Thursday, March 30, 2006



Bra-vo

Since I was already talking about Oprah in the last blog entry, I thought I'd stay with the same thing. Oprah is an expert on many things--even bras. No kidding. I guess if you are going to be on TV every day, you need to wear a good bra that keeps the "girls" up where they belong and not letting anyone of her four zillion viewers think that it's nipply on the set. (This photo is of the Arizona Department of Corrections underwear. Aren't you glad you are not in jail?)

So, Oprah's experts say that most women wear the wrong size bra. Most people need to wear a smaller "number" and a bigger cup. Thus, if you are sporting a 38B, you probably should be wearing a 36C. Of course, if you are like me (a 36 quadruple negative A or something), it won't make a hill of beans--a sports bra is a sports bra is a sports bra. Not that I would ever question Oprah....I was skeptical about this. I will now horrify my wife and tell you this: it's true. Why does that horrify the wife? Because she tried this and it worked. I can't tell you what size she is (even I have some scruples), but I will tell you she went down one "number" size and up one cup size and all was well in the world. The girls never looked better.

This got to thinking about my bras. I do have a few padded bras, because it's the only way I'll ever look like a have some semblence of a chest and it looks good during those formal occasions. Funny thing is--these bras have underwires. Tell me WHY they would ever make a 36 negative AAAAA with an underwire? What could an underwire support when there really is nothing to support? It's not like I've got much to sag (a good thing for when I get older, I suppose). Now, the wife--she NEEDS an underwire bra (she's going to kill me). Do you know how much padding I have in my bra? Suffice it to say that the other day at work, I literally took two push-pin thumbtacks and stuck them in my bra (we like to have fun at work)--and, those thumbtacks stood in there proudly like two perky nips and they never even came close to touching the real thing--now that's padding! Better yet, it was from Walmart or Target or something and cost one billionth of a bra purchased at Victoria's Secret. (Side note: I have been in Victoria's Secret only one time in my entire life and that was humiliating enough. Don't make me go back in there. Please.)

Now, I want all of you to go out and buy a new bra with "Oprah-Sizing" and let me know how it goes. Send photos, if you'd like. (ha ha--I'm kidding--please don't send me photos of you in your bra....unless you are from Victoria's Secret and are wearing one of those IPEX or IMAX or whatever the hell those bras are in the TV commercials.) Go out and stare at your friends' chests and see if they are wearing the correct sized bra. And, stay out of jail because you'll be stuck wearing granny bras with giant lettering on it.

Tuesday, March 28, 2006

Little People and WWOD (What would Oprah Do?)
I am so worried about the wife, who is in LOVE with the "little people." What is up with that? She watched a "Little People, Big World" marathon on TV (TLC channel, in case you are not in the know) this weekend. It's like this weird, sick obsession. I mean, I'm all for the little people and I admit I've watched the show a time or two, but I don't want to watch hours and hours of little people on TV. (When did they start wanting to be called little people, anyway? I didn't get the memo on that. Did you know that it is very derogatory to call a little person a midget? I learned that during a Google Search. There is a big difference between a midget and a dwarf--pun not intended. It actually was rather amazing, but I digress...) What is the attraction for the wife? Does she aspire to be a little person? Does she want to give birth to a little person? Is her inner child a little people child? Does she understand the plight of the little people because she is rather short? Does she relate to the story of the little people? Or, is she just one weird puppy?

When not watching the Little People, the wife is watching Oprah--who, by the way, is the new Jesus (as announced by the wife this week during a viewing of the Oprah 20th Anniversary DVD collection). She's serious about the Jesus thing. Not in a sacreligous way, but in a good, she's-got-a-lot-of-money-and-can-afford-to-give-away-millions-Jesus-type of way. (I wonder what my friend who's two year old daughter seems to be the second coming of Jesus thinks about this whole Oprah as Jesus thing....Can there be two Jesus in one world at one time? If not, who should we put our money on?) The wife announced the Jesus thing while watching the DVD about Oprah's trip to South Africa. It was pretty amazing but I hadn't been inspired to ask, "what would Oprah do" or anything. I'm not sure what the wife's family would think of this, as they are very conservative, God-revering, God-fearing Christians. (I, by the way, am going to be a pagan. I've decided that sounds like a lot more fun that being Catholic or any other member of an organized religion and will freak people out. I heard that Jesus loved the pagans, didn't he? Besides, how can you go wrong running around loving trees and Mother Nature? I think a Solstice dance is in order. Bring on the Charmed ones!) The wife has seen Oprah three times--once for her "Favorite Things" show (no wonder she thinks Oprah is Jesus!) and twice with me--on the same day, no less. (No freebies for me, so I'm bitter. No wonder I want to be a pagan.)

Talking about all this has me thinking--if Oprah has the Little People on her show as guests, it will be orgasmic for the wife. Praise Grover if that is allowed to happen. WWOD? She'd sign up the Little People while they're hot and call it a day. Or, we could ask, "WWGD?" meaning, what would Gail do, as maybe Gail is telling Oprah what to do, and in turn Oprah is telling the Little People what to do. (Gail being Oprah's bestest friend in the whole universe--have you noticed that both of them wear matching diamond pinkie rings???? Hmmmm???? Let's start rumors! I don't wear matching pinkie diamond rings with my bestest friends...)

I am on the "Oprah Debt Diet." (Go to oprah.com for details.) Thanks a lot, Oprah. Now, I'm counting pennies and trying to explain why I don't have a saving account and why I have a balance on my charge card and why I spend so much money on the dogs and chocolate. I used to be able to drink Starbucks without guilt; now, I have to include it in my "latte factor" expenses and justify the purchase in the bigger picture. I keep trying to tell the wife that once I pay off my car (next February) and pay off my loan for building a new room on the house (next March), I will be rolling in cash--er, I mean paying off the charge card. Who's Oprah kidding, having a debt diet? Like she has any debt. It's the little people like me that have debt. (Wait--I'm not a little people--I mean peons like me.) WWOD? She'd go out and have a goddarned cappacino and forget about it. Hell, she'd send her driver out to get the cappacino and forget about it. Maybe she'd send Gail or Stedman. But, she won't be worrying about it on some debt diet.

I gotta go. I hear my pagan friends calling from Starbucks....

Monday, March 27, 2006

Spare me


I'm avoiding work like the plague this morning, so I thought I'd write about being the bowling blacksheep of the family. I don't know why bowling is on my mind, but it is. Maybe my family is sending me bowling vibes. Maybe someone in the family bowled a 300 yesterday and I'm picking up on it telepathically. Whatever. Bowling it is. This blog will be for my bowling family.  

(If you are not a bowler, welcome to my world. Just go with my whining and feel my pain. If you are not a bowler, you won't understand the bowling jargon but you will worry for me.)

It's embarrassing. If I didn't look so much like my mother, I would think I didn't come out of her womb. 

I come a family of bowlers. Good bowlers. Great bowlers. My grandfather was a bowler. My mother and father have been bowling as long as I can remember. My sister chose her college based on the bowling team. Heck, my sister is one the Wall of Fame at our High School for her bowling prowess. She's worn a bowling skirt. A bowling skirt, for god's sake! She's been on the cover of the local paper for her bowling ability. My mother and sister WORK in a bowling alley! Now, that is a lot of SERIOUS bowling. My twelve year old niece just bowled a 191 and my younger nieces can spank me in bowling. My cousin has bowled a 300. My brother-in-law has like fifty seven different bowling balls, all to conquer the various lane conditions. My family wins trophy after trophy after trophy...

I am the meaning--THE ESSENCE--of a bowling blacksheep. 

How did this happen? Where did I go wrong? Lane conditions? Who thinks about lane conditions? Who knew there were different lane conditions? I'm just happy I don't have to rent those crusty bowling shoes anymore--bought my own pair of shoes one day on a lark--like I need bowling shoes for the one time a year that I manage to bowl--er, attempt to bowl. 

I like bowling well enough--I don't like the smoky alleys but that doesn't affect my lack of bowling ability--I'm just not good at it. I was on a league about ten years ago and couldn't muster an average above 124. Maybe it was the smoke-filled alley. I couldn't see the pins. There is a LOT of smoking and drinking going on in bowling.

No matter the cause, I remain a disgrace to my family.

Part of my problem is that I drop the ball upon the end of my approach. It's loud and obnoxious and just how it is. I've dropped that stupid ball my entire life. I know not to drop the ball, I know that I'm supposed to throw the ball out there toward that damned second arrow, I am aware that I drop the ball....and, I STILL drop the ball.....

BAM!!!! It smacks that lane like a boulder dropping from the Sears Tower.  

I'm not sure what that's all about. Perhaps I am just that wimpy. Perhaps I am a rebel who refuses to bowl like the others. Perhaps I just don't care. 

Speaking of that second arrow so nicely painted on the lane, I don't hit it. (Non-bowlers, take note--there are arrows painted on the lanes. It's supposed to help you bowl better. No need to look at the pins when you can look at arrows instead.) It doesn't matter how hard I concentrate. Me and my bowling arm are not one. 

I look at the arrow.

I am one with the arrow.

I see the arrow. 

I aim at the arrow.

I miss the arrow.

It seems my bolwing arm and my bowling eyes do not match. The ball drops and spins off to some other place other than the arrow. 

I don't need lane conditions or a bowling skirt--I need to hit that second arrow and I need help hitting the second arrow and I HATE that arrow and I HATE bowling and I.....

.....it's tough being the bowling blacksheep. I am filled with emotion and shame. 

I do own my own bowling ball, so that's gotta count for something. It's purple. I don't know what kind it is but I know that it's purple and weighs somewhere between 13 and 14 pounds and that some guy at the local pro shop drilled the holes in it and I don't think he did it right but what do I know? I have a purple bowling ball bag, too. Got it at K-Mart. All this crap sits in the closet, unused. The wife is not entertained that I spent money on this stuff I only use once a year, but she doesn't understand what it means to come from a bowling family. 

Hey, at least I know how to keep score...I come from the "pre-computerized" time in bowling. it's a lost art. Youngsters today don't learn how to keep score. I can keep it with the best of bowlers. Strike-strike-nine...twenty nine. Yes, I'm queen of keeping score.

That's got to be worth something....

Perhaps I can keep score for my family when they bowl.  Maybe that will distract all of us from that second arrow.....

....maybe that will distract them enough that they don't notice I'm not bowling. 

Not that I'm bowling when I'm bowling. 

Baaaaaaaa, baaaaaa, bowling black sheep. Cue Mary had a Little Lamb....

"...Addi was a little (black sheep) lamb

Her lane shoes were white as snow.

And every where that Addi went, 

her bowling ball was sure to go."

Spare me, bowling family. Spare me. I know not what I'm doing. 


Sunday, March 26, 2006

Dog days and Lonely Marbles



I hope you don't mind that I'm writing about the dogs again. It's always about the dogs. I can't help it they consume 95% of my attention when I'm at home; thus, they hog just about that much in the blog. (The other 5% of my attention while I'm at home goes directly to the wife. That's up from 3% last week.)

The wife and I decided that the dogs should start pulling their own weight around here. They are SO spoiled and don't have to do anything but eat, walk, poop and sleep. So, we thought we'd assign some chores and let them earn an allowance. They don't seem able to pick up their own poop and we don't want them to start eating it like some dogs, so we thought we'd try some indoor chores.

Our first effort was to have them do their own laundry. But, they started fighting over the stuffed hedge hog and didn't get any laundry done--just a lot of fighting and chasing and glaring and growling and pouting. I was unable to convince them that laundry was more important than a stuffed animal. They were having none of that. I hid the hedge hogs.....

The second thing they did was hop into the laundry basket. I'm not sure if this was in an effort to keep the laundry at bay or because they thought this was new bedding. A comfortable crate.

It's hard to do laundry when dogs are laying atop of it. I think they might be genius. They staged a strike: no hedge hogs, no laundry. They drive a tough bargin.

The third thing that happened? Freckles hopped out of the basket, laid down under the table and commenced with the strike. She had Lucy making picket signs.


Since the laundry thing didn't go so well, we thought we'd try teaching them how to put away their toys after playing with them. Unfortunately, Lucy didn't quite understand the game and kept taking toys OUT of the basket instead of putting them in. (Yes, those are the two hedge hogs. Are you as sick of the hedge hogs as we are? Why won't they share the hedge hogs? Whey must they fight over one?) Lucy truly thought she was helping by taking them out of the basket. I think I reinforced the wrong behavior. Dang, I hate when that happens. She did a REALLY good job of removing each and every toy, saving her favorite lamb for last.

For the record, we gave up and let the dogs go back to the life of luxury to which they are accostumed. I guess you really can't teach old dogs new tricks.
In the pooping department, here is a REAL LIFE photo from where I work. I swear to this. This is not my poop. This is a mystery poop. I went to the bathroom to do my duty, only to find that someone had left me a present.

I love a present as much as the next person but this isn't exactly what I was hoping for....although, poop is right up my alley.

Okay, so it's weird to take photo of someone's poop in the work bathroom. But, that's why the invented camera phones, right? How can the Addiverse not take a photo of marbles? It is impossible.

(Note from the Addiverse: If you are going to take your cell phone into the bathroom, for whatever reason, take care not to drop your phone into the toilet. It happens all the time. It's bad enough to drop your phone on the floor, but to drop it into the toilet takes it to a whole new level of bad. If the toilet has been put to use, that's even worse. No one wants a peed or pooped phone. Not that I would personally know any of this.....)

My words of wisdom to you, forgetting-to-fully-flush, co-worker? Always look before you leave the bathroom. Those little guys don't always make it down the hatch the first time around. The littlier the marble, the higher the chance they don't make it the first flush. Sometimes, the big guys don't make it the first time, either...so, LOOK. Take a look before you walk out the door.

My second batch of wisdom to you, oh great pooper of marbles? Eat more fiber and drink more water. Marble poop suggests you are not caring for yourself. Those machine gun pellets are fit for a rabbit, not a human. Diet Coke and Hershey bars are not conducive to healthy pooping.

As for your poop, I can't decide if it looks more like Mr. Bill saying "Oooooh Nooooooo!" or more like a scared toilet. It also looks like a singing toilet bowl. I know not but I do know whoever isn't flushing the toilet after pooping is going to have A LOT more photos taken.

Those new cell phone cameras really do come in handy at times. I know, I know--it's sophomoric--but, it makes us laugh during stressful times. Two lonely, lost marbles waiting for their photo op, looking just like Mr. Bill.

You can't have a bad day when you see something like this.....or, when you have a camera phone. Whoever invented those is a complete genius. I see great things for this invention.

As long as the camera phone doesn't go for a bathroom swim....two hands on the phone in the bathroom, pooping people!

Wednesday, March 22, 2006

Demise of Low-Rise Jeans Leads to Panic and Hysteria



I was absolutely horrified to read in Newseek (dated 3/27/06) that the ultra-low rise jean is so out and that the "mom jeans" are coming back into the picture. Mom jeans!

I could barely get myself off the couch after reading that. Who has time for world crises and famine and bird flu when there is such a travesty in the works?

I live for the low rise jean. I own a closet-full of low rise jeans. I finally found pants that flatter the booty and bring joy to my world. Yeah, yeah, my hips hang over the top--affectionately called "muffin tops." (I've got those good-birthing-wide hips--wasted by not giving birth, by the way, but that's another story). but I'm old (well, compared to the 20 year olds with their thongs hanging out). I kept my muffin tops under control. They won't be able to stay in control in mom jeans. They won't be able to breath. 

Seriously--hip hang is a small price to pay when you are looking good. There is no good reason to stage the ending to a great pants era besides wanting to make money. All of us will have to go out and by new pants. NO! I won't do it, you rat bastards!

The article reported that "low rise jeans aren't very comfortable." Who are they kidding? They are the most comfortable things I have ever worn. I didn't let my undies hang out, I kept my crack to myself, I kept my shirts long enough to hide my belly button. Where did I go wrong? Didn't I buy enough pairs of these pants? Was it too scary to see 40-somethings wearing these jeans? Didn't I keep my bikini area fresh and pretty enough? 

I can't breath! How can they do this to me? My belly button is crying out in horror.

The answer the powers that be are now giving us is the "midrise" jean. That means just below the belly button. They try to make it sound fun by calling them "boy cut." Boy cut, my ass. I'm no stinkin' boy. I refuse to give in to the fashion police. I am going to go out and buy low rise jean by the boatload. I'll gladly be out of style. Just don't make me squeeze my muffin tops back into those high cut jeans. 

Those disco pants went out of fashion for a reason. 

Next thing you know, we'll all be wearing those smock tops again.

I'd write more but I have to get to Old Navy and save myself from certain doom. Pray for me. 

Pray for my muffin tops.

Monday, March 20, 2006

Update on Hedgehog Hell


For those of you wondering, Lucy and Freckles are STILL fighting over the same dang hedgehog, while the lonely twin sits in the doggy toy basket. See the previous hedgehog post for full details. Note the photo--Lucy has the hedgehog, while Freckles looks rather irritated that she does not have the hedgehog.....


Lucy suffers no fools when it comes to the hog. She won't put the hedgehog down, lest Frecks come and steal it away. In fact, she even takes a nap on me while holding the hedgehog in her mouth. The hedgehog goes everywhere Lucy goes: potty, to the water dish, to the car, on the couch, under the table, to bed, to the dinner plate. There is NO WAY Lucy is going to let her big sister have one milli-second with the hedghog. Freckles stares at Lucy, which makes Lucy cry and whine and make these ridiculous sounds....but, she doesn't let go of the hog.




Here's a photo of Lucy sticking her tongue out at Freckles, saying "Ha ha, you can't have the hedge-hog!" while Freckles turns away in disgust.

All Freckles can say is, "I need therapy!"

All I can say is, "what the hell is wrong with the OTHER hedge hog?"

Another mystery in the Addiverse. 

Saturday, March 18, 2006

Illustrations for previous blog...
HA! I finally "beat" the system and got these two photos posted. Of course, both photos say "do not republish," which only makes me WANT and need to repost them. (Don't send me to jail--this is great stuff and needs to be seen by the world!) I told you there really was a pieced uvula and a cellphone in someone's ear.

And you would do this because.....?
I really wanted to post a picture of this guy who pierced his uvula--you know, that thing that hangs down in the back of your throat--but, my blog won't let me post it. Weird. Not only is it an amazing thing, it begs the question, "and, you would do this because....?"

Now, I've never even thought about piercing my uvula, but I have done a lot of things that lead to the same question. Still, how does one even go about piercing a uvula? Who thought of that first? Does spinach get caught in it when swallowing? Can you pierce your tonsils, too? Who sees your pierced uvula--do you have to walk around sticking your tongue out? Do you have to take out the rings if you get strep throat? Does it screw up your dental x-rays? Is this some freaky sexual thing I don't know about? Do you chain the uvula piercing to your tongue piercing? I'm not even sure I know how I sleep at night with all these questions in my head.

I also was sent a photo of a guy who literally hung his cell phone through his ear piercing. I'm not kidding. His ear hole was big enough for a goddamned cell phone to fit in it! (That picture won't download, either--it came from the same place as the uvula photo, so I suppose there's some weird copyright thing going on.) At first, I asked, "and you would do this because?" but then I thought about it and if you didn't have a belt or a strong enough waistband to hang your cell phone from, you might as well use your ear piercing hole.


Not to be judgmental (okay, so I'm being judgmental)--and you would buy a motorcycle if you looked like this because....? I don't worry about world peace--I worry about fat men on motorcycles.

Below is a picture of Lucy when she was four weeks old. She doesn't have any piercings. One question the wife could certainly ask me: "And, you would get another dog because...?" (Kinda looks like I'm choking Lucy in this picture, but I really wasn't. I swear.) Hey, it took me 16 years to get the first dog, might as well get a second one as soon as possible.

I could go on for days about all the things I've done that just need to be questioned. I'm sure I'll get to all those things in future blogs. Stay tuned and be very afraid...

Friday, March 17, 2006

Poop of the Day


This particular blog shall be dedicated to my sister, who is in need of some humor and has had a headache for ten days.

As I am the juvenile type, I shall write about poop. (No, that is not my poop in the photo. It's someone's unidentified poop. If it were my poop, I would take credit for it.) I don't know if you like reading about poop, but what the heck. Everyone poops.

First, I would like to share something from "The Poop Report," as there is nothing better than poop and world peace:

Poop For Peace Day is coming soon. On Friday, April 14, people of allraces, colors, and creeds will try to establish worldwide understanding onthe one foundation we all share: poop. We are not black or white, we are not Republican or Democrat, we are not Christian or Muslim or Jew -- we are only humans, struggling in unison under the tyranny of the bowel. Poop is what we have in common, which means poop is where empathy and understanding begin. So get ready. Tell your friends. Call your local radio station and email your favorite website. Poop For Peace Day needs each and every one of youto do your share. If you have a website, download a banner and post it. (I'll link to you in return.) If you have a printer, download a PDF andhand out fliers or put up posters. If you have like-minded friends orcolleagues, forward this email to them and encourage them to do the same.War is over, if you grunt it. For posters*, banners, and much moreinformation, visit http://www.poopreport.com/Peace . April 14 is lessthan a month away!

If that doesn't make your day, I don't know what will.

I don't know what it is about me and poop, but I always find myself talking about poop at least once a day, usually with co-workers. Last week, someone left a turd in the work toilet, leading to all sorts of poop talk and poop talk. Since it looked like a small carrot, real carrots started showing up on people's chairs at work. Hilarious!
Then, someone left behind a turd that looked like a yam. (I have a suspicious feeling it is the same co-worker. She knows who she is.) You know that yams started showing up. 

Yes, photos were taken of the left-behind poops. One needs proof that the event took place. I'm not gonna believe anyone without proof. It may seem strange to take photos of other people's left-behind poops....

....you would be right. It IS strange. Almost pathological. Freud would have a hey day with us.

My question is this: why would you EVER leave the bathroom without looking to make sure your turd went down the toilet? If you made one, you should make sure that it has "left the building" before you leave the room. Sometimes, one of those little fellas don't go with the team. It's important not to leave anyone behind. You should make sure the toilet paper made its way down the flusher, too. It's gross to find someone else's blob of used toilet paper. 

(Side note: you should not flush tampons down the toilet. How do I know this? Because a plumber came to our house to fix our toilet and pulled out a pile of those gems to illustrate why we should not do this. I was mortified and fascinated at the same time. Who knew? No more tampons down the toilet.)

Maybe poop is so exciting to me because I don't get to poop every day. It's a shame, really. Everyone should poop at least once a day. My plumbing just isn't what it should be, even though I'm a vegetarian--you think poop would just be shooting out of me. I want to be one with my poop. 

Too much information? When it comes to poop, no--it is not. One can never have too much information about poop. If only we ALL talked about our poop. What a better place the world would be. Some people have questions. Why is my poop green? Why does corn look the same as it did going in when it comes out? Is it bad to have marbles? What if they float? What if they don't? What if you don't poop for a week? What if you poop five times in a day?

I know my sister is worried that I will tell the "poop marbles falling out of her pajama bottoms" story, but I'll spare her and you. Then again, I guess I just did kinda tell the story, Reader's Digest version. Suffice it to say it is one of my absolute favorite childhood memories.

That's enough poop for one day. Remember "Poop For Peace Day." Spread the word. Spread your cheeks. Talk about poop. Embrace your poop.

Well, not literally. 

And, don't forget to wipe front to back. Front to back. Front to back.
********************************************************************************************

Saturday, March 11, 2006

Of Car Keys and Dog Puke



The dogs and I are in the doghouse. 

Again.

Technically I'm in more trouble than they are, but we're all treading lightly at this moment. (Freckles has done nothing wrong but she is associated with me and sister Lucy, so she gets dragged into our messes.)

The problem started when the wife and I were off to visit her family in Cheeseland today. I had the wife's car keys in one hand and my car keys in the other. I was going to hand her the set for her car but got distracted, sat down, shoved the key in the ignition, and....

....you know where this is going, right?  

....I shoved the Saturn key into the Mazda ignition

Let me be the first to tell you--a Mazda ignition does NOT let go of Saturn keys. It is in there and it is in there to stay. Two words: Death grip.

Now, if this had been the first time I had ever done this, I might have gotten a bit of sympathy. 

If it had been only the second time I had done this, I would have gotten the silent treatment but of a very short duration. 

I am humiliated to tell you this is the fourth time I have done this. 

FOURTH.TIME.

I pounded my hands angrily and repeatedly on the steering wheel. This, of course, does not help the key come out. No, it is in there, as if there is cement in the ignition. Super-Glued in place. We don't have time for this and I am horrified that I am going to have to call a locksmith.

Again.

The first two times I had both car keys on the same ring, so that was a little more understandable. I blocked out what happened the third time. I have no excuse this time except that Mars is in Retrograde and that must account for something. Or, maybe Saturn is in retrograde. It is a Saturn key, after all.

We take the Saturn to travel to Land of Cheese--using the spare Saturn key--and leave the Mazda-wrong-keyed-car to sit in silence. Despite not being able to do anything about the problem, I fret about this the entire trip. I fret so much that I ask the wife to leave early. I started to perserverate on ways to get the key out. My thoughts become slightly hysterical. I am just SURE Home Depot will have some fun kind of tool that will let me get that damn key out. We left the family party early.

I sink lower on the shit list. It is a SILENT trip home. Not a word, not the radio, nothing.

Home Depot doesn't have anything of the sort; in fact, the man looked kind of horrified when I asked. I'm not sure if his horror is that the key is stuck in the ignition or that I'm asking for a lock-picking-kind of tool kit. He suggested WD-40. Maybe he thought I was going to break into someone's house with this lock-picking tool kit. Maybe he was afraid of me because I did look a little frenzied. Okay, I looked a lot frenzied.

So, we get home and I greet the dogs and....I noticed Lucy smells like puke. That's not unusual in itself, as she does tend to vomit more often that I would suspect a dog would do so....it's just really bad timing if that is puke that I smell. I sniff her and know--she has puked while we were gone. I look down the stairs--she tends to puke on the new rug (why puke on the old rug when there is a new one?)--and there, almost glowing, are two large red stains of old puke. Red from the luscious treats she has eaten. Red, crusty puke that has had time to set into the new carpeting. 

I start shoveling Girl Scout cookies into my mouth. We are all is so much trouble. More cookies. More sweating. The wife is on a meltdown. A silent meltdown, but one nonetheless.

While she is cleaning puke, I am on line trying to find out how to get the Saturn key out of the Mazda ignition without having to call a locksmith. They have EVERYTHING on the Internet, don't they? I google like there is no tomorrow. Most of the sites I read are of no help--basically, they indicate that I'm screwed. I visit a few locksmith sites and recognize some of the tools the last three locksmiths used....but, I do not have access to such tools.

It will be a long, cold, silent night. The dogs and I will huddle together for safety and warmth.

It was time for drastic measures. 

I went to the basement, dug through every tool, every piece of metal, every piece of art stuff I owned. I grabbed the tool kit (thanks to my sister we actually have a tool kit), a tool from my ceramics class in 1983 (I'm not kidding) and a piece of a picture framing thingy made of very, very thin metal. I marched out to the garage, took the pliers and tried to pull the piss out of the key.

It didn't budge. 

I shoved the little piece of metal frame thingy into the ignition and made a bit of headway but still the key didn't budge. (It's kind of like pulling that sword out of the rock story.)

I say a quick prayer to the Baby Jesus and take the tool from Ceramics class in hand. This is the final opportunity for glory. 1983 was a good year so I am feeling confident. I loved ceramics and this ceramics tool served me well over the years. I shove that puppy in there like there's no tomorrow, give a yank....

....both the key and the tool come flying out! 

I weep in glory and proudly hold the key above my head as if I have just won the Nobel Peace Prize, a gold in the Olympics, the Disco Ball trophy for Dancing with the Stars. I run quickly up the stairs and dangle the keys in the wife's face. I am saved!

Thankfully, the wife does not slap the keys out of the way. I get a scowl and a nod of acknowledgement. Good enough for me. 


As for Lucy, I gave her a bath so she no longer stank of dog puke. I am forgiven. Life is good. Mars is out of Uranus and my anus, retrograde be damned.



For the record: once Lucy's bath was done, I marked my Mazda key with bright silver paint. Lots of silver paint. 

A fifth time is not an option. I can't keep Lucy from puking but I can try and keep myself from doing stupid things.....

Well, THIS particular stupid thing.  For other things, all bets are off. Girl Scout cookies for everyone.

Wednesday, March 08, 2006

Random Thoughts on a Wednesday

I'm crabby and experiencing a possibly-terminal case of PMS.  In fact, I'm so crabby that when listening to Marianne Williamson speak about love (went to a lecture by her--great talk, great woman, by the way), I was getting irritated and hate-filled. Forget love--I want a machine gun! (How can you listen to Marianne and think about anything but love and world peace?) Anyway, here are my random thoughts on this gloomy, hormonally-challenged Wednesday:

--I thought walking the dogs a mile a day was keeping me and my heart in good shape, but I never considered that I am walking at "shih tzu" speed. Those little legs can only go so fast, so it's more like a stroll & it's only 1/2 mile at a time. Yesterday, I went walking with three co-workers. We went at a "normal human pace" for just over two miles. I'm embarrassed to say that I was sucking wind by the end and I was having heart palpitations out the wazoo. Crushes the old ego. Of course, I did not let on to this. (I could have dropped dead and I wouldn't have said a thing before it happened--pride is a very powerful motivator.) I feel dedicated to sucking wind more often. Watch out, doggies! Your little legs are gonna be a-churning!

--While walking, I also noticed a pain on my left butt cheek. Not a muscle. Something else. I get home and take a gander. God bless it, I've got a zit the size of Montana on my butt. Another day, another zit. This new medication is really something--the choice is zits and not crazy OR crazy and no zits. I guess I'll take the zits but I'm not happy about it. Speaking of zits, my chin has also broken out, just in time for me to go the hair stylist. Great. Now she can stare at all my acne while washing my hair. It's not like she'll be able to look anywhere else. It's like a train wreck--you can't look away.

--I am so happy Reese Witherspoon won an Oscar that I could just pee. Heck, her singing was better than the real June Carter. (No offense, June--but Reese had it going on.) Does this mean there won't be a "Legally Blonde 3?"

--I think my friend's daughter is the "second" Jesus. Really. The second coming. Why not a girl? This two-year-old kid is talking to people not there--well, talking to people we adults can't see. I've always heard kids can talk to angels and such and lose that talent as they get older. She's talks to angels and friends and....and...well, how the hell should I know? I can't see them! (Sorry--PMS moment. I'm calmer now.) My money is on this kid saving the world. (Maybe I'm not taking enough of those crazy pills.)

--"Dancing with the Stars" is over, my girl Stacy didn't win and "Charmed" has been cancelled. I'm sinking further into a funk. Guess that gives me more time to go walking and get in shape....

...piss on this. I gotta go get some chocolate.

Friday, March 03, 2006

MySpace is NoSpace for Moi


So, I'm talking to a long-lost friend who says her 12-year old son has a space on MySpace.com. I ask her if she knows what that is or what he does when on the site. Friend says she's in the room when her son's on the computer, which I take to mean, "no, I don't have any idea what he's doing but I'm there, so he wouldn't dare do anything naughty." I take it also to mean, "I don't have a clue about this Internet thing but I'm sure it's fine."

(Um, the horse to the left has nothing to do with MySpace or this blog. I just thought it was funny. I needed some fun after visiting MySpace.)

Being the curious type, I go home and hop directly on line, heading right to MySpace.com. Let me make this clear: I am too old to be hanging out on MySpace. It's not designed for crusty old professionals like me. But, I keep a stiff upper lip and enter this land of the young and horny.

Because I wanted to specifically "see" his site, I have to join the party. I make a screen name and a profile and pray no one EVER sees that I am on this site. After I finish this grizzly task, I begin my search for the 12-year old.

Unfortunately for him (in my opinion), it was very easy to find him, as he used his real name and his real home town. He used a real picture of himself. (He did say he was 19 years old, so that was entertaining.) I hop on his site....and, my hair curls! I send him an email to his site, saying "does your mother know what you are doing?"

If this is what 12-year olds do these days, I NEVER want to be a parent. NEVER. I never want to know what my nieces are doing. I don't want to think about any of this. Geez, he's TWELVE years old! Ignorance is bliss.

He's got photos of naughty women. I mean really naughty. We won't even mention all the swear words or the scary music playing. I certainly don't want to think about his profile or him saying he's 19 years old. I am horrified and know my friend will be, too. I can't look away--it's like a train wreck!

I finally escape from this horror and zoom around the site. Wow. I am so old. I find other people I know and grasp my chest in sheer terror. The world is a much different place than when I was 12-years old. These people have really, really frightening sites. Old, old, old. That's me.

Anyway, I see my friend the next week and talk about seeing her son's site. She looks pissed. Not at him, but at me. It is a "that-was-none-of-your-business-to-look-at-my-son's-site-you're-not-a-parent-so-what-do- you-know" look. 

I have crossed a boundary. 

This initially confuses me, as I truly thought she'd want to know. I don't think she wanted to know. No, I know she didn't want to know. I would not know this because I am not a parent of a 12 year old. It is none of my business and now I see this, oh-so-clearly. 

Dang, I hate that hindsight is foresite kind of thing.

It appears that, in such cases, ignorance is bliss for parents. I have dogs, not kids. I need to stick with dogs.

I quickly decide that MySpace is no place for me. 

I decide to stick to reading print newspapers, playing with the dogs and watching TV shows designed for forty-something year olds, not 12 year olds. I'll stay in MY personal space. Not outer space. Not spaced out. Not MySpace. Just my space. 

I'll leave the train wrecks and naughty pictures to those who have spawned children, with my nose securely planted in my space, not yours. 

Please don't make me go back to that site. I think I'm scarred for life.
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