Why I keep writing…

So apparently my sister was out to dinner the other night with friends and family and my blog came up.  Somehow people got on the topic of the story about how my mother buried the wrong cat.  Pumpkin, our little, furry whore from a decade ago. 

It’s a great story, but I already told it.  But then my sister told me:

“Yeah, so Mom was all, ‘And there your brother was, like Christ, carrying Pumpkin over his shoulder like a sacrificial lamb in the yard.'”

“Wait.  She compared our younger brother TO JESUS?”  I’m still sitting here, a day later trying to figure out three things that my brother has in common with Christ.  And I’m still blanking, and I’m pretty fucking creative.

“Yeah.  And she said she knows you’re going to write about it one day.”

Umm.  Yeah.  I was going to.  And why wouldn’t I?  God, they make it so fucking easy sometimes.  

And so now I have to change the story title from, “The Time Linda Buried the Wrong Cat” to “The Day My Brother Was Jesus” because really, doesn’t everyone have a good story like that??

As I compose something tonight worth reading, that’s my tidbit of the day.  This shit really doesn’t ever get old.

My little dreamer

I will start this post by noting that in publishing this I know to expect a lot of trouble from the Mr. That being said, I am going to do it anyway because that is what I do best.  Harass.  Envelope. Push.  So.

The whole point of this post will be to note that I don’t need my own children (yet) because I already have three at home to tend to.  Two are four-legged special cases that surely somehow make my house qualify as an assisted living residence and then the third, being my Mr. H, is similar to what I imagine having a six-year-old is like.  And really not for any huge reason, but I think a description of what our mornings are like should do it.

7am: Standard time of waking up.  Doesn’t change.  Ever. 

7:15am: Three times of hitting the snooze button, I usually roll over and slap my Mr. H and tell him to get up and get in the shower.  He is always the first to shower because:

Just the sight of one makes me furious.

1. He takes a 28 minute shower every fucking day.  Every day.  I don’t even see how this is possible, considering the shower is about 3 feet by 3 feet, we have nothing fun in it and he walks straight from bed to the shower, all in his naked ass glory, not covered in mud and (probably) not sweaty.

2. I do not understand people who have no sense of urgency in the morning or have not established the quickest, most efficient shower routine possible.  Soap, shave, rinse.  Half the time, I don’t shave and neither does he so what is the fucking hold up.  But then I asked and I knew I shouldn’t have because the response,

“Sometimes I like to just sit down and relax.”  HA.  Sit down and relax.  This  is 1. comical because my husband is 6’3″ and the shower is the same height and I already told you how small around it is.  I’m not sure how he fits at the bottom and I’m pretty sure I don’t want to walk in and see him “relaxing” mid stream in some pretty little yoga pose.  And mornings are not supposed to be relaxing.  Get the hell out the door by 8am has never been relaxing for me but I have issues with being late anywhere so I guess don’t ask me about these things.

Wait. I know some of you (the ones with a penis) are thinking, yeah, he’s “relaxing” in the shower.  Whatever.  That should be down to a science too.  That’s no fucking excuse for 28 minutes, even if it was the reason. And if you were thinking that’s the reason, stop acting like such an animal.

Back to my little dreamer.

While he’s in the shower, I haul ass out of bed and accomplish the following.

1. Let out and feed the dogs.

2. Make the coffee for the day and put it in cups.  I wait on the ice because that should be done on the way out the door.  Ice needs to stay cold.

3. Leave a note or money for anyone that may be coming that day such as the Germans that help keep our lives together by cleaning and walking the dogs because we are lazy.

Then I run back upstairs and sure enough, my Mr. H is usually in the shower still, whistling away and probably sitting on the floor.  About five minutes later, the shower goes off.

7:43am:  He gets out, I hop in, usually with a, “We have to hurry because I REALLY need to be in by 0830, which means we have 17 minutes.” 

This is where he sometimes turns to me and shoots guns at me, while making the shooting noise, pew, pew, pew, clothed or not clothed. 

You know the, "I'm shooting two guns at you from my fake hip holsters" trick? Yeah, that one.

 That OR he does that helicopter dance, while nodding seriously at me, like he’s NOT FUCKING NOTING THAT HE’S DOING THE MALE VERSION OF HULA HOOPING.  All are forms of mockery used to make my head explode.

7:48am:  I am washed, conditioned and rinsed and in my bathrobe.

7:52 am: I am fully dressed, hoping the Mr. has put ice in the mugs and walked the dogs and is waiting for me with his shoes on by the door.

7:55 am: Professional face paint on, spritzed with the perfume, hair de-frizzed, I am heading down the stairs to get my coat and head out the door.

And here is the latest example of what I usually find.  This happened sometime earlier this week.

8am:  “OHMYGOODFUCKINGLORD WHAT.ARE.YOU.DOING????  WHY ARE YOU NOT REAAAAAADY?”  I’m shrieking and it’s really clear why he’s not ready.  He’s not ready because:

He’s standing in the kitchen with just his shirt on, pantless, shoeless, casually eating a yogurt while staring out the window dreamily like there’s a FUCKING UNICORN leading a parade of GODDAMNED LEPRECHAUNS in my FRONT YARD. 

I'd understand if they were in my yard but THEY WEREN'T.

The dogs are sitting at his feet, staring from me, back to his bare bottom, back to me, waiting to see who is going to take them out.

The iced coffee STILL LACKS ICE.  AND I DON’T SEE HIS SHOES.

“OHMYGODPLEEEEEEEEASE?  What are you staring at?  Can you PLEASE stop getting distracted by sun monkeys and reflections or airplanes passing by?”

“You want some?”  He puts his spoon out and offers me his yogurt.  He knows I do not want his goddamned yogurt and he’s smiling because he knows in my head I AM NOT SMILING.  Actually in real life I’m not smiling and I begin to wonder why he doesn’t support FINDING ME SOME FUCKING SEDATIVES.

“I am going to walk the dogs.  I hope you are ready when I get back.”

8:12am:  We’re back from our walk.  He’s putting one sock on at a time, while downloading movies on the laptop.  I am now shrieking his name.

8:16am:  We get in the car and he shuts his door.  He is pretending that he has no idea that I’m losingmyshit.

8:16:12am: He flings open the door and bolts into the street.  I can’t wait to hear what he forgot this time. 

8:18am:  He gets back in the car (which he is driving because at this point, I can just hear him saying, Because I WAS DRIVING YOU.  Don’t make them all think you were driving.  You never drive. blahblahblah)  He flashes his badge that he just ran inside to get.

“Great.  Can we go now?” I huff. 

“Yes, sweetheart,” he coos.  “Whenever you’re finally ready.”

Whenever.I.AM.REAAAADDDDYY?????  I’m surprised I haven’t smashed my fucking dashboard in yet.

Spring favorites

 Just when I thought spring was here, it snows for 36 hours straight this week and ruins my excitement of celebrating an early spring.  Now I can’t see the damned grass and I have to wear my coat again and I just had my shorts out and was browsing spring cross training shoes (for what, who knows).  So HMPH, dreary, miserable and cold German winter.  I am done with you.  Eh, but, since I can’t really be done with you until you are done with me, fuck you and here are my Spring Favorites, the before the season is actually here edition.

Iced Coffee: 

Down the hatch, down the hatch

 Technically, I’ve been drinking it for a month now.  That one weekend of warm weather launched me into iced coffee season and now I can’t stop.  I can’t tell you how much I hate hot coffee and THANK YOU ICE CUBES for making my season better.  This obviously has to be number one because my mind refuses to function without caffeine. 

Rahm Motherfucking Emanuel as Governor of Chicago

I don’t get political a lot but I love him.  He is wicked bad ass and I can’t wait to watch him in action as Governor.  I love change.

Tulips:  Yep, it’s about time to kick-off the season of my favorite flower.  And since I didn’t make it up last year to see them, I’m hoping to make it to the Netherlands to see the gardens for myself this year. 

Except I wouldn't look like such a goon.

 Anthropologie dresses for spring: While I struggle to figure out what my spring “look” will be, you should know that I really get excited over these dresses.  (FYI, “look” includes anything in addition to sweatpants)

Sunny AND Mad Men-esque

Soloman Cross Trainers, green: 

Will obviously help with my boxing training.

I have no idea what i might be doing that requires me to wear these instead of the old and perfectly fine sneakers I have, but since I was little, I have bought new sneakers each spring.  Feels wrong not to do so again this year, especially since they’ll probably be wicked helpful with my boxing training.

 Straw Hats:  I have no idea what about spring makes me want to get a straw hat, but I do.  And let’s be honest, it has nothing to do with protecting my face from the sun because I like a little color on the face. (I know, I know)  Anyway, add straw hat to the list. 

Dance music with the windows down.

And while we’re speaking of windows, being able to keep them open during the day. 

That’s the early spring edition for now.  More to probably follow once the actual season really hits.

Ice cream trucks, changing careers and Marky Mark’s junk

So yesterday I had a meltdown of extreme proportions that was so dramatic that it had my Mr. H laughing, HARD, while I sobbed and fought to catch my breath like a baby.  And I don’t blame him.  I was acting like a child.

I was that six-year-old kid that is told they can’t play outside anymore when all their friends are outside and it’s summer and there’s a sprinkler to run through and then the ice cream truck goes by and you’re the only one locked inside, staring from the window, sobbing like a fucking trainwreck, flailing around on your bed like the goddamned world just ended while someone of an authority figure stands in your doorway and says the classic,

“You’re going to make yourself sick if you keep crying like that.”  Who knows what the fuck that even means but I always knew I didn’t want to be sick so I usually stopped crying.

Fuck, just writing this made me think of one of my MOST favorite Eddie Murphy bits from DELIRIOUS. HA.  It’s ice cream related so it kind of makes sense that I post this.  Actually, not really.

Anyway, back to the meltdown.  Ice cream was not going to work.  Not last night.  A fucking motorcade of ice cream trucks could have driven by and I still would have cried.  It was just that kind of day.  And I’m not a big cry baby, really, unless you count while watching episodes of The Biggest Loser or Extreme Home Makeover but shut up, those don’t fucking count because I think they’re FILLED with subliminal messages to make you loseyourshit on purpose.   It’s either that or I have a special place in my heart for fat AND poor people, yay me.

Anyway.  The meltdown was brought on by the latest episode of,

8 hours a day of motherfucking drama.

“Days of My Fucking International Twilight Zone Life” which is what I like to call my job sometimes because 1. It’s more dramatic than your mother in law and 2. The whiney bitch meter broke yesterday because estrogen was at an all time high in an all male office (me not included obviously).  Seriously.  And so.  As I gobbled down some mexican and chugged some cheap vino, my Mr. H was giving me the side eye.  He does this when I am especially belligerent and has a tendency to flinch a lot when I make sudden movements and so I knew he was calculating what it was going to take to talk me down.  I think when I started in with the declarations of people being dead to me he realized this was going to be *fun.   And so, in realizing the insanity of the situation he was up against, did some quick thinking and put on The Fighter, staring Mark Nice Package Wahlberg, and Amy Adams, who does a great Boston accent, to calm me down.  So there I am, whimpering away, curled up and watching the movie and in my head discussing a number of things.

1. Why did Mark Wahlberg ever do Funky Bunch?  Fucking christ, that was stupid.  What wasn’t stupid was him was packaging up his cock and balls like a Christmas gift in that Calvin Klein spread.

You're welcome.

2.  Is Amy Adams the one that married Borat?  Because I never understood that.  I imagine that gets old, as does the amount of hair he has on his body.  Or is that not her?  Either way, I like her hair.

3. Whatever did happen to Donnie?  Donnie was my least favorite New Kid.  He was always clearly the most white trash outside of ape boy Danny but seriously, the last time I saw him I think he was seeing dead people in that movie with Bruce Willis.  Oh wait.  I just googled him.  Thankthefuckinglord I now know what he’s up to.  “Currently, Donnie is the host of an internet radio show on Friday nights at 8pm PST called “DDUB’s R&B Back Rub” on Cherry Tree Radio.”  Of course he is.  Shit, I’d despise being the junk sibling.

4. Which reminds me that when it comes to twins, it is never good to be the ugly twin.  And you know everyone’s comparing you.

5.  Speaking of comparing.  Mark Wahlberg’s native Boston accent is so much better than Matt Damon’s and especially Ben Affleck’s.  God, Ben Affleck does a terrible accent which is so awkward because it’s your OWN accent. Shit. 

6. Fuck, back to the movie.  If I was a boxer, what song would I playing as I walk out?  Something fucking scary, that’s for sure.  I can’t think of any really angry songs.  Damnit.  I need to make an angry playlist.

And then I decided, two glasses of wine relaxed, that I am going to train to be a semi-professional boxer starting tomorrow.  The last time I decided to be a boxer (after that movie with Hilary Swank in it), I tried taking up jumping rope but that shit was a disaster.  Jumping rope is not for amateurs.   Well, it is a favorite hobby of young kids but shit, it’s no bar crawl. 

Anyway.  This brings me to today.

“You seem to be feeling better today.  What would you like me to make you for dinner?”  I have a very patient and thoughtful husband.

“I don’t care.  I want to go to the store.” 

“For what?  Food?”

“No, a punching bag.”

“And where are you going to put the bag?  Outside on the tree?”  Outside on the fucking tree?  Does that even make sense? 

“I don’t even know what that means.  How am I supposed to make it swing around and around and around fast if it’s bashing against the tree?  God, no, it’s going to be in the doorway of my office.”

“Oh jesus.  You want a speed bag.”  And then he looked at me like I was cute. 

Who in the Christ is that white bitch and who thought THIS match was a brilliant idea?

I’m getting that fucking bag and then I’m going to smash the shit out of it for hours or until it breaks or until I pass out.  I’d place bets on me passing out first.

Calling all shrinks

I often wonder if people have full-blown conversations in their head like I do.   Constant, random inner monologues that keep me busy when I’m sure I appear to be carrying on doing normal things like walking, typing something for work or watching TV.  I think it’s safe to guess that I may have more conversations with myself than some introverts have in their life with others.  I would be concerned if I wasn’t so busy being amused.

Like today.  It’s snowing today which means max relaxation and snack time.  So obviously I’m making fishsticks.  Realizing that I have no fucking tarter sauce becomes an issue until I realize I can probably make it so problem solved.  So there I am, chopping up pickles while snacking on pickles when I first think, “Jesus Christ, this pickle tastes like dirt.”  Not that it stopped me from finishing the pickle.  But then it reminded me that a few weeks ago when I was chopping and eating yellow, orange and green peppers, I ranked them, yellow obviously winning and green obviously losing because that too tasted like dirt.  Bitter, earthy dirt, which is always the taste of the green pepper, so let’s be clear that this isn’t situational.  Which then reminded me about that the time I heard Alton Brown say all peppers taste the same was complete bullshit and made his opinion on food forever worthless.

This message is sponsored by Captain fucking Obvious

Then I remembered that ricotta cheese also tastes like dirt, which often ruins a good lasagna and then I couldn’t remember when the last time I cooked a lasagna, but maybe I would soon since I just read this blog post from Stephanie Klein about badass tomatoes and so maybe I’d order some of these exceptional and canned Jersey tomatoes and make my own sauce.  But not before I’d make a greater, All Things That Taste Like Dirt list.

Do not taste like dirt.

And then I freaked out in my head because I resolved to plant tomatoes this year so I could have my very own fresh tomatoes all.the.time and goddamnit I never remembered to look up when tomatoes need to be planted or how to even go about that and thank god my new landlords said I could plant a big garden because they are so much NICER than that fat trunchbull whore from the last house. 

My future backyard. Maybe.

Then the snow out the window caught my eye and my breathing slowed back down because jesus christ you cannot plant gardens when it’s snowing so I must have plenty of time thankthefuckinglord.  However, then I remembered that “how to plant tomatoes” is something that should go in the book I wish someone wrote titled, “How to for Life, the stop being a fucking moron edition.”  Then it occurred to be that since I run around acting all fucking blonde all the time and therefore am forced to learn many simple and daily lessons about how to merely function in society, maybe I could write that damned book but I have two ahead of it that I never fucking work on and so no, I will not write a How To For Life book, not so much because I’m not qualified, because I am, but because I’m fucking busy and I can’t save the damned world all the time.

This book is suspect because it is my job to be skeptical about this type of shit.

Which then reminded me that last night when I was drunk and explaining something or giving some words of booze induced wisdom, I thought to myself, Huh, I bet I would be a great motivational speaker.  Maybe I could quit my job and be one of those hippie life coaches that teach people how to get out of their own fucking way but then I remembered that I 1. would have to stop swearing problem and fuck that.  That is never going to fucking.happen and 2. I don’t want to help people I think are generally stupid 3. I hate people in general.  So yeah, guess I won’t be a motivational speaker.

If being a motivational speaker means you have to walk around looking like this, no.thank.you.

That whole conversation maybe lasted four minutes.  I have about 80 of those a day.  I have no fucking idea what it would be like to honestly be able to answer, “nothing” and mean it when someone asks you what you’re thinking about.  “Dirt” is more like it.

Goals in life, the let’s get real edition

I often wonder if people choose goals in life that are worth aspiring to.  Or original.  Or attainable.  And so in my life, I try to keep it simple. 

Best official herder of international cats?  Check.

Ultimate maker of grilled cheese in life?  Check.

Most dramatic?  Easy.  Held title since 1998–my high school yearbook and track record since then will prove such.

Wine connoisseur in the States and Europe and ALMOST THE WORLD?  Semi-check, work in progress. 

But really.  When all those things are current accomplishments, I think to myself, what more can I seek to achieve in life?  What more can I add to my resume and bring to the table?  Well.  That is easy.  I have already started my quest for the ultimate title.

BRICK BREAKER INTERNATIONAL CHAMPION OF THE WORLD. 

Like you haven't competed for the title.

Don’t be jealous.  Just find yourself a new goal.  In the meantime, I’ll go back to my wine drinking and you all have yourself a very happy and productive weekend.  🙂

Laptop Fridays, Lisbon and licking the gays

I love the first few days back from a trip, when I feel so happy to be back and so comfy on the couch.  Even more so, I love LAPTOP FRIDAYS, when me and the Mr. lay on opposite ends of the couch, snacking, each playing on a laptop, watching tv.  Ahhh, so relaxing.

Even better, we’re watching The Biggest Loser, which I heart because 1. I love how Jillian is constantly kicking someone’s fucking ass.  2. I spend

Lickable.

so much of the time trying to figure out if Bob is gay because he is so goddamned yummy and based on the number of times a year that he wears a cardigan/fauxhawk, I’m kind of convinced he loves penis but then again, maybe he is just that.cute. AND loves jage.  Dream world shit right there.

In case any of you were wondering, Lisbon is awesome.  It was sunny and warm in between rain showers and there were trees of the palm nature, water and marinas and fresh seafood and pretty men and well, how many more things to I have to list to convince you that it’s worth a trip?

I'm kind of obsessed with a good fountain

So I did the hotel thing, the site survey thing, checked out the pubs and restaurants and sampled the wine and the local pastry

Think fried dough meets boston cream donut. But better.

 (to.die.for) and spent time with the host nation, who I realized are both: really funny and really sweet and I’m sad to say that in the past year, I had barely spoken to either.  I assume it’s because they thought I had a case of the crazy and thought best to stay away from Little Miss Trainwreck, which for their sakes, I completely get it.  No biggie.   And, when they showed me this youtube video,  I knew we were true friends.  *love their sense of humor. 

So, can’t wait to get back to Portugal next month.  Will be a fantastic kick-off to spring.  Good friends, good food, fantastic city.  Woo.

Now.  You know you’re getting old when the highlight of your week may not be going to Lisbon but that your new couch set gets delivered tomorrow and FOR ONCE IN A DECADE, we’ll have a new set which means we each get our own couch.  (me: loveseat, which is perfectly suitable for my midget legs)  Now, I should mention that I actually hate the couch we’re getting but that’s to be expected as we gave in and ordered it from the base store, which is only filled with generic shit that while somewhat comfy, is nothing easy on the eyes.  Ok, maybe it’s easy on the eyes but just plain fucking boring. 

Yawn

And it’s not that it’s really ugly.  And I’m excited that every night will not be like a fucking wrestling match and I won’t be hanging upside-down off the couch because I think we’ve doubled in size or maybe the couch shrank like it’s fucking Wonderland around here, who knows.  Either way, I’m pumped for the new set only so we can be relaxed and happy.  For now, laying on the couch together just makes us aggressive and angry.  Hateful.  Speaking of hateful, it’s not really the couch I hate, maybe it’s the color.  I prefer beige or sage couches.  Not cream.  I hate cream.  Just looking at the couch makes me think, Cute.  Can’t wait to watch Moxie parade through her own shit in the yard and then an hour later crawl up for a snuggle.  Or more likely, Awesome.  Can’t wait for the next time I get hammered and eat pizza like an animal on the couch like it’s 200-fucking1 and I’m still in college, unable to maintain clean furniture.  *responsibility at it’s finest.  Anyungrateful way, that’s the couch, it’s not too bad and I’ll be spending all day at home waiting tomorrow for it.  Double wooo.

So, that’s my Friday  night, my trip recap and weekend details for now.  Happy weekend!

Off to Lisbon!

Off to Lisbon for a site survey til Thursday. Am pumped to get a new stamp and take advantage of some sightseeing, wine drinking and seafood eating.

Anything to get out of Germany. Will update from my hotel room tonight.

High fives from the friendly skies!

Valentine’s Day 2011: someecards, sexy time and Grammy winners.

True story.

I will probably not get around to posting something deep and insightful or funny or sentimental about Valentine’s Day, primarily because I already got my breakfast in bed and adult time and I’m over it already.  Welllll, then again, I might, but for now I’ll just post about the random stuff I have on my mind today.

I’d like to see some sort of survey done from this weekend that shows the percentage of VDay items bought at the store: Booze, chocolate and maybe just condoms.  That should be enough.  I imagine there is more booze bought than chocolate, because if you really think about it, you have a better chance of getting laid if you get someone sauced up, instead of say, buying a box of chocolate that’s going to take a week to eat.  Just a guess.  In any case, if someone could provide me with some sort of chart, preferably a pie chart, that’d be great.  I love pie charts.  I can comprehend anything put in a circle. 

Pretty accurate.

Time the fuck out.  Before I forget, I’d like to note that I’m very thrilled that Lady Antebellum won last night at the Grammy’s because last year, I was ALL OVER “Need You Now.”  I spent a good two weeks in Louisiana belting that shit out poolside while I drank Miller Lites with my cousin and sister, discussing the luxuries of life–mostly at that time we were discussing sunglasses, pedicures, shapewear swimsuits and crushing on hot men, all appropriate poolside topics.  BUT ANYWAY.

My MOST favorite part being minute 2:57-3:14 when she emphasizes the word need.  And let’s be honest, drinking increases needing and so there you have it.  I heart this song, almost a year after it came out and made me losemyshit.  It still does.

And now lastly, for all my single ladies out there, this card is for you.

Awesome.

Now one more thing.  I was driving around in the car the other day and they were playing the sappiest, most pathetic line-up I had heard in a while.  (“I Will Always Love You” and “On Bended Knee” will never do anything for me except make me want to punch you)  And so I was thinking, what is it that we really want?  What is it that sweeps women off their feet and makes men equally happy on Valentine’s Day?  And then I knew I could summarize it in two lines. 

1. Men: Blowjobs and silence.  A whole day of it. 

2. Women:  Feeling like they’re the only person in the world.  It’s that simple.

Sing it, Rihanna. 

Another round of fun Google searches

In case I don’t get to post about anything fun today, I did want to at least give you a preview of what people have searched on Google today to find my blog. 

This is always makes my day

Can we please focus on the third item up from the bottom?
“Woman shooting grapes out of vagina” 

Awww.  I am so, SO proud of myself sometimes.