Dog Toots.

It’s a Friday night. I’m sitting on the couch surrounded by 5 dogs. And, one of them is farting, terribly. I think I may be assfixiating right now, as we speak. I once read a “Would you rather” card involving “farting blue smoke”… farting blue smoke would come in handy right now in identifying the culprit. But, alas, no such luck.

I’m going to stop now. Before I admit to any other pathetic Friday night plans. And, I have to go pick up a friend at the airport. So… try not to be jealous. My evening consisted of dog farts and airport trips. Wow, I just need to calm down.

Thankful.

Seeing as it’s Thanksgiving, I find it more than appropriate to express my gratitude for so many things in life. My friends and family… honestly I couldn’t live without them or their inappropriate senses of humor. You know who you are. These “saying thanks” things can get a little overwhelming if you think about it. We’re so blessed and there are so many things you should mention. Sort of like an Oscar speech, if you forget one person… they’ll never let you live it down. So… here are a few things I’m thankful for:

1. My mom always losing her keys, her credit card, her mind… and allowing me to mock her.

2. My sisters varying degrees of laughter. You never know what you’re going to get.

3. My Dad’s random and off the wall comments sometimes referring to turkey s**t.

4. All of my friends, their floor dancing, chats over wine, unwavering support, and all the hysterics that go with it.

5. Charles. I’m just thankful for my dog. He’s a jerk and he can be a pain in the butt, but I heart him and his trash eating ways.

6. Chapstick… you never once have let me down.

7. My iPhone. I am truly naked without it, as in can’t function.

8. Spandex, and it’s insertion into many styles of pants. Thanksgiving pants can now be fashionable.

9. My electric bug killing raquet.

10. Everything that I’ve forgotten and will remember tomorrow. Yeah, I’m thankful for that too.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone. Hope you ate yourself into a coma and took a nap. Then watched some football… essentially living the American dream.

Whoa Tiger.

Hey, did you know that tomorrow is Thanksgiving. Only the second most wondrous holiday of the entire year. A whole day devoted to thanks… oh and turkey, mashed potatoes, pie, green bean casserole, sweet potatoes, gravy, among a multitude of other artery clogging foods. (Yum). It’s one of those days I look forward to all year. ALL YEAR PEOPLE. Sometimes I think that I need to buy a deep freezer so I can stock up on turkeys and make Thanksgiving a monthly ritual. If by chance this happens, keep your tabs on me because I may need an entry form to the Biggest Loser after a few years. It’s pure love.

On the other hand I am not a fan of the Macy’s Thanksgiving day parade. I don’t really “get” parades. Especially the ones that show case ambulances and have convertibles reserved for the “Pork Princess”.  Maybe I sat through one too many Corn Carnival parades in Iowa over the past 23 years. Tractor, after tractor, after tractor followed by fire trucks and baton twirlers sort of wore me out. Once you reach the age where you can’t shove small children out of the way for Tootsie Rolls and Dum-Dums, parades sort of lose their sparkle. So, I’ll be skipping the parade, wearing sweats and gearing up for a tryptophan coma starting somewhere around 3:00. Not sure it gets much better than that!

Hope your Thanksgiving is equally as fulfilling!

 

It’s called a Monday.

I realize it’s Tuesday. But I’ll have you know that yesterday was Monday, which for most people is an inherently no bueno day. Not my favorite that’s for sure. A few things happened… I won’t get into them because who wants to read some Debby Downer post about a lame Monday. I can tell you that I for one am not interested in such nonsense. I will, however, tell you how my friend Lindsey decided to cheer me up. I’ll give you one guess? Do you have it? You think you’ve totally got it, don’t you? Well, you’re wrong.

Unless your guess was “order me a 60 oz. margarita while I was in the bathroom” you are wrong. Don’t believe me? Whatever. It was 60 effing ounces. 60. That’s huge. After drinking it, not only was I a little fuzzy on the details but I felt like a beached whale. FULL OF STRAWBERRY MARGARITA. I also had a rough looking character cheering me on at the bar. I somehow managed to remember that he had had only 3 beers while I was downing the 60 oz. Some call me observant, others call me competitive. I’ll take it either way. I won. Here is my drink.

And here is Lindsey looking less than thrilled with my progress.

You want some advice?

My friend told me I should blog about relationship advice. And I thought to myself, “What a great idea. I’m brilliant. And I have one of the most perfect relationships… [cough] with myself. Who wouldn’t want my advice?”

You know who wouldn’t? You. So here is my first, and last relationship column. Some general rules of wisdom.

1. Keep it in your pants. It’s only complicates things. Joy equals does not equal happiness.

2. You will be disappointed, just try not to be disappointed in each other at the same time. That’s when bad things happen.

3. If your friends don’t like him. You don’t like him. End of story.

4. Don’t talk to bartenders, and don’t date bartenders. Must I elaborate?

5. If your mom likes him, take him shopping because he probably needs a wardrobe change, a hair change, or a personality adjustment.

6. If he smokes, dump him. Who wants to date a dude with oxygen at the age of 35. Emphysema blows.

7. Baby Mama Drama = RUN FOR THE HILLS. DO NOT PASS GO, DO NOT COLLECT $200.

8. If he hates dogs, or other animals… he is probably a serial killer. Refer to Dexter before your next night out.

9.  Girlfriends  are disaster. Avoid guys with girlfriends. They can beat your face in with a bat and no on will feel sorry for you. Nose jobs cost a pretty penny I’ll have you know.

10. Don’t over analyze the lyrics of the songs on the CD they made you. Boys are stupid. They don’t know what they do. Just smile, pretend to be as oblivious as they think you are.

11. If he’s more flexible (as in can touch his toes with his wrists) than you are… ask some serious questions. There is more to that story. More than you probably want to know.

12. Men that hate small children, also hate God. Think about that.

13. If they like Disneyland… and admit it frequently. They probably also cried during “The Fox and Hound”. Is that someone you want to make out with.

14. Guys that only call you once a week (say on a Sunday) have you labeled. You’re Sunday girl. He, also, has a Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday and Saturday girl. Hope you’re good with sharing.

15. Don’t make out when you drink. Wait, what am I telling you. Be free my little butterfly.

Now, if you’re stupid enough to follow my advice, you need to 1) seek professional help and 2) get your IQ checked. Again this will be the first and last of my romantic advice for the foreseeable future. Have a good night.

 

A loyal pest.

I get cold sores. Bet that wasn’t expected now was it. I’ll pause now to give you a moment to feel disgusted. For your information 20-40 % of the population will end up with recurring cold sores, though most people have been exposed to the virus at one point or another (according to webmd.com). Unless your part of the 60-80%, welcome to my world. I’m not sure how it was for everyone else, but I’ve had these bad guys visiting me for as long as I can remember, essentially forever. I remember them in elementary school, and not fully grasping what the hell was burning on my lip. I get them for any number of reasons… sunburned lips, lack of sleep, stress, it’s exactly 45.67 degrees outside, the wind blows west at 12 mph, I mean really anything can awaken my little pals.

Most of the time I just avoid the topic… pretend nothing is there and disguise it with lip gloss. Somedays though, my lip swells so big it looks like I’ve had it injected with oversized marbles. Try explaining that one on presentation day. Um, yeah, that mass on my face, it’s just my lip herpes is acting up… try not to gawk, you’re stares only make it worse. I swear.

Part of me is horribly embarrassed by them, even though I know it’s not my fault and really there isn’t anything that I can do about it. So here, Internet, now you know. No more secrets… at least regarding my lips.

I’m an idiot. Example One.

I’ve been a little sleepy and/or out of it the past few days. So much going on… I’m just trying to not fall down the rabbit hole. I realize it’s probably not so good to start a story off with excuses, but I have to give you an idea of what we’re working with here. I’ve been so out of it I drank coffee EVERY day this week. I don’t even like coffee, but if I didn’t have it, I wasn’t going to make to the shower in the morning… let alone work.

So, today I woke up at 6:00 a.m. to get ready to go snowboarding in Keystone. No big deal. Pulled everything together, applied layer after layer of socks, pants, shirts etc. and stumbled out the door. Stopped for some coffee and was on my way. I made it to the meeting spot, switched my board, boots, bag and belongings to another car and settled in for the ride up. Right before we left I quick (well nothing was very quick this morning) ran meandered back to my car to grab the new CD I’d made. Can’t go on without it. Turned the car on, hit eject and ran back to deliver the goods. And deliver I did.

About, oh, 7 hours pass. We head back down the mountain and I realize I don’t have my keys. Can’t find them ANYWHERE. Not in my bag, not in my coat, not in my pants. NO WHERE. You want to know where they were? Take a guess. Really, do it. They were in the ignition. In a parking lot. For 7 hours. Now, before you tell me what an idiot I am (I know, I know), you have to know that I also left the car on. Battery is now dead and I’m out of gas.

*Insert laughter and head shaking here*

I’m an idiot. Example one.

Blog Stalking.

I frequently have mixed emotions about blogging, about reading other’s blogs, about commenting in general… I know it’s ridiculous. I have a freaking blog. Look, here, I’m writing a blog RIGHT NOW, THIS VERY SECOND. WRITING, WRITING, WRITING. I’m down with the writing and I’m even more down with people leaving comments. I like to say “Hi!”… so please comment if you feel so inclined. If not, I’ll try not to cry too hard into my pillow later tonight.

Anyhoo, when I read blogs I feel like I’m intruding on someone’s thought process or (cough) their feelings. Depending on the type of blog my emotions change, but overall I either feel like I’m inviting myself into someone’s personal space or being a creepy online stalker. Anyone second that motion? Sometimes I want to leave a comment, but can quickly talk myself out of that nonsense. Ok, I’m not stupid. I know you have to give to get yada yada yada… but I hate feeling needy. Same reason I’m terrible about replying on Twitter. Absolutely terrible. Never be offended if I don’t reply to you or answer your questions. Again with the stalker vibe. The times I try to respond to strangers I feel like someone is going to say “What the hell are you doing?!?!?” so I don’t.

I can be a freak. I know.

Step It Up.

 

We were no where near this coordinated.

Yeah, so I went to “step” class tonight with my friend Lindsey. She’s the one that was in the special looking photo with me from Race for the Cure, in case you’re keeping track. We decided to give it whirl, maybe get our arses kicked and go home sweaty. Instead we were surrounded by Cougars. 50 year old women with bodies harder than stone. They kicked our butts so far into last week I’m not sure I can show my face at that 24 hour fitness again.

They stepped, hopped, spun, tangoed and maneuvered themselves in ways that I thought only Shakira could handle.  While Lindsey and I, one row behind, gawked, hopped, laughed, stared and stood around lost for the better part of an hour. There were a few times we tripped, didn’t get our feet “fully” planted on the platform and definitely missed a few Mambo/Cha-cha steps on each round. If you’re ever looking for a good laugh, pay us to go again. The 55+ year old teacher didn’t know what to do with us, and clearly neither will you. If you’re stupid enough to video tape it… you might be lucky and find Nair in your shampoo. We learned our lessons: 1.) Scope out the class before you take it and 2.) We’ll never beat the Cougars, ever.