Friday, April 24, 2009

thanks : )

Y'all are so supportive and kind : )

Still on hiatus. Working on some stuff at home. Helping my lovely daughter with wedding details--eeeeeeeeeee!

In the meantime, a little gratuitous grammy sharing:






Lily, 6 1/2 months old

Sunday, April 19, 2009

hiatus

Taking a blogging break for awhile, but I'll be keeping up with your blogs : )

Happy spring, y'all!

Tuesday, April 14, 2009

I think they make drugs for that . . .

I had a dream last night that I was cleaning out my purse. It was a mess. At first, I was pulling out food wrappers and half-empty bottles of soda. Not much of a stretch from reality.

Next, I started removing books from my purse--books that had been stained and leaked on by the food wrappers and half-empty bottles of soda.

Again, not a huge deviation from my real life.

Next, I pulled out a banjo.

That's just weird. Because I don't keep my banjo in my purse.

Sunday, April 12, 2009

In which I offer empirical proof that I am *not* married to Chuck Norris' cousin . . .

As if.

Who are Chuck Norris' parents? Might, Justice and Cunning. Yes, all three.

So, obviously, Chuck Norris has no cousins . . .

I got to looking at my sweet hubby the other day and the thought struck me that he bears a passing resemblance to Chuck Norris. Chuck Norris can kick through all 6 degrees of separation, hitting anyone, anywhere, in the face, at any time.

He is very muscular, has a reddish beard and when he's serious he gets a look on his face that you wouldn't dream of arguing with. Okay, maybe you wouldn't dream of arguing with him, but I would because I'm his wife : ) There is no 'ctrl' button on Chuck Norris' computer. Chuck Norris is ALWAYS in control.

Hubby doesn't wear Wrangler jeans. However, that fact, in and of itself, isn't proof enough that they aren't somehow related. Chuck Norris has a Wrangler belt in Karate.

There is other evidence though that proves my sweet Mister is not descended from the line that brought forth Chuck Norris:

We pay taxes every year.

  • When Chuck Norris sends in his taxes, he sends blank forms and includes only a picture of himself, crouched and ready to attack. Chuck Norris has not had to pay taxes. Ever.

Hubby is pretty darn good with math, especially interest rate calculations and anything to do with money. But even Hubby can't hold a candle to Chuck:

  • Chuck Norris is considered a prime number in certain schools in Ontario.
  • Chuck Norris counted to infinity. Twice.
  • Chuck Norris can divide by zero.

In addition to his grasp of intricate financial matters, my sweet Hubby has a common sense kind of intelligence. But . . . Chuck Norris is so smart, Stephen Hawking stood up to bow down to him.

Hubby is strong and tough and manly and possesses self control. But . . .

  • Chuck Norris can slam a revolving door.
  • If you Google search "Chuck Norris getting his ass kicked" you will generate zero results. It just doesn't happen.
  • When an episode of Walker Texas Ranger was aired in France, the French surrendered to Chuck Norris just to be on the safe side.
  • Chuck Norris can eat just one Lay's potato chip.

But the most compelling evidence that Hubby is not in any way related to Chuck Norris?








No human child could withstand the force of being this close
to a biologically related beard of Chuck Norris

Friday, April 10, 2009

It would be funny if it weren't true.

I don't usually think of myself as a clumsy or stupid person. But my body and mouth rebelliously tell a different story. Like the Thanksgiving I was playing Pictionary with my entire extended family.

I was partnered with my cousin, Greg, who was a college student. I have no idea what the word was nor what the clues he was drawing were, but I vividly remember yelling out in a strong and clear voice "nutsack!" Greg looked at me with such surprise on his face. And then launched into a giggling fit such that he could no longer hold a pencil, let alone coherently draw clues . . .

And there was the housewarming party for another cousin, Leslie. Leslie is one of those people whose home is always neat as a pin even though she has two children and a rambunctious dog. She's so tidy and together that she opted to put white carpeting in her family room.

We were extremely careful to insist that Gabe, still 3 at the time, eat and drink only on the patio outside so we wouldn't have any unfortunate carpet accidents.

Naturally, I was the one who dropped a strawberry margarita on the floor. The white carpeted floor. And it splashed all over the back of the white couch. I don't even know how it happened. I wasn't tipsy. Nobody bumped me. I didn't trip. It just slipped out of my hand . . .

A couple weeks ago at work I was waiting on a stunning younger man. Does anyone else have the problem of being klutzy once a month related to menstrual cycle? I do. Waiting on him I kept dropping things and generally making an idiot of myself. Anyone in the world looking on would have thought I was flustered because I was taken with his handsomeness. But I wasn't. I was just being me.

The piece de resistance was when, at the very end of the transaction, I was handing him the bag with his medications and I managed to scoop up my name badge too--as though I was attempting to not-so-casually encourage him to give me a call.

While I was strangling myself with the lanyard and, red faced, trying to untangle it from his hand, he was chuckling at me. I was dying and wishing I could say, "No really--I'm not coming on to you, I'm just short-bus special."

I could tell a hundred stories like that. So it came as no surprise to my darling husband the other night when I again found myself in a bit of a jam.

Sitting at the computer, I had an itch on my knee. I was alone, it was dark and I was wearing yoga pants. Seemed like a fine idea to put my hand inside the waistband of my pants, reach down to my knee and scratch.

My bracelet got caught on my pants seam. Really caught. And I couldn't dislodge it. I had to walk into the other room, bent over double with my hand still in my pants, and ask hubby to unhook my hand from my knee. I was laughing so hard I could barely explain to him what had happened.

Not that he was asking.

He's used to me and my problems by now.

Sunday, April 5, 2009

I swear it was disguised as a Monday . . .

2:30 a.m. Friday--allergies are a bitch. Took a Benadryl so I could actually get some sleep. Only a few more hours til get-ready-for-work time.

3:30 a.m. Friday--woke up to hubby snoring. Sent him to a different room. Could still hear him snoring. Eventually forced my way back to sleep.

5:00 a.m. Friday--Number One Son absentmindedly slammed front door as he left for work. Jarred me awake. Trying to get back to sleep--again--I contemplate "absentmindedly" changing the locks before Number One returns home.

6:30 a.m. Friday--phone rings. In my stupor, I mistake that noise for the alarm and jump out of bed. Realize it's the f***ing phone. Enter kitchen just in time to hear the message. It's our friend Randy who doesn't live here anymore. Because he lives 2/10 of a mile away. He's calling because he wants to come over for morning coffee. He's calling from the road directly in front of our kitchen window. The kitchen window I am standing in front of. I am naked. Awesome.

7:00 a.m. Friday--my cell rings. It's Beautiful. She's very, very ill. Wants to know if I'm working and whether I can give her a hand with the kids because she's miserable. Redeeming his snoring self, sweet Hubby rises to the call and offers to take both children by himself all day.

7:02 a.m. Friday--Hubby achieves sainthood. There is no absolution for snoring, however.

7:30 a.m. Friday--my alarm goes off. Anticlimactic. Oh, and? Migraine. Naturally . . .

8:30 a.m. Friday--phone call from work. Instead of working 10-2, they'd like me to fill in for Cindy who is sick. Would I be willing to work 11-7:30? Of course I would.

11:00 a.m. Friday--haul groggy, cantankerous carcass to work. Notice that Cindy is there. Cindy, it seems, has had the worst of it and is feeling enough better to earn her 8 hours. Cindy has been in a serious financial bind for some time now and can't afford not to work--I suspect she's squirrelling away her sick leave in case something major comes up. And who could blame her?

11:01 a.m. Friday--"Since Cindy's here, can I go home?" I jokingly seriously ask. But I can't. Because Robby is sick too.

3:00 p.m. Friday--Manage to make it to previously scheduled doctor's appointment. Miss 2-1/2 hours of work in the middle of the day. Leaving me free to stay late helping out since they're still shorthanded and it's unusually busy for a Friday afternoon.

8:45 p.m. Friday--came home. Tired. Ill-humored. Obliged to spend an evening out with friends visiting from out-of-state. Visiting because their dad is dying. Turning them down is not an option.

9:30 p.m. Friday until 3:00 a.m. Saturday--drama. Juvenile drama. I might as well not even be in the room. I am not being talked to so much as I'm being used. And ignored. And now I am so angry and irritable. Just. Don't. Freaking. Care anymore. Wish that turning them down had been an option.

3:30 a.m. Saturday--finally get to come home. Find Hubby's stash of special chocolate and invite myself to sample.

3:32 a.m. Saturday--Hubby would like to know why I got into his chocolate. Seriously? Where's the mystery????


Wednesday, April 1, 2009

Bitch tryin to steal my boyfriend!

While having my eyebrows waxed today (yes, I know there's some big ole recession--but this was an eyebrow emergency!) I was chatting with my esthetician (and yes, I refer to her as my esthetician because, hello, have you met my eyebrows?) about books (and yes, that was one hell of a long sentence just to say I talked about books with a sort-of acquaintance.)

She has been reading The Shack while I recently finished The Road. After she sadistically ripped the hair from my face, we were standing at the reception desk still discussing.

When the receptionist overheard me mention Cormac McCarthy, she looked up excitedly and asked, "What did you think of The Road?"

"While sad and depressing, I loved it! Did you know they're making it into a movie even as we speak?"

"Yes!" she answered gleefully, "and it's starring my boyfriend!"

"Wha? No--that can't be right. He's my boyfriend!"

"Nope. Sorry. Mine."

Quickly changing the subject, the hussy receptionist asked if I'd read or watched No Country For Old Men.

"I've read it, but haven't had a chance to see it yet. I've heard the movie holds up well to the book. Did you think so?" I asked--feigning interest with this woman who would steal my man!

"Yes, but I was glad to have read the book first. Some parts of the movie would have been hard to understand if I hadn't. And Javier Bardem was perfect as the crazy guy."

"Mmmmmm, Javier Bardem . . . " I drooled, "he's my second choice boyfriend in case Viggo should for some reason pick you over me."

[Okay, I said Javier Bardem . . .




but I was thinking Benicio Del Toro . . .


Come to think of it, either man would do . . . either dark, mysterious, handsome, sultry man . . . ]

"Viggo? He's not the star of The Road--it's Christian Bale."


"No, it's Viggo. I've looked it up on imdb.com--that must mean it's true." Then, doing the math in my head, I added, "So, since Christian Bale is your boyfriend, that leaves Viggo open for me--we don't have to have a girlfight!"


"Did you see Viggo in Eastern Promises? That scene with him in the Turkish bath?"


"Yeah--and omigosh was I impressed! To do that whole scene naked was an incredibly brave thing--but the only way it could have been done."


I looked around at the other women in the reception area who were openly gawking at us and asked, "Everyone knows what we're talking about, right?"


"No," laughed another patron, "but I sure do want to know!"


Oh yes. What woman doesn't want to know?