’t HOW they could DO that!" I mean it like, for real, how can you even tell?

It’s just one more thing I have to keep up with, isn’t it? Height challenged, perky boobies challenged, patience challenged, and now moisturizer challenged?

It’s a creative insult, though, and would require a bit of thinking before you can employ it. So just for the, uh, challenge of it, I think I’ll add this insult to the repertoire of things i shout at people when I’m driving. Instead of just hollering, "You dumbass nut sucker!" I will glance out the window, assess the rickety-ness of said driver’s appearance and then I will let loose. "You moisturizer challenged ass clown, get out of my way!

I dig it.

random thoughts

safety and TV
guns are bad, widescreens are good
incongruent thoughts

Because I need to choose paint colors and ceiling fans and a place for my vegetable garden and a place for my sofa, I have instead spent the day shopping for a new television set. Well, I’ve been price-comparing online, but that counts as shopping, sort of.

There are many, many things that need to be done in the new house, but instead of worrying about those things, our world fell apart as we discovered the TiVo was broken. I know I’ve talked about this already, I’m just emphasizing how devastating it truly was.

This weekend, we immediately bought a new TiVo, and now we’re thinking of making the formal living/dining area our family room, and turning the family room into my study. The only hitch is that there’s no cable connection in the formal living/dining area, so we’ll have to get someone to come hack a hole in the wall and put one in. Once the cable actually works. Which it doesn’t. Though I’m still, apparently, paying for it. This is just one reason why I don’t really want cable.

Obviously, this is a stupid thing to be spending all my time on. Though, I learned an important lesson today, and that is: sometimes you want your cable to work regardless of what room it’s in or how much you’re paying for it.

My mom called and the conversation began like this:

"What are you doing today? I was at a shooting."

"You were at a shindig?"

"A shooting! A shooting! At CNN headquarters. Turn on CNN."

"WHAT?! I can’t turn it on. I’m in the car. Plus, my cable doesn’t work. Well, I don’t have cable in my car, I mean my cable at home doesn’t work. Did you say shooting?"

Holy crap. Here I am, grouchy about driving the wee one half way across the world to school and back, grouchy that I can’t seem to find a kick ass 40" LCD flat screen for the amount of money I want to pay (nothing), and come to find out, while I’m wallowing in all sorts of dumb and selfish things (because I’m procrastinating other more important selfish things), my mother is running for her life through downtown Atlanta.

She’s fine and her fight-or-flight instinct kicked in after she heard the second gun shot. I told her at least she knows now that her impulse at the onset of mortal danger is to run the hell out the first door. Some people might drop where they are or hide in a corner. She just booked it out of there. So even though the day was scary, at least she knows something new about herself. That’s kind of cool, right? Right?

And my dad… he works across the street at the newspaper. So while mom was wandering around CNN, trying to avoid deadly domestic disputes, he was in a meeting that got interrupted when the newsroom heard of the chaos across the street. He checked his cell phone – two breathless messages he couldn’t hear over the sirens of police and ambulances. Can you imagine THAT feeling? You’re meeting your wife for lunch. You hear there’s been a shooting at the place you were meeting her. Your voice mail produces a series of unintelligible messages of heavy breathing and sirens, and you’re watching the whole scene unfold before you.

I just got off the phone with them and they’re pretty freaked out, understandably. And as I always do, I’ve turned this around to be about me. Worrying about drive times and TVs is kind of moronic, isn’t it, when your family is in peril? In fact, it’s moronic to worry about at most any time. That doesn’t mean I’ll stop worrying about it, but at least I’ve been reminded to chill the hell out about stupid things. Those kinds of reminders are important. Though it would be nice if they didn’t have to come from these kinds of crazy ass dramatic situations. Damn.