Much Ado About Litter

It's a done deal. We live in Texas now and I find Texas to be way more Texas-y than I imagined it would be. I mean, I see people who wear ten gallon hats to social events and even though I live in a suburb of Dallas, about 3 blocks from here is a large herd of Longhorn steer. Go 3 blocks in the other direction and you will find large bronze statuary of cowboys riding wild-maned broncos and roping* calves. Please notice in this particular photo, the cowpoke is watching intently** as his horse grazes gently in the parking lot of a mall.

It's weird right?

Mostly though, what has been weird is the fact that MDH and I have been living in a hotel for the past two weeks. With our cat of course, who spent the first week hiding under the bed most of the day after his first encounter with the hotel maid and her very noisy sweeper. He's finally settled in now and is almost back to normal... just in time for us to move again this weekend into our new apartment.

Speaking of the cat - I would just like to take a moment to mention how much fun it isn't to have a litterbox in your living room, which is 3 feet from your bed when you live in a 400 sqft extended stay hotel. Having a litterbox in the living room of a 400 sqft extended stay hotel room goes a long way to making 400 sqft seem as small as a phone booth. A very smelly phone booth.

The litterbox used to be in the basement of our old house and I guess I took for granted that I would never be woken up in the middle of the night by the horrifying stench created when our cat takes a giant shit 3 feet from our bed. It's not Turtle's fault. He's a complete gentleman and does exactly as he is supposed to do, exactly where he is supposed to do it and is quite tidy, but the proximity of his shit box has caused me to decide that our next cat will be toilet trained. I've seen it on YouTube, so I know it's possible.

Anyhoo... other than the whole litterbox thing, living in the hotel hasn't been nearly as bad as I'd imagined. We have a little kitchen (which, not to beat this close proximity to cat shit thing into the ground, but is also 3 feet from the litterbox) where I have been able to prepare simple, elegant meals of microwaved burritos and toast. Delightful!

Needless to say... we're ready to move into our new apartment which, prior to living in the hotel, we worried would be too small, but now seems like a 1200 sqft mansion.

We had a little scare earlier this week with the apartment management company. I missed their call, as I was at that very moment registering my car for Texas plates, to the address and apartment number that we signed a lease for several weeks ago, telling me that the asshole who currently lives in the apartment that we signed the lease for several weeks ago... um... well... he didn't ever actually move out of the apartment. The apartment complex has given us another apartment of the same floorplan to move into, but I was and still am a little bit livid. I set up electrical service, ordered new checks and registered my vehicle, which now has to all be redone.

It makes me wonder though - is this guy a dick or just an idiot? Either way I plan to make his life miserable by requesting home visits to that address from Mormons and Jehovah's Witnesses.*** Do you think Dominos would deliver a pizza with ex-lax on it?


*People - I originally typed "raping" by accident and laughed so hard I had to run and change my underpants.

**Probably watching to make sure that his nice horsey doesn't choke on a plastic shopping bag or disposable diaper.

*** I wouldn't really ever do that. Not because it's mean, but mainly because he has apologized and agreed to bring me whatever mail of ours that gets sent to that address, and I really need him to do that. I changed the mail forwarding again of course, but there are sure to be some stragglers. So instead of sending him Mormons or leaving flaming bags of my poo on his porch****, I will smile sweetly and thank him for bringing me our mail, while secretly I quietly curse him until such time as I'm able to get over it or all the mail is correctly forwarded, whichever comes first.

****I don't have a dog.

Sometimes It Is Simply Easier Not to Ask Why

I was trying to think of a clever way to let you know that I've posted over at Burt Reynolds Mustache today and this is the best that I could come up with:

Now imagine the effort that I took to follow through with this endeavor.

1. The battery was dead in the camera so I had to charge it first.

2. I had to enlarge the mustache graphic and print it.

3. The printer was low on ink, so I had to replace the cartridge.

4. I stood in front of the shower curtain of our master bathroom where the light is best, donning a cut out paper mustache that I had scotch taped to my face.

5. Now please re-read number 4 to fully grasp the idiotic nature of my little project.

6. I had to hurry and do all of these things before my husband came inside from slaving away outside doing yard work and caught me in the act of any of the items listed above, thus discovering the true nature of my ridiculousness, causing him to leave me for someone more mature.

7. I had to destroy the evidence.

After all that trouble I had no choice but to put the damn photo up, and just in case you want to play along:

Cold Turkey Blues

This morning, while MDH was sleeping, I watched His Girl Friday starring Cary Grant, Rosalind Russel and Unfiltered Lucky Strikes. The plot involves constantly lighting one cigarette after another with various types of matches, lighters (and sometimes the previous, still lit cigarette), deeply inhaling and langorously blowing smoke out of their noses and mouths, without a care in the world, in each other's general direction. There was some other back story involving a divorce and a newspaper. I couldn't really concentrate because I WANT A CIGARETTE.

I expect I will feel this way for the rest of my life. Wanting something I can't have.

It blows, so to speak.

Tidy Up Playlist

Last night I topped off a husbandless week by going out to Karaoke with Rachel and Aria. I drank two beers and sang a decent rendition of "Something to Talk About", cheered loud hillbilly Ya-hoo's when a group of folks I'd never seen there before chose a Red Hot Chili Peppers tune and broke out in goosebumps when Aria belted "I'm Every Woman" and some Christina Aguilera song I think was called "Impossible", hitting every note perfectly. Rachel busted out my finale (it was my finale because I left afterwards) with "Let's Hear It for the Boy".

It was a good time, but the party is over.

This morning while sitting in the den, having my tea I heard a rustling of papers and looked over to see our cat Turtle making a pathetic attempt to look nonplussed after squeezing himself into his favorite napping spot. Over the course of the week I'd thoughtlessly covered it up with a pile of mail, newspapers and a pair of shoes. He laid down, draped one of his front legs across the heel of the shoe, and gave me a withering, disgusted look.

"Loud and clear, buddy" I said getting up. "I'm on it."

I've had 4 days of walking by piles of clothes and kicking off my shoes where I stand and leaving them where they lay. There are piles of unopened mail in nearly every room in my house. Even by my normal standards of bachelor living when MDH is away I've been a slob. I've hung my jackets and scarves on the treadmill instead of walking 10 feet and hanging them properly in the foyer closet and set a new roll of toilet paper 1 foot away on the side of the tub instead of simply replacing the old roll in the holder which is inches from the toilet.

I've already mentioned the fact that I have to vacuum the den. I won't take you there again.

These types of sloppiness are all simple enough to remedy, but not for me because I notice things as I straighten and end up losing focus.

As I bend over to pick up a pair of shoes from the kitchen floor I notice an errant splash of what appears to be spaghetti sauce on the baseboard under a cabinet. As I reach for the cleaner to wipe the cabinet I notice how dusty the window sill has gotten. As I lean across the sink to wipe down the window sill I notice all the crumbs that have gathered in the toaster.

The kitchen is typically the cleanest room in my house so I can already see how the rest of the day is going to pan out and now I'm irritated.

What better way to remedy irritation and make cleaning a little more tolerable than music?

So while I'm busy tidying up and going of on cleaning tangents I'll share with you some samples from what I like to call the Cleaning Playlist:

I Zimbra by Talking Heads - Who wouldn't want to scrub a toilet to this?

Blues In the Night by Artie Shaw - Just try not to to remove your rubber gloves burlesque stripper style when you listen to this. It simply cannot be done.

Rock Steady by Aretha Franklin - Changing the sheets.

Whammy Kiss by The B52's - Sorting the mail.

Beercan by Beck - A great song for gathering recylcing.

Hem of Your Garment by Cake - Helps me start the laundry and put away shoes.

Me, Myself & I by De La Soul - Windexing mirrors.

Cold Beverage by G. Love & Special Sauce - Time for a break.

Mother's Little Helper by the Rolling Stones - Still break time.

Sexbomb by Tom Jones - Swing your hips and sing into the mop handle.

Nobody In Their Right Mind Would Need This #11 Special Fashion Edition

Muffin Top

Don't you like yourself? Don't you like the rest of us? Aren't you terribly uncomfortable? Don't you have a full length mirror? Doesn't anyone among your family and friends love you enough to tell you you look as if your jeans are cutting off all circulation to your liver and kidneys? This seems dangerous to me.

Not that I don't have some pants in my wardrobe that are a bit tight in the waist. I choose, however, to wear shirts that are long enough to cover up my big fat gut rather than short shirts that highlight my big fat gut.

I'm a people person.

Baggy Muscle Pants and Whatever You Call This Top
We get it dude, you're all muscle-y and shit. We get it. You work out 6 hours a day and eat raw eggs and hormones and have shelves full of giant containers of powdered protein on display for all to see in the finished basement bedroom of your mom's house. We get it, you enjoy showing us your giant arms and pink, taut nipples.

We get it.

You're a manly mass of buffness.

You're creeping everyone out.

By the way, when you dress like this everyone around you assumes you are a stupid meat head. I'm not saying body building is wrong or that you are a stupid meat head. I'm just saying keep it to yourself meat head and save this outfit for the gym.

Cover up.

Nobody wants to see your nips.

Teeshirts & Sweatshirts with Airbrushed Animals and/or Gothic/Sci-Fi Scenes

It's OK to have a passion for unicorns, kittens, wolves, eagles, tigers, scantily clad women wearing fur bikinis and carrying swords.

Whatever it is you're into it's totally fine.

But if you wear these types of shirts and wonder why you can't get laid it's because you are wearing these types of shirts and all the people you may like to have sex with think you are an enormous douche.

Fashion Disclaimer:
The views and opinions expressed in this post reflect the views and opinions of one middle aged, overweight, bitter and shoddily clad lady, currently writing this post in black sweatpants with a green stripe down the side and a safety orange, long sleeved LL Bean t-shirt that she has been wearing for 2 days straight.* The fashion views and opinions expressed in the blog are completely without merit as the middle aged, overweight slobbo writing it does not as yet, have her own column in Vogue or W Magazine and is not likely to ever have such any time soon or ever. The lady writing this blog does not claim to be an expert on fashion by any stretch of the imagination. Not at all. She merely states (in her personal opinion) the obvious for the purposes of humor and can only hope that those of you out there who may be reading the blog share her often condescending and imperialist viewpoint and sense of humor. If you hold a differing view to the ridiculous pieces of shit clothing choices above please feel free to offer up your opposing view in the comments.

*Please note the slovenly lady in question would never leave the house in the outfit described due to the magnetic attraction between her full length mirror and the giant stick up her ass.

Miss Lady Regrets

Saturday night MDH and I went to see the local Pops Symphony with a guest singer doing the songs of Ella Fitzgerald. It was very romantic. Also now I have all of those beautiful old standards swirling around through my head instead of the Menard's jingle for a change. Do you know that I refuse to ever shop there because of that stupid ass jingle. I'd rather kill myself than save big money at Menard's.

Anyhoo...

When we got home there was a message from my best friend Amy. I hadn't talked to her since before we went to Boston last Thursday and she sounded kinda down. The message said that she had some interesting information to share with me about her ex husband Assface, but that she may not be able to talk about it because it was her weekend with her daughter LBL, and she never spills about Assface in front of LBL (unlike Assface who says nasty shit about Amy to LBL all the time).

I called her and LBL was right there so there was no spilling, but we caught up on everything else and she'll probably call me tomorrow with the Assface report. Meanwhile I asked her if she'd had a chance to finally read my blog and was thrilled to find that she did! She read the Ass Fatties one that is really about her and her husband Ted and said she'd read a couple of others and really enjoyed them. I was thrilled.

Her opinion is really important to me, but she's way too busy most of the time to even sit down and watch a TV show, let alone read all my hot air.

Amy: You should write about the time that you set yourself on fire in McDonald's.

Me: That is uncanny! I did, a couple of posts ago.

Amy: Oh! Then you should write about the time that you tossed cat food into the air conditioner.

Me: Weird! I did! I just posted it today. Wait. What? I didn't toss it so much as I fell down. It was an accident.

Amy: Then you should write about the time that you threw the frozen turkey at Assface.

Me: Yeah, that might be funny...

Amy: or the time that you threw the frozen chicken in Kroger.

Me: What? I don't remember doing that... why would I do that?

Amy: or the time that your cigarette fell into the mailbox on James Road and you got all the mail back in a plastic bag a week later and the letter that said they were looking for the vandal that destroyed your mail.

Me: oh yeah, and then my boss went around telling everyone that I threw the cigarette into the mailbox as if I did it on purpose. It was an accident.

Amy: or the time that you dog sat for Assface and me and the dogs ate open the trash bag and your panty shields were all over the back yard when the insurance guy came over.

Me: It looked like really big confetti. I didn't think they would dig them out of the trash like that. That was an accident. Besides if the insurance guy had come to the front door like a normal person he wouldn't ever have seen them. What's wrong with people?

Amy: or the time that you were stuck behind a bus in traffic and honked your horn at it and then saw the lady in the wheelchair getting off the bus.

Me: Listen. It was taking a really long time and I had to pee.

Amy: or that one time that you...

This wasn't the exact conversation, but it's not too far removed.

She could have gone on like that all night.

She has so much good dirt on me.

Cat-like Gag Reflexes

If you're a parent you can never leave your children alone for a moment. You know how you hear all the time from the parents of the 5 year old you see on the news, who drove an 18-wheeler into a barn or fell off the roof of the grocery - "I only turned my back for a second!"

Well, that's too long.

You can't turn your back ever and here's a little story from my childhood as more evidence that turning your back is not a good idea.

We lived in a house that didn't have central air conditioning, but we had 2 window air conditioners, one in the kitchen/dining room combo and one in my parents bedroom, because in the 70's the parents were the really important people in the house and children were second class citizens who were made to suffer and sweat.

These days I think such a thing may be considered child abuse and things are all turned around and now parents are suffering for the children. What gives?

My brother in law Las Vegas is a prime example of this. MDH once went to a UMASS football game with Las Vegas and his oldest son who at the time was 18. The three of them stayed in a hotel room with 2 full size beds. MDH slept in one of the beds and Las Vegas slept ON THE FLOOR and let his young, spry perfectly healthy 18 year old son have the other bed. In my youth this would never have happened unless I was crippled or something and even then I'm still not sure my parents would have let me have the bed.

Anyhoo... the window air conditioners were expensive and I wasn't allowed anywhere near them for any reason.

We also (for a couple of years) had a pet cat. Her name was Calico and I loved her severely, but nobody had ever shown or told me how to care for or play with a cat properly and as a result Calico stayed as far away from me as possible at all times. I was a tail pulling, force-the-cat-into-my-doll- clothes kind of child. In short, the cat thought I was a little asshole and her instinct for self preservation was correct.

I was constantly chasing after our beloved kitty and the kitty was constantly skulking, low to the ground, as fast as she could away from me.

I soon learned however that she could be coaxed, temporarily, with food.

We kept our pantry stocked with can after can of a disgusting, although very popular at the time, brand of cat food called Puss 'N Boots. No doubt made with ground up horse meat, old phone books, o'possum innards and fish guts, for flavor cats love. Whatever was in it you can be sure that it stunk to high heaven and if you looked at it or had to smell it long enough your gag reflex would begin to kick in.

At the time my sister, who I mentioned before had Down's Syndrome, was going through a phase where she too was obsessed with our cat and also especially with dogs (though we didn't have one). She would spend a great deal of time on her hands and knees barking and meowing. Once she got into trouble for insisting that my mother serve her dinner on the floor instead of the dining room table.

My mother said, "Get up here and eat your dinner at the the table this minute! You're a big girl!", to which my sister replied with a loud yapping bark and then said, "NO! Me a boy doggie!", and barked again as to further prove her point.


Actually she said "Goggie" and it was all ridiculously adorable, up to a point.

Now that you know all of this I can tell you about the series of events that unfolded one summer evening when my mother left my sister and me alone for a few moments. Moments that would change all of our lives forever. Or at least until we finally moved out of that house.

As soon as I realized that for whatever reason my mother was going to be gone for awhile I made my move to the pantry and grabbed a can of Puss N' Boots, slithered over to the electric can opener I that could barely reach on the kitchen counter and the cat food can opening noise began.

As I'd hoped, Calico came running immediately.

My plan was working.

I scooped the stinking pile of cat food into a clean dish, set it down on the kitchen floor and laid down next to it as close as I could stand so that I could pet the cat while she ate.

So absorbed was I in watching the cat enjoy her bonus dinner I did not notice that my sister was observing the event as well.

She walked over to Calico and me, plopped herself down on all fours, shoved the cat out of the way, face planted herself into the bowl and began to eat the cat food herself.

I leapt into action, grabbed the bowl of cat food and started running at full tilt for the dining room. Not so much because my sister had started eating the food, but more because she had ruined my rare and special cat petting moment. I looked around for a new spot to begin again with the cat lovin'.

It was at this time that I tripped over my sister's outstreched leg.

So the bowl of stinking cat food in in my hand went rolling and flying across the dining room, the gooey blobs of cat food rolled and tumbled through the air and landed with a wet, sloppy splat right on the air conditioner.

Cat food was in every single little slat, nook and cranny.

I tried to clean up as much as I could as quickly as I could before my mother came back. Meanwhile my sister had grabbed the bowl that fell to the ground and resumed her mealtime kitty impersonation.

Of course my mother showed up right about this time and I don't remember much after that.

I do remember this: My mother and I were so busy, furiously cleaning the air conditioner, that we had kind of forgotten about my sister having eaten the cat food. Later, when my dad came home from work he nearly vomited when he greeted my sweet baby sister with a kiss. He recalled later that her breath could have knocked over a grizzly bear.

And I remember this: We were never able to get all of the cat food cleaned out of the air conditioner and every time we turned it on the entire house smelled like rotten sardines.

Much Ado About Knucklehead

And he didn't even show up.

Apparently Miami told him to stay away and so he did.

Everyone is a little afraid of Miami.

With that potential drama no longer a worry a mostly good time was had by all at the 100th birthday celebration of MDH's granny, Nanny.

On Nanny's big day it rained like hell and MDH and I had to drive all over Somerville and Cambridge on various errands as commanded by Miami, picking up cakes, cannolis, etc.. At one point MDH listened to a voice mail from Miami and said, "Miami now wants us to go down to the bar and pick up M & M's", and because of the typical naming structure of most of Miami's friends I said, "who the fuck is that?" Turns out he actually meant the candy. Miami had special ordered custom birthday M&M's for Nanny's party and had them delivered to the bar. What a relief.

My main concern was of course, my hair and make-up. Because of the rain and gusty winds I was on the verge of a potential beauty disaster and demanded to be dropped off at the door at every stop like a goddamned diva. I'm usually not this demanding or for that matter demanding at all, but we're talking about an all day event and having my picture taken every 5 seconds.

Once we arrived at the party it was pretty smooth sailing. Miami barked and grunted orders at everyone and we all did as he said. Nanny drank 3 glasses of Merlot, ate 4 stuffed quahogs and a giant piece of cake.

For some reason Miami thought it would be a hoot to give Nanny a g-string as a birthday present, and it kind of was.

MDH and I got her an electric kettle because she continues to boil water on the stove to make her tea although she has nearly burned the building down on numerous occasions, melting 4 tea pots in the process in as many years. She seemed to like it, but the look on her face when she opened the g-string was priceless.

I would like to state for the record: I probably won't need to eat Italian food again for the rest of the year or possibly longer.

Italian Food Items Consumed:

1. Napoli-style pizza with fried eggplant on it (dee-lish!!)


2. Spaghetti with a meatball the size of Detroit


3. Cannoli


4. Eggplant Parm


5. Anchovies drenched in oil on toast points


6. Carbonara


7. Mussels Bianco (sounds like another one of Miami's friends)

Due to a collective brain fart MDH and I spent an extra day in Boston.

We arrived at Boston-Logan Airport yesterday morning all puffed up and proud that we had made such good time. A major feat considering we had stopped by Ma's for coffee on our way and between maneuvering our way out of Cambridge, finding an open gas station and missing our freeway exit, we somehow got to the airport early.

Our pride soon turned to shame as we stood at the airline check-in kiosk with the screen displaying a message that took a few minutes to sink in, "You may not check in more than 24 hours before your scheduled departure time."

What the fuck?

Yes, our flight home was booked for the next day. We had each looked at the itinerary several times and neither one of us picked up on this. We had only booked a hotel thru Sunday.

We decided to make the most of it and not tell anyone in his family that we were still in town and got on the laptop and Hotwire booked a room at the Boston Intercontinental which now stands officially as the swankiest hotel I have ever stayed in.

You can take a water taxi directly from Logan to the Intercontinental for $10 per person and I highly recommend that you do so someday. You'll have the most spectacular view of the city. Even if you've been to Boston a million times like I have it will still take your breath away. We even saw some Harbor Seals hanging around.

We spent our bonus Boston day walking all around the city, from the financial district to the North End. Along the way we noticed lots of trailers and lighting equipment and followed the trail to a film crew staging and filming a scene for Pink Panther 2. Then we kept walking until we found ourselves at the Union Oyster House where we stopped in for some chowder and grilled oysters and had two very large Sam Adam's Octoberfests. Yum.

Later we (MDH) watched the Patriots beat the Colts from the humongous TV in our very glamorous hotel room. Features of our glamorous hotel room:

• Big giant flat screen TV (unfortunately NOT high-def)
  


• Intimacy Kit in the mini-bar (only $12 - our best guess was condom and tube-a-lube)
  


• A doorbell
  


• Electronic "Do Not Disturb"
  


• Reading lights that were all bendy and posable (we kept pretending they were microphones and sang songs in them to each other)
  

Enormous soaking tub with jets

• Enormous shower with real shelf space for products - also must note that steam kept itself in the shower so as not to fog up bathroom mirror
  


• Glam Fainting Couch AKA Chaise lounge
  


• 1 million thread count sheets (but they were Euro style flat sheets that come all undone and end up around your neck the second you start to have any fun at all)
  


• Brookstone alarm clock (not sure why this impressed me so much)

I thought I'd try something new and opened a Flickr account. You can see pictures from our trip here.

I'd Like To Thank My Parents For Making Me Possible

I don't take compliments very well and never have.

Enormous thanks and air kisses are going out to Miss Family Adventure of The Viking Conquest for giving me the Blog Friend Forever award:

"presented to awesome blog owners who keep their readers excited about their posts. Their blog posts are interesting and worth reading and keep their readers looking forward to each and every post."

I'm embarassed ashamed that I haven't yet acknowledged another award given to me earlier this month by the Guv'ner on her Psychotic Secretary blog. I have bad manners, but I'll plead the difficulty taking a compliment excuse here. The fabulous Psychotic Secretary bestowed me with the "I'm Fabulous" award.

Writing as a means of expression is extremely new to me so I'm flattered more than I can say. I haven't written anything other than some technical manuals and text for power point presentations since I wrote captions and shit for my high school year book back in 1985.

In light of all the recent flattery I may soon have to break down and admit that I totally rock, but until then I'll just say what any lady worth her pearls would say when given a sincere compliment:

Oh, this old thing? I got it on sale.

Seriously guys, thanks a lot.

In turn I'm going to reciprocate and give both of these awards to Churlita of Churlish Figure fame. I look forward to reading her blog every day AND she is one fabulous lady who knows how to enjoy a cocktail.

Ass Fatties

I'm always trying to expand my horizons and learn new things. You may know this about me already. And what is the point of knowledge or wisdom if it is not shared? So in the spirit of enlightenment I give you the new vocabulary word I learned this weekend from my poor dear old best friend Amy. I'm pretty sure she made it up, but I'm hoping that it will catch on.

Typical of me it is not what you may think it is and comes with a long-winded back story. Skip to the end if you can't commit. I have highlighted the good part in red for the skippers among you. And by the way - it's totally disgusting and you may be better off not knowing.

Amy has recently remarried happily to a lovely man who adores her completely and of whom MDH and I wholly approve. We'll call him Ted. Prior to this marriage, Amy and her young daughter, who we'll call Little Baby Lion (LBL for short), have lived for the last 2 years alone in girlish bliss. Toilet seats permanently in the down position and tidy, tidy, tidy.

Prior to that they lived with her now ex-husband Assface, who was an anal retentive, overly tidy and organized son of a cunt. The toilet seats were permanently down and all about the house tidy, tidy, tidy. In fact their home was never tidied to Assface's full satisfaction so when she had had all of the bullshit and anal retentiveness she could take, Amy and young LBL moved out.

I don't mean to trivialize her divorce. There were a hundred more reasons for the split besides his aggressive disapproval of her cleaning style. We don't need to get into them here. At least not today. I'm being kind by describing Assface as a son of a cunt.

When Amy married Ted this past June she and young LBL moved into his house with his 2 teenage boys, M is 13 and K is 15. The three males had been living alone together without female supervision for a very long time. The way that men who were raised by women who wait on them hand and foot and their subsequent progeny is very different from the way that my dear Amy (and me too by the way) had been living for her entire life. The boys lived like little piggies and Amy has had to swoop in and the muck the stalls out, so to speak before it was fit for her and LBL to live in.

I walked into the newly blended family's home for the first time on Saturday night ready for anything after the nightmare stories she had been telling me since moving there in June. A pantry full of books and papers and several years worth of greasy stalactites growing from the roof of the microwave, just to name a few. To my surprise I found the house looking and smelling totally fresh and fine. In fact her stylish furniture and decor makes the place look great.

She said now that the house is clean and organized she's working on new behaviors for all the boys, Ted included. She described it as living with 3 people who don't have any fingers or fine motor skills. Paws for hands, if you will. Objects are dropped, thrown and left to rot. Coats are tossed on top of other coats hanging neatly in closets, or thrown onto the closet floor. Wet, sweaty clothes removed and left mouldering on the carpet or sofa. Wet washcloths wadded into moldy balls. The list of disgusting boy habits goes on and on.

As she was describing her new lifestyle as wife and stepmother she suddenly blurted out, "and don't get me started on the ass fatties", and then she answered her chiming cell phone, leaving me in suspense for about 6 minutes while she chatted.

When she got off the phone I was nearly bursting into flames. What the fuck is an "ass fattie"? Don't leave me hanging like this please, please, please.

An "ass fattie" is the nickname that Amy has given to the errant pieces of toilet paper that get rolled into marijuana-cigarette shaped tubes from aggressive paw like ass wiping. Certain brands of toilet paper, such as Charmin or White Cloud, increase the likelihood of the occurrence of ass fatties.

I should qualify here that she has no issues with the ass fatties as such, and in fact acknowledges having experienced them on occasion herself. (I have no comment and wish to plead the 5th.) She does however take great offense to having to pick other peoples ass fatties up off of the bathroom floor.

Her argument is persuasive and I too now believe that one should be aware of the existence of one's own ass fatties and dispose of them properly before they are seen by your stepmother.

Some Good Can Come Of Being Unemployed

For instance having the time to read and write blog posts. Today, to my delight, Some Guy tagged me. I visit his blog often because he too lives in Michigan, he posts a lot and I like to catch up on the comments, and I think he's funny. I'm quite flattered, as any lady should be, to be noticed by someone I admire.

TO DO: List 5 things you do, did or like that some may consider “totally lame,” but that you are totally proud of. Tag 5 others:

1. This one is easy and so totally lame - I play the Sims 2 and own 10 expansion packs. One of the highlights of my summer was the release of Bon Voyage, so that my Sims could go on vacation. There I've said it. I'm a 40 year old grown up woman who plays with virtual dolls. I have made Sim characters of all my friends and try desperately to keep them alive. Last year my Dan Sim was killed by a meteorite and I had to bring him back to life as a Sim Zombie. It was devastating. Also my Dan Sim's wife Stephanie Sim accidentally fell in love with my Brian Sim (it can happen if you don't pay attention) and now she rings her hands with guilt every 15 minutes or so.

2. I've had the same hairstyle for about 20 years. A short, tidy, blond highlighted bob. Through the years I've mixed it up a bit, the length goes up and down, the highlights may be more brown or red, but it's all just a variation of the blond bob theme.

3. I have an unconscious and magical knack for walking or standing in front of the television at exactly the moment that an amazing sports play is being made. I could be gone all day from the room, but somehow as the amazing pass is being made, or the winning corner kick or slide into the home plate is happening that is when I tend to show up to ask MDH if he wants marinara or clam sauce on his pasta, or complain that he didn't notice my new earrings. The year that the Red Sox ended up winning the World Series I was forbidden to enter or leave the den from the living room entrance. I had to walk to the back of the room and enter and exit from the kitchen on the other side of the room from the TV. It's not so tragic now that we have Tivo.

3. I have a subscription to New York magazine. In fact I heart New York magazine. That's probably not so lame until you know this: I have never been to New York and haven't any plans to visit in the near or distant future. I have been to New York once, but it doesn't really count because I was 16 and riding a bus from Newark Airport to JFK. Regardless, I enjoy knowing about all the hot new restaurants where I will most likely never eat and the price of condos in Chelsea. Each week when the magazine arrives I immediately flip towards the back to check out the Approval Matrix and then do the crossword in the back with a pen (and finish it).

4. I have a teapot collection. Very few know about it because #1, it's lame, and #2, I don't want the people I love to give me unattractive teapots as gifts. I'll keep them, of course, but they will go directly into storage in the basement. The collection is very specific, only usable pots with no decoration or cheap slogans on them. My mother has been the most guilty of buying these for me so I lied several years ago and told her that I don't collect them anymore. I'm not only lame, but a lying ingrate.

5. I am an excellent public speaker and have spent the last five years in a career that requires me to lasso large crowds of people and be the center of their attention for days at a time. Being good at this came as a huge surprise to me as I spent my high school years as a shy, chubby Daria-like girl who barely spoke to anyone. Back then a good day for me was when nobody noticed me.


The 5 people I will tag:
Playtah, Rachel, The Guv'ner, Dmarks, & Laaw-yuhr

I'm not sure if all of these folks are regular enough readers of mine to know they are tagged, so we'll see what happens. It's not like a chain letter is it? I wouldn't want to wish bad luck on them for not responding.

OH - and HAPPY BIRTHDAY RACHEL!

Lady Slings The Booze

We've returned safely from Las Vegas. Well, I have anyhow. MDH is still wandering about the country and on his way to Boston for his high school reunion. Party animal. He actually packed two separate suitcases and left one in the car, switched them out when the red eye landed and got right back on another plane and kept right on going. He has the stamina for such things. I on the other hand drove an hour back to GR, picked up the cat from boarding and plonked my dragging ass right into bed where I have been languishing (conked completely out) for the last 6 hours with a homesick cat purring insanely on my head.


I had been awake for nearly 30 hours, unless you want to count the 3 or so hours during the flight when I dozed in and out between the sounds of crying babies (who brings a baby on a red eye?), the inane overly loud conversations of strangers and the yanking of my seat by the elderly man sitting behind me who used my headrest for leverage every time he stood up which seemed like every 5 minutes.

I have consumed more alcohol on this adventure than I have since my early 20's. Good alcohol. The bulk of which included an amazing Caesar's Palace Diamond Club exclusive champagne cocktail. I don't remember the name but it had champagne (duh), Ketel One vodka, Chambord, and a secret ingredient the bartender would not reveal but I suspected to be either grapefruit juice or peyote, served in a sugar rimmed martini glass. They were free, dee-lish and pretty to look at. The combination of these three things caused me to drink about 12 of these over the course of 3 nights.

MDH's brother, a Boston mail carrier who recently moved to Las Vegas, joined us for many of our excursions. Brother is very old school Vegas in an East Coast transplant kind of way, slicked back hair, leathery tan. He has a Cambridge accent so thick that at times I don't understand what he's saying, but once I've had a second to decipher his words I'm smiling.

Sawks - The Red Sox
Shawts - Shorts
Shayt - Shirt
Hoff Tame - Half Time
Foy-ly-age - Foliage
Hosses - Horses
Ey-Pot - Airport
Pey-Dah - his son Peter

Brother treated us to an evening of comedy where we got to see Jon Fisch
who made me laugh out loud for his entire set. Alan liked him so much he bought a CD.

We had dinner one night as Mesa Grill where the food was good, the wine was superb, and the service was kind of a let down.

Gambling and gaming? I hang my head in shame when I tell you this; I believe we have been bumped from Diamond to Seven Stars status.

Our room on the 39th floor overlooked the beautiful fountains of Bellagio so every 15 minutes or so we were treated to booming music and prancing waters (wah-dah). We were treated as well to the cacophony of construction noise which began remarkably every morning at 7:30AM sharp (shahp) with some kind of crane that bleeps with exactly the same sound as my alarm clock (al-ham clahk) at home.

The camera along with all the pictures we took is traveling with Alan still. So to give you an overall feel of my experience I have put up a picture of me during our family trip to Disney World for my 6th birthday. I was sober then, but equally pampered and spoiled.

PS - dig those crooked bangs on my rockin shag haircut man

UPDATE 10/15/2007 - Because my friend Stephanie thought I came up with the title Lady Slings the Booze all by myself I need to let you know that I did not. It's the title of a science fiction novel by Spider Robinson. I didn't want to take credit for being so clever. Here's a link if you want to check it out.

Icky Mouse

I got the little fucker that was rummaging around gnawing the wooden handles off the utensils in my gadget drawer.

We'd been living like wild animals for the past two weeks with the contents of the gadget drawer dumped temporarily in a paper shopping bag on the dining room table. Every time I needed a bottle opener, corkscrew or foil cutter I had to root around in that goddamn paper bag - can you imagine my anguish?

I replaced the contents of the drawer with a paper towel upon which I placed a brand new no see, no touch mousetrap baited with a generous wad of organic peanut butter.

The no see no touch trap is a thing of beauty.

The mousy goes into the holey and the trappy is immediately swiveled shutty. I don't even know how the trap kills the mousy and I frankly don't give a shit.

I get to live oblivious to the suffering of vermin, just how I like it.

The only way I know a mousy has been detained in the trap is because the little hole is closed and the paper towel has been ripped with little tiny claw marks. The paper towel was my idea. I'm just tidy and wasteful of paper products like that. That's how I roll. Get it? Paper towel? Roll?

Ahhh... Anyhoo...

I also noticed there were little tiny bits of black plastic mousetrap all over the drawer. And No it wasn't poop. I had MDH check. I think the mouse may have struggled and tried desperately to claw his miserable way out, leaving behind little mousy shavings of death. Not that I care.

Good.

Riddance.

1300 Reasons To Love Casinos

And they all say "In God We Trust".

Yep, this weekend MDH and I were treated to an invitation only soiree for the high roller status members of the new gambling establishment about a 2 hour drive from our house. They made an offer a single income family, one Target trip away from financial despair and starvation, couldn't refuse. Two actually. A free junior suite and a free steak dinner. The junior suite was about 700 square feet (bigger than my old apartment) with a jetted tub, separate shower for two, separate WC, two flat screen HD TV's and an iPod docking station. The steak dinner turned out to be a 28-day dry aged filet so tender I could cut it with my fork. We also got 8 free top-shelf drinks so - cheers!

That's all great stuff, but it gets even better. If you've never been to a non Las Vegas casino you may not understand, but when MDH and I go to these types of places we are no longer the fattest, most un-hip people on the planet. In fact the moment MDH and I step into any number of casinos in Michigan, Indiana or even Canada we are the youngest, most fashionable, most attractive people there. Amid the uncombed, the combed over, the sweatsuited, the toothless, the fanny packed, and the holiday sweatered, we are downright dazzling.

I thought that last night would be different since we were at a VIP event in an elegant restaurant with only about 50 other couples. To my delight not so. We arrived for cocktail hour to discover a sparkling, softly lit space filled with formally attired casino staff members in tuxedos and evening gowns ministering to a roomful of the same types of unkempt zombies we always see farting around the casino. It was bizarre, confidence building and so very entertaining.

As we stood sipping our drinks and sampling the various snacks being offered, MDH and I watched fascinated as a cater waiter with a silver tray of oyster shooters, in some kind of fennel infused cream, approached a man wearing a dirty trucker hat (yes, indoors), a sideless shirt that I guessed he had earned by sending in cigarette carton proofs of purchase 15 years ago (when he lifted his beer to his mouth armpit hair was visible), jean shorts with hanging fringe and dirty flip-flop sandals. Sideless Marlboro and his female companion Split End Ponytail, decked out in the tightest white tapered jeans I have ever seen, some kind of sports jersey and grayish Keds, rolled their eyes at each other as they listened to the waiter describe the milky treat. When he was finished they made sour scary faces as if the waiter had asked them if they wanted to sample a sip of Draino.

The oyster turn down is understandable because many people including me find them repulsive. But a simple no thank you works wonders. No need to roll your eyes all up in your head and make faces and gagging noises. Similar reactions were elicited by Sideless and Split End to the other concoctions offered. Blinis with smoked salmon and some kind of creamy fluff, Tempura lump crab puff with asian chili chutney, medalions of brown sugar braised beef. C'mon people! Not even the braised beef? Reverse snobs they were.

We spent dinner and a good part of the rest of the evening wondering all about Sideless and Split End. Were they staying in the same kind of swanky junior suite as us or did they turn their noses up at that too? When they stay in hotels (or motor inns) do they unpack and hang up their clothes? What kind of appetizer would they have preferred? (My guess was Cool Ranch Doritos and Corn Nuts) Did they send back their medium rare filets and ask them to be well done? Were they on special diets? Have they spent all their money at the casino and thereby have enough points to qualify for elite status, but have to wear rags to all of the VIP events?

All in all we had a wonderful time. It's a drag to stay in a hotel all by yourself, especially when you do it all the time. So it was lovely to stay in such a nice hotel suite with MDH.

Oh, and I won $1300 at 25 cent video poker by landing a royal straight flush.

ps - don't ask how we have elite status - we just do

Fucking Mice

I want to go live in a hotel.

Last night when I was putting away trivets and such after dinner (the lamb was deelish) I opened the big giant gadget drawer under my cooktop and discovered a rather large pile of wood shavings strewn about my gadgety cookery things and my clean kitchen towels and potholders. Motherfucking mice had eaten the bamboo handle to one of my tea strainers.

I found a dead one in the garage the very day we moved in. Of course it was completely disgusting, but after I finished screaming I kicked it into a flower bed (and then avoided watering or weeding in that bed forever afterwards) and didn't worry much about it again. Until several months later in the fall when I picked up the box of trash bags I keep under the kitchen sink and discovered a rather large but neatly stacked pyramid of cat kibble. For a split second I was astounded thinking that somehow the cat had done this and that over the years he had been hiding his genius.

Soon I realized that not only was our cat much dumber than he had let on, he was also slower, older and fatter than I cared to think about. Also probably quite humiliated as undoubtedly mice were casually strolling by him relay style back and forth from the cupboard to the other side of the room to his dish in order to amass such a stash while he watched helpless and ashamed. In Ollie's defense though he was pretty old, nearly 18, and not in the best health. He developed some pretty serious liver problems the following summer and we had him put to sleep.

Then we got Turtle. He's our current kitty and quite the mouser. He's young and spry which helps. It still disgusts me that I need to have such a cat and by the way it's certainly not why I got him. I can always tell when there's a mouse in the house because he pursues it with so much intensity that he won't sleep or eat. He will stare at the baseboard under the dishwasher for days on end and I have to shove him a little with my foot to get any dishes in or out of there. Most normally Turtle is where ever I am. When he is not I know we've got a problem.

In the fall and winter months we probably have a mouse every 2 months or so. And what are you supposed to do about them? I don't want to put down poison because then they'd all be dead but also stinking up my house for eternity. I also don't want Turtle to bite into a poisoned mouse. You'd think that working in the veterinary business would cause me to use a live catch trap, but no. I want those suckers to die, die, die. Quickly of course. Until last night I want them dead but not suffering. Dispatched quickly and painlessly. Today is different.

Flashback to a couple of falls ago:

After I discovered the kibble pyramid I went to Lowe's and bought an expensive battery powered trap to electrocute them. It was kind of space age and used about a hundred batteries, but I liked that I didn't have to see or touch the mouse. According to the package directions a light would come on to tell me there was a mouse in the trap. I envisioned being able to, in one clean motion, flip the trap open with the tippy tip of my pinkie finger and wing the body into the neighbors bushes without ever having to touch or look at it.

After I loaded all the batteries I placed it in the cupboard under the kitchen sink behind the box of trashbags, but sticking out enough so that I could see that blinking light. I checked it every day for a week and got nothing. And then the week after, of course when my husband was out of town I smelled that smell. It's unmistakable as anything but dead critter. I'm embarrassed to say that I let it go for a couple more days because the thought of a dead mouse is more disgusting to me than a living one. Why didn't the god damned light blink??? Shit!

I finally got up the courage to poke the trap with a stretched out coat hanger so that I could see if there was a tail sticking out the back end of it. There was. And not only that, but the fucker had been dead for so long that it had begun oozing out decaying body goo that was now all over the cupboard for me to wipe up. Shit, man. Fuck.

Here is exactly what I want:

• I want my husband to come home this very minute and take care of this mess for me.


• I want all the mice in this house to magically disappear.

Since there was no one at home to hear my demands (if a tree falls in the forest, etc.) I had to calm down and create my own plan of action.

The plan involved the grill-set oven mitts that go up to your elbows, the extra-long grill-set hot dog tongs, an entire can of Glade Clean Linen room spray and a kitchen towel tied around my face. My Ninja-like flip and wing plan didn't work. The trap didn't open that easily and dead body was stuck and wouldn't allow itself to be winged. I also realized as I was standing at the edge of our property by the neighbors bushes in broad daylight (daylight is always "broad" when you are trying not to be seen) that their dog was standing 3 feet away looking right at me. Thankfully he was too stunned to bark at the crazy shuddering lady with the oozing trap, hot dog tongs and brightly checkered Crate & Barrel kitchen towel covering her face.

I ended up throwing the entire trap away, along with the tongs, mitts and towel. I believe that this entire process took about 5 or 6 hours and when it was finished my hair had gone entirely white.

Back then I was disgusted and afraid. Today I AM PISSED OFF. Back then they were invading the place I store trash bags and dish soap. Today they are invading a place where I store the tools I touch every day and use to handle the FOOD I feed my FAMILY.

Today I am open to any (realistic) suggestions that involve death with as little mess as possible. From now on suffering is allright with me. This is war.

PS, I've been using the spine-snapping plastic traps baited with peanut butter, but the mice are now able to get all the bait without snapping the trap. Motherfuckers! Seriously, what else have you got people?