And So, Goodnight

I might die.

Designated Hitter ever-so-graciously offered to cook ALL WEEKEND.  So Friday night I had to cook because he had been working.  Then Saturday we went to a Memorial Day Weekend BBQ and the host did all the cooking, except I made chocolate caramel bars AND homemade ice cream.  In his defense, I offered to do that cooking because it was that or yard work and it was about 3 degrees cooler than the surface of the sun here so I opted for the inside activity.  Anyway, yesterday I made the decision on what meat he should grill and then I went to the basement to dig it out of the freezer (and I think I did side dishes too, but I really don't remember and I might be unfairly accusing him of something to make my story better)  And today I made the homemade potato salad and he shoved the beer can up the chicken's ass and put it on the grill.  Also I made rhubarb crisp on Saturday. 

This is actually one of the least annoying versions of that old story.  There have been much worse weekends.

So this afternoon while said beer-can-up-the-ass chicken was sitting on the grill, I took a nap.  Hitter was in the basement not paying a damned bit of attention.  Grill ran out of fuel.  I have no idea how long it was out of fuel.  Oh, and before you make fun of me for calling it "fuel", we don't have a gas grill.  We have some fancy damned pellet smoker thingy.  So technically it ran out of pellets, except I get a little weirded out about referring to pellets because it sounds like we're burning hamster food to cook our food.  Wait, where did I go just now?  Oh yeah.  So he gets the grill going again and then tells me that supper will be about a half hour later.  I couldn't help but wonder how long the chicken sat there in the salmonella danger zone.  But, whatever.  We all gotta take out our immune systems for some exercise once in a while, right?

Chicken comes in and he starts cutting it up to eat.  I take one look at the dark meat that he sliced off and I go "seriously, is this chicken even done?"  No shit, it was still that kinda milky-translucent color.  He insisted it was, because his meat thermometer said it was 170.  And he was starting to get that tone of voice where if I kept pushing, he may never even pretend to "cook everything all weekend" and that would be the beginning of the end of us because I already think we don't go out to eat often enough but he keeps me from bitching too much by cooking for me on the weekends.  Sometimes.  At least the meat anyway.  Partially.  So I didn't bother to ask if he had used the thermometer correctly (short answer: no.  long answer: he never does) because I knew it would lead to World War III only we'd be using semi-cooked chicken as biological warfare and potato salad as hand grenades.  I just picked some of the most-done-looking chicken from the very outer edges of the bird and tomorrow when he's at work I'll put the rest of the chicken in the oven for a while.

Then I got on WebMD to see what the symptoms of salmonella poisoning were, and guess what?  Apparently I have three different kinds of cancer and also AIDS.  Really, WebMD?  You could go to WebMD and type in "I picked up a piece of paper and then got a little cut where the edge of the paper touched my finger" and WebMD would be all "you have triple-cancer-plus-AIDS"

But now I have a tummy ache and I'll spare you the details but lets just say I might spend some quality time in the bathroom.  But I don't know if that's from the bioterrorist chicken or if it's because of the three bowls of ice cream I had today.  Seriously.  What was I thinking?  I have that milk-makes-me-sick thing.  (I'd look up what it's really called on WebMD but they'd tell me it was triple-cancer-plus-AIDS.  Which I got from a paper cut.  Nice try, WebMD, but I'm not falling for that one again!)  I MADE that ice cream, I know it has milk in it.  But somehow three bowls seemed like a good idea.  Not all at one time, I had one of them for breakfast and one after lunch and one as a mid-afternoon/pre-nap snack.  I really gotta lay off the morning sugar.  And not just because I don't want to have a serious discussion with Wilford Brimley about diabeetus, it's more because I think it's making me stupid.  Except I did beat Hitter at a game tonight that's for ages 12-and-up.  But then he totally kicked my ass at a different game for 8-and-up.  I am happy that my story did give me the opportunity to say I beat Hitter.  Which is really weird and either violent or kinky or both.  And also sometimes "Hitter" looks like Hitler and that's not working for me.  But typing out Designated Hitter all the time is annoying.  Maybe I'll just nickname him Desi but then I'd have to change my name to Lucy and that ain't happening. 

I have no idea where I was going with this post.  Except to say that I'm really sorry I didn't become a famous blogger before I die.  Of course maybe tomorrow I'll wake up not-dead.  I doubt I'll become famous overnight though, especially writing messes like this.

*I think I need to create a new tag for this one... "Hypochondria" implies that it's irrational.  I think your husband trying to poison you with a salmonella chicken is totally justified hypochondria.  And also maybe evidence for the prosecution at my murder trial.  

**Update from the next morning: I am still alive and I'm even feeling pretty good.  Yay immune system!  I'm still going to cook the chicken more.  

I've explored the deepest caverns of my mind

I know earlier this week I posted about losing weight.  Here's living proof that I am really not on a diet:

I made FOUR MICROWAVE S'MORES at 10:00 this morning.  I suppose I should specify that I ate them too.  All by myself.

Have I mentioned I'm a morning person?  Okay that pic of me with the legs going in directions legs don't go?  That's me *without* 100 grams of sugar coursing through my veins. Use your imagination.  I think if I tried to draw how I'm feeling now it would just end up looking like a Jackson Pollock painting. 

In my defense, when you wake up at 5 a.m., 10:00 is like lunch time.  So basically I had s'mores for lunch today.  Of course then I had to argue with Designated Hitter about whether he's really any better than me because he brought home THREE apple fritters after he went in for a physical.

Speaking of that (the physical, not the apple fritters), last night he told me he was going to work from home "for a little bit" this morning because he had to go in for this physical.  I assumed that meant "work from home for a little bit in the morning", as in "followed by going to physical and then going to office".  Ooooooh boy was I wrong.  He hadn't even been gone an hour... and then the back door opened.  And he finds this in the living room:

that's me, still in my slinky red silky nightie, covered in melted chocolate and marshmallow.  On a major sugar buzz.  Hmm, should I be insulted that he didn't offer to lick all the melty goodness off me?  Maybe I should have taken a shower before the s'mores.  Although he should be glad that I wasn't expecting someone else to walk in the back door and offer to lick melty goodness off me, considering I thought he was going to the office for the rest of the day.  He's so ungrateful. 

Then there was email.  Wait, background.  When we bought this house two years ago, our mortgage loan officer guy was quite the interesting character.  First of all, if someone wanted to make a biopic of Tom Hanks, but wanted to include shit that hasn't happened yet, our loan officer could totally play Tom Hanks circa 2025.  And he wore a bow tie to our closing.  No shit.  It was hilarious.  Our realtor warned us ahead of time that he might... he wore one once, a long time ago, around her and she teased him about it so now every time he has a closing with her he wears one.  I'm not sure I understand that, but whatever.  It made him very memorable!  So Designated Hitter contacts Old Tom Hanks to ask about refinancing to see if we can get a better rate... and the following email exchange occurs (any editing for the sake of the blog will be in different colors)

Old Tom Hanks:  Can you send me the following information - Complete Address/Year Acquired/Original Cost/Estimated Value/Principle Balance/Current Payment/Taxes/Homeowners Ins(month due).  Then I can forward you a worksheet to review.  Thanks. (yeah that part wasn't funny... bear with me)

Designated Hitter (hits the forward button, and says this to me): Can you find the information he is looking for?  Please.  (anyone besides me feel like that "please" was totally smartassed?  Like he really didn't want to say "please" but his mother was standing behind him going "and what do we say???")

This is where we see what s'mores at 10:00 do to me...  because I reply with:

Disclaimer: you probably shouldn't send this straight to him without a little creative editing.  I think I've lost my mind.

1. Do you (Designated Hitter, not Old Tom Hanks) seriously need our address?!?
2. Acquired: 2008
3. By "original cost" does he mean what WE paid for it?!?  Cuz that wording makes me totally think that he wants to know how much the first owner paid for it and that's stupid, especially if this was a 100 year old house.  Wait, I think I just answered my own question.  $(number with a lot of zeros in it) was what we paid for it 2 years ago.
4. Estimated value... how much has it changed in 2 years?  I mean besides the fact that the economy sucks.  The only "improvement" we've done to the house is to remove the mold that wasn't there when we bought it.  I don't think my pool counts, does it?  *sigh*
5. current balance - $(lots more digits, but less than the number from item 3 above) (seriously, how have we only paid off $5000 of the balance?  this makes me think that refinancing would be stupid because it would just start us back at paying $1 of balance a month.  but I don't like financial things so I'll just go play with my butterfly net**see below)
6. monthly payment - $(number with far too many digits to the left of the decimal point)
7. taxes - $(more digit-heavy numbers) 
8. according to our mortgage statement, they paid $(digits) to our homeowners insc on 4/26/2010.  That's significantly higher than last year's payment though, I'm guessing because of adding the pool or something.  or our insc agent is just a dick.  probably the pool though.

He did edit it before he sent it to Old Tom Hanks.  And he replied to me and laughed at me for being so weird.  So I shot back: you're making fun of me and you just forwarded an email to me to fill out without specifying that you do know what your own address is?!?  yanno I don't mind being your secretary when you're driving and need a hotel room, but this email was kind of pushing it a bit...  oh and in case you forgot, our address is (insert address here)  

It's been a very weird day so far. 

note from above** shortly before this email exchange, our mail lady had come to the door with our mail because there was a package that wouldn't fit in the box... but I totally missed the fact that she was ever here.  And I was sitting in the living room facing the front door.  Which has a glass inset.  Designated Hitter came out of the office and goes "did the mail lady ring the doorbell?" and as he was opening the door to get our mail off the porch, I replied with "she would have had to bring us a doorbell in order to ring it... and she didn't knock either.  Maybe she looked in the window and saw me sitting here in my nightie and chocolate and decided she wanted nothing to do with this houseOOOOOOH MY NEW BUTTERFLY NET!" 

It's a very cool butterfly net.  The hoop collapses and the handle telescopes, so I can shove it in a backpack when we're camping.  Yay bug collecting!


Which reminds me of a story from shortly after we got married.  We didn't live together before marriage, hell we didn't even live in the same state at all while we were dating and engaged.  And I didn't move in until two weeks after the wedding.  No, not because of a honeymoon.  I didn't get one of those.  Unless you count one night in a Holiday Inn Express with me suffering from the flu (influenza, not stomach) while we were driving back from our "destination wedding" (not nearly as glamorous as it sounds... it was 35 degrees below zero)  


I think I'm off topic.  Bug killing.  So I move into his house (BIG MISTAKE, PEOPLE!  Sell the house and buy your "together house") and I'm moving in my insect collecting supplies, but he doesn't notice all the other insect collecting supplies.  All he notices is the metal jug with a big red skull and crossbones and "POISON" written on it.  And he starts wondering if Mike Myers will play him in a new "So I Married A _____ Murderer" movie about us.  Except he looks nothing like Mike Myers.  Oh and for people who don't collect bugs, ethyl acetate is a very effective solution to put in a kill jar to quickly dispatch of the little creatures with the least amount of torture and self-mutilation.  And it comes in metal jugs with "POISON" written next to skull-and-crossbones.  Which causes concern in new husbands if they don't notice the rest of the insect collecting supplies.  Or possibly even if they do notice the rest.  Ever heard of an alibi?  Seriously, I'm totally going to prison if he ever mysteriously dies.  But I swear I didn't do it.  You know, in the future.  


One last thing, then I'm off to the nursery (flower, not baby) so we can do some landscaping.  The title of this post... it's from the song "Sugarhigh" by Coyote Shivers.  Google that shit, seriously funny lyrics.  I refrained from titling the post "when I lick between your thighs" because I thought that was a little too off-topic.  Especially since no one offered to lick the melty goodness off me this morning.  Sugar is fun.  And I love the movie Empire Records.  But I might be one of only about 5 people on all of Earth that do.  It's about as random as I am today.

Food Glorious Food, Flesh picked off the dead ones

I was out riding around on my chariot today, and the magic was gone.  No, seriously, the Gas Fairy forgot to show up (See, Best Friend?  This is why I was hesitant to give Designated Hitter the credit of being the Gas Fairy.  Then he also doesn't have to take the blame when I'm clear out in the middle of the South 40 and the mower sputters and dies.  Yes I realize I should have checked it before I started mowing, but I'm spoiled)

Well, Gas Fairy had filled the little red 5 gallon gas tank in the garage, thank goodness.  But my chariot ran dry.  As I slide my sweaty butt off the seat and start walking towards the house, a shadow goes over.  I immediately started singing the Food Glorious Food song from Ice Age: The Meltdown, because humor was going to be the only thing to keep me from completely freaking out by the fact that my mower died and I was about to fall over in the heat and humidity as I went for gas and buzzards were circling overhead.  Then I realized why the huge creepy birds were swarming.  I had tossed Giant Squirrel Balls into the yard not too far from where I was stumbling.  Also, the rest of the squirrel.

It was like that, only there were a lot more buzzards.  And even though I've never seen that Hitchcock movie, I am still creeped out by swarms of flesh-hungry birds. 

And then after I refilled the gas tank, I once again forgot about Giant Squirrel Balls and I ran over the damned thing.  That was the worst smell I've experienced in quite a while.

You're a better man than I

Back from the fun.  Err... funeral.  Whatever.  I actually enjoyed getting to meet a whole bunch of relatives that I didn't even know existed.  Lots of weird coincidences were uncovered this weekend but I'm saving them for another post.  (I make that promise a lot, don't I?)

In case you haven't picked up on this yet, Designated Drinker and Bran Flake are... hypocritical? conceited? nuts?  Example: Drinker used to have this best friend... they were such good friends that we all joked that they were boyfriends.  Even Drinker and friend would joke about it.  But then one day that friend went and filed for divorce.  There's a super long story to it, but it does not include him being actually gay.  Anyway Drinker has treated this guy like shit ever since.  Avoids him, never invites him to go tailgating or golfing or anything with their big circle of friends.  Seriously, it's not even just the one-on-one stuff, Drinker has done his best to alienate him from the whole crowd.

Believe it or not, the guy actually drove 2 hours one-way to come to the funeral this weekend.  And even then Drinker didn't say much to him.  I was floored that
1. he even bothered to come, and
2. my stupid ass father couldn't pull his head out of his ass long enough to carry on a conversation

If it was me, I wouldn't have shown up.  If anyone treated me the way he's been treated, I woulda been all

*I created a "Use Frequently" folder for this picture

And I really would have been like that considering Drinker's own kid has also filed for divorce from his wife (although it's on hold.  I think.  I can't keep up) Holy hypocrite Batman!  You'd think he'd be able to bury the hatchet and make friendly again, all things considered.  

Apparently my parents still think they're superior, even though they're just the same as everyone else.  

Edit from WAAAAAAAAAY into the future: apparently they've at least somewhat made up.  Last time I was back home Drinker and the former "boyfriend" were at least talking and being nice.  Still not nearly as close as they used to be, but no longer being an asshole at least!  It's a start.

Bodies are for hookers and fat people

I am one of those but not both.  (Also, yay!  Bender quote!)

Yep, it's time for another installment of I-am-definitely-related-to-Buffalo-Bill (my brother, not the real Buffalo Bill)

We both have our "drug of choice".  His has always been alcohol, mine was food.  He learned how to be a common drunk from the Designated Drinker, I learned how to have an eating disorder from Bran Flake.  He has gotten into a whole lot of trouble over the years.  I weigh about 4 metric tons.

Actually the only reason I haven't gotten into a lot of trouble is because the following are not illegal:
1. minors to possess food
2. overeating in public
3. driving while eating

(yes, Buffalo has been arrested on all three of those alcohol counts, with a repeat on #3)

Also, I wanted to insert a picture here, but every time I attempted it I ended up with an image of me waving a donut in a police officer's face.  Somehow that wasn't working for me.  And I don't even like donuts.  One donut-free attempt had me being handcuffed with ketchup dripping off my chin, but I don't like ketchup either.  Weird.  Plus it looked like blood.  

Anyway, Buffalo told me a couple weeks ago he's quit drinking.  I don't know if he 100% quit or if it was just a mood (cuz in the same conversation he told me he was definitely divorcing the Prom Queen and he didn't love her... that all changed within 2 weeks) but he is at least recognizing his problem and making an attempt to overcome it.  *update from the future: apparently it was a mood.  We took beers to the pool this weekend after our grandma's funeral.  But he didn't get stupid.  Also, what kind of weird damned family has beer and pizza after a funeral?!?  Sometimes I do like my family.  We put the "fun" in funeral.

You can't quit food.  Well, I suppose I could try to convince a doctor that I need to get my nourishment from an IV drip

but I don't like doctors enough to even bother talking to one, much less attempt such a stupid request.  But I have been making great strides in recovering from a lifetime of disordered eating.

Anyway I've actually started to make some progress.  I've dropped about 12 lbs in the past 2 months.  No diets, no counting points or fat grams or carbs, no weird combinations of foods, no crazy exercise plans.  Just a shift in mental outlook and attitude.

Why I felt like revealing that now, I'm not quite sure.  But I did.  Maybe because I'm starting to notice a bit of a change in myself but no one else is noticing yet.  And my 5 year old cousin asked me yesterday why I was big around my waist.  *sigh*

There is a whole lot more to this, lots of introspection and psychoanalysis and soul-baring.  You know, boring stuff that is not even interesting to me. 

But now I must go to a funeral.  The fun just goes on and on!

Squirrels have giant balls

Yesterday I went out to check on my pool (daily ritual.  owning a pool is way more work than fun) The little skimmer basket thing, where the water goes from the pool to the pump and filter, is always full of leaves and assorted flotsam.  Daily ritual involves opening up the lid on the skimmer basket and dumping out whatever has collected.

I opened up the thing and found a dead squirrel in there.  EEW!  I was so caught off guard that I screamed, which of course scared the hell out of Muppy.  Oh, and that was the approximate position said squirrel was in when I discovered him.  Balls were looking up out of the skimmer basket at me.

Next dilemma: how to remove dead stiff giant-ball-wielding squirrel from the basket.  I sure as hell wasn't going to touch the damned thing with my bare hands!  I briefly pondered using kitchen tongs, but I knew there wasn't enough bleach on all of earth to render them useful for human food preparation again and I wasn't entirely sure that Designated Hitter wouldn't pull them out of the trash if I turned my back on him for more than 15 seconds.  (the tongs, not the giant squirrel balls)  Luckily we live in the middle of the woods and there are sticks all over the yard.  I managed to get him out with a couple of sticks.

And then I had to yell at Muppy a couple times to leave the damned thing alone.

I just hope to hell that stupid fucking tree rat didn't poke holes in the pool liner before he died.

M'Lady, your chariot awaits

It's MINE!  All mine!!!!!!!  Yep it's official today, my lawn mower is paid off!

(not shown: mud, nail in tire, yard, dull blades, me)

I love my mower.  It even has a cupholder.

(added: me, beer)

Two years ago, Muppy got a present: a 3 acre yard to run around.  That obviously led to needing a riding mower.  A few months later, one of Designated Hitter's co-workers asked him how he liked the Cub Cadet mower, and he replies "I don't know, she won't let me ride it" and he wasn't lying!  I bet he's only used it 3 times total in the last two years... and we live in a freaking rainforest.  I usually have to mow twice a week if the weather cooperates, and start mowing in March (maybe even once in February), sometimes don't quit until November...

Have I mentioned I love my mower?

It's magical too.  Or at least there is magic that surrounds it.  Every time I get ready to mow, I discover that it's full of gas again!  I think there's a Gas Fairy.  Take that however you want.  The weird thing is every time I look to the sky and say "Thank you, Gas Fairy" the Designated Hitter says "you're welcome".  Who is he fooling?  I know it's magic.

I wish I could honor this occasion by mowing today, but the weather isn't being agreeable.

You are part of the Rebel Alliance and a traitor

Back in my late-teens, there was a guy I was interested in.  He was into the rodeo thing and one time during our senior year he lassoed me in the high school parking lot.  Let's call him Roper.  Some day I may tell the whole Roper story but it's way too long to go into right now.  Anyway, after a year and a half of alternatingly one of us wanting the other but the other being unavailable, we were finally single at the same time.  We made plans to go out on a first date together.  I made the mistake of admitting to Designated Drinker and Bran Flake who I was going out with that night (it was after I had moved out to go to college, but was back home over Thanksgiving) and I am not even kidding you they sat me down and said that they didn't want me to go out with him because afterward I would leave the state again and leave them at home to have to deal with how it would look to everyone else in town.  Seriously.  This guy wasn't a serial killer, his family was normal, no criminals or dirt bags or anything.  Just another normal small-town farming family.  Roper and I were just planning to go to dinner and then go home. 

How did I respond to this attitude from them? I told Roper to find a dirt road and

for 3 hours.

And it was good.  And we did it again over Christmas break.  Twice.  We never did really "date" in the sense of being in a relationship.  We just had a one night stand, in triplicate.

I have thousands of other stories of how I rebelled against them, but that one's my favorite.   Buffalo Bill also has the same rebellious attitude... whenever the parental unit pushes either of us, we push back.  And now we have gotten so used to pushing back, that we do it with others too.  As I mentioned a couple posts ago, Buffalo Bill and Prom Queen are currently separated.  One of the big problems they have is that she is extremely needy and insecure.  He will be out working on the farm, and she will call him on his phone like every 15 minutes "Where are you?  What are you doing?  Who else is there?  Why aren't you back inside yet?  It only took you an hour yesterday to do this, why is it taking you an hour and a half today?  You need to hurry up and get back in here, I don't trust you.  Are you SURE there isn't anyone else out there with you?  Are you REALLY still on the farm?"  And how did Buffalo respond to this pressure?  By leaving the farm and finding himself a female friend.

I was telling Designated Hitter about all this the other night (the part about my brother, not the part about Roper) and when I commented on Buffalo Bill's rebellion to Prom Queen's pressure, Designated Hitter goes "wow you two really are related!"  Not that I've ever cheated, but he is fully aware that I don't take well to being told what to do. 

This post ended up a lot more about sex than I thought it would!  This was just an intro to my deviant ways... there will be more coming in the future.

Wherein I am gilded

Buffalo Bill and I have both come up with this theory without any input from the other, and then compared notes later and were amazed at how similar our ideas are.  I was inspired to share the story because of yesterday's story about Mother's Day brunch.  Prima Donna couldn't care less about actually conversing with any of the family while at brunch, she just wants to make sure everyone else in Podunkville sees her and the fact that she raised a child who will take her out to brunch.  My parents have also cultivated this attitude regarding the net worth of children.

Designated Drinker and Bran Flake do not view Buffalo and me as individuals.  We aren't supposed to have our own beliefs and ideas and likes and dislikes.  Well, I guess it wouldn't matter if we did, as long as they were compatible with what Drinker and Flake wants us to have.  I will admit that growing up I was probably the "favorite" because I was the school-smart one, I was the musician, and I took orders pretty well.  Buffalo, on the other hand, does have the benefit of being a boy and therefore is the prodigal son.  The family farms, and they have to be nice to him so he'll stay on the farm too.  I wasn't even given that option, I had to pack up and move away and become an off-the-farm success.

The folks view us as trophies.  They didn't have children, they had prizes.  They didn't give us names to identify us as individual human beings, they just named their mantle-pieces. 

They just like to spit-shine us and show us off to their friends.  Heaven forbid we do anything to tarnish the gold.

Tomorrow, the story of what we do with such pressure.  It's anything but inspirational.

P.S. The question was posed as to the significance of "#1 Kid and #1 Son".  I gotta confess that the biggest reason is... well... do you have any idea how hard it is to write "Daughter" on a trophy in MS Paint?  But it also has a little to do with that me-being-the-favorite and him-being-the-prodigal-son thing I mentioned above.  Mostly I'm lazy though.

Insanity is a state of mind

It's time to introduce my grandparents.  Only one set of grandparents will be featured here.  The grandparents from the other side of the family are a combination of not-blog-worthy and dead.

Warning: Potentially Not Funny

They need good nicknames because "Grandma" and "Grandpa" are just too banal and quite frankly too nice for them.  "Satan" is perhaps a bit harsh, and last I checked he didn't have a wife anyway.  Okay here's the first contest on my blog: whoever comes up with a good nickname for them wins.  (I have a feeling I know who will win since I currently only have one reader)  Characteristics of the nutjobs: they have more money than brains.  They use their money to gain corrupt power and to force others to do their bidding.  They only care about appearances.  The best I could come up with so far is that they're a still-married version of Donald and Ivana Trump... rich socialites with very little concern for others.  But the money comes from Grandma's side and she definitely rules the roost.  One thing's for sure, they aren't Bill and Melinda Gates because there's nothing philanthropic about them. 

Wait, I got it.  Contest over.  Grandma is Prima Donna.  Technically Prima Ballerina, because in her younger days she could rock the toe shoes, but that just doesn't roll off the tongue fingers.  She's definitely the stereotypical prima donna type.  And grandpa is The Corporal.  I didn't have the heart to make him a private, especially since I think he was a sergeant in real life.  He was demoted by marriage though. 

Yes, they're socialites.  My podunky hometown has a brunch at the community center every Mother's Day... it's just a buffet line of podunk town catered food, and then you go sit on metal folding chairs around cafeteria tables.  Welcome to podunk town.  I haven't been able to attend this high-class affair since I live far far away, but I've heard stories from the less crazy parts of the family that Prima Donna insists in sitting smack-ass in the middle so that everyone has to walk by her on the way to either the door or the buffet, and her neck is practically on a swivel making sure she keeps an eye on EVERYONE in the room.  Afterwards, she will badmouth anyone who was there but didn't stop to visit with her.  Of course she couldn't be bothered to get up and go initiate a conversation with anyone, they must come to her.  How she views Mother's Day brunch:

Yes that's The Corporal as the court jester.  There's a running joke among the younger members of the family where a wife will make a ridiculous statement, then haul off and whack her husband on the arm and go "Isn't that right, Corporal?" and then the husband will meekly, with glazed over eyes, go "yep yep yep" because we've seen this happen so many times at the grandparents' house.

They also used to go through mom and dad's trash, looking for ammunition (figuratively, not literally) to use against them...

 "Yay now we can blackmail them into doing things we want!"  I should mention that at the time we were living in an "apartment" in the second story of Prima and Corporal's house... Designated Drinker and Bran Flake were fresh out of college and poor farmers.  We did have our own kitchen and bathroom up there, and had our own entrance to the house... but it was still just way too close for comfort.  And it was a way for them to control us... "you will do what we say or else you won't have a place to live anymore!  Ha ha ha ha ha ha!"  I say "we" and "us" because Drinker and Flake moved in right after college and stayed for almost 5 years, during which time I was conceived and born, and Buffalo Bill was also conceived, although the parental unit finally managed to scrape together enough money to get a house of our own built 2 months before he was born.  So I got to live in that crazy situation for 3 years.  Thankfully I have virtually no memories of it. 

On a much more personal note, here's how they have controlled me over the years.  When I was old enough to drive, my heart was set on having a Chevy Blazer.  This was back before SUVs were for soccer moms.  I have no desire to have one now.  Our friendly small town car dealer hunted around and found one in a very unappealing shade and at least 10 years old, but it was cheap enough that my parents agreed to let me have it... I paid for part of it and they paid for part of it.  Prima Donna was livid... "that's not a ladylike vehicle!  I can't believe my granddaughter is being seen in public in something like that!"  (in an odd twist of fate, she actually has a Trailblazer now.  I don't have the balls to point out the irony to her)  Fast-forward to my senior year of high school.  I'm checking out colleges.  She tells me if I go to the school she went to then she'll buy me a car.  Well, it became increasingly obvious even to her that I was not going to be attending her alma mater, so she "compromised" by saying if I went to the other state school in our home state, she'd put a down payment on a car.  I went out of state.  She bought me a blanket.

A year later (I spent my freshman year having to mooch off other friends with cars, thanks to my bestest friend who had a car!) I was ready to get myself some wheels.  When Prima realized I would probably be looking at something equally unladylike as my Blazer had been, and she also had resigned herself that I would not be transferring back to the alma mater any time soon, she opened up the checkbook and imposed her will upon me.  She paid for half of my car, on the condition that it was cute and red and 2-door and was the exact same car as she was driving at the time.  No kidding, we had matching cars for a couple years.  Thank god I lived across a state line. 

Three years later I landed a high-paying internship, and promptly traded the little red thing off on a baby pickup truck.  I loved my baby pickup truck!  Prima contributed nothing to the purchase of the baby pickup truck, which was fine by me.  Another three years went by, and I was no longer working for high-paying company and was driving a 7 hour round trip to visit a boyfriend at least twice a month, and couldn't afford the baby pickup truck anymore.  So I traded it off on a boring sedan.  Grandma whipped out the checkbook again that time.  And I let her.  Apparently I am a whore.

Anyway, what finally brought this all to a head, is that Buffalo Bill and the Prom Queen have separated.  I'm not sure how it's going to end, but I do know that I love them both and support them both (emotionally, not financially) and I will continue to love and support both of them no matter how it all works out (unless of course she bleeds him dry and runs off with the kids in a divorce settlement, then I may not have quite such warm-fuzzy feelings about her)  I am also trying to stay out of it, it's their issue to work out, and they need to do whatever's best for both of them.  I got a phone call last week from Corporal... he called me to bitch and whine about how Buffalo is just being selfish and only thinking of himself and not giving a thought to how this will affect anyone else.  Now to an outsider, it may sound like he was concerned about the Queen and semi-homeless kids.  But let me translate for you:  "He isn't giving any thought as to how this will appear to the informed members of society gossip-mongers in our podunk town, and how it will affect us when we go to coffee and socialize with people who we have deemed to be worthy of being called "friend" and it will lessen our power over those we view as beneath us"  No, I am not overreacting.  I guarantee you that's how they view it.  Some other things he said to me confirmed this, but I don't remember enough details now to be able to appropriately convey it.

Stay tuned for further adventures of insane grandparents.

Meet the Fockers

I wish my family was the Fockers, we're way more messed up.

Real quick intro to the characters who will appear frequently:

1. My li'l bro, Buffalo Bill.  He's a cowboy at heart, and a wild man all over.
2. My dad, Designated Drinker.  One more internet acronym gone awry.  DD=Dear Dad, Designated Driver, or in this case... drinker.
3. My mom, Bran Flake.  It's a long story, and special thanks to Best Friend (seriously, you want a name too?) for getting me 3/4 of the way to this nickname.
4. Grandma and Grandpa are Prima Donna and The Corporal.  These are explained in the post immediately following this one.
5. Buffalo Bill's wife is the Prom Queen.  She's eternally stuck in high school.  

I weighed my boobs

*image not available

Slow...

I'm off to a slow start here!  Yeah yeah I know I posted twice yesterday and am posting again today.  What I mean is I am not making much progress on the family therapy which is why I created this blog in the first place.

I have a million and ten things to yap on and on about.  I just don't know how to start.  This happens a lot when I have something I really need to talk to Designated Hitter about but just don't have the courage to start the conversation.  He'll finally take me out and get me drunk, and then I'll start blathering on.  Once I start, I not only don't stop but I even add in other topics that I didn't know I was pissed about!  Then his only option is to keep pouring beer into me until I get so drunk that I either pass out or I have sex with him.  Although why he finds this attractive I am not quite sure

 I need to find a way to start facing the insanity.

Living in the woods

I wanted a house in the country.  It was all my fault.  I'm not cut out to be a city person.  The very first night we were here, I looked out my front window and I saw trees... and trees... and deer.

and I was all excited because "ooh how pretty!  I love living in nature!"

Shortly thereafter, a groundhog was discovered undermining the integrity of the cement floor in our shed.  Then the Designated Hitter started freaking out because our yard is full of moles and gophers.

The next spring, I wanted a garden.  The beans were happily climbing their poles, and then:

(it's awfully hard for a bean plant to live if the top is no longer physically connected to the bottom)

Last week, in the middle of the afternoon I looked out my window and saw the following:

that's a raccoon, in broad daylight, eating out of a bird feeder, less than 20 yards from my back door.

And then there was this morning.

only much less friendly (and amorous) and much more stinky and diabolical and probably rabid.  Okay I have no reason to believe he's rabid except for the fact that my paranoia/hypochondria also covers rabies.  After I saw the raccoon last week I started researching symptoms of rabies in humans to find out if I was going to die, even though the raccoon was showing no signs of being rabid and I did not come in any contact with it.  I'm afraid to let Muppy outside now!  (Although he has a rabies shot.  And Frontline, so I get ticks and he does not.  Why are dogs so well protected and I am not?) 

P.S. I also saw two toads humping on my back step.  That was funny though.  It was all legs in all directions.  I felt a little dirty for watching them, but I was not in fear for my life.  My soul, maybe, but not my life.

Morning Person = Evil

Why exactly are morning people vilified?  What did I do to deserve this?  I wake up at 5:00 no matter what time I go to bed.  No alarm clock.  3 hours of sleep or 9, doesn't matter.  (Although do you have any idea how hard it is to get 9 hours of sleep when you wake up at 5:00?  You have to go to bed when it's still light out)

Why is it that society loves these people

who are all grumpy and irritable and worship their coffee pot?  (those are steaming coffee mugs)  They stand around and compare notes on who is more sleepy like it's a badge of honor.  Yay!  I'm sleep deprived!  Except I'm way too tired to say yay or use exclamation points!  I'll just go pretend to work for a few hours until I can go home and stay up all night.

And then there's me.

I don't know what my legs are doing.

I didn't know what my legs were doing last night either.  The Creepin' Heebie Geebies are a real bitch.  I think it's probably technically Restless Leg Syndrome, but I have White Coat Phobia so I don't know what I really have, nor do I have medication to fix the problem.  I'm also a hypochondriac and love disorders with funny names.  Restless Leg Syndrome = not funny.  Creepin' Heebie Geebies = somewhat less not-funny.  Also fictitious.  Did you know I have something that is truly and honestly called Exploding Head Syndrome?  It's not nearly as cool as it sounds.  I have never had to scrape my brains off my headboard.

But I digress...

You know, now that I look at that picture, I kind of hate morning people too.  I really want to tell myself to sit down and shut up!  I started at the wrong end of the story.  Fast forward to about 8:30 that evening.  Night people are all "woo hoo!  Let's go out!  It's time for a party!"  And I'm yawning because I'm sleepy and ready for bed.  And they call me a loser.  And I'm sad.

So let's recap: in the morning, the "normal" people are sleepy and the annoying people are awake.  In the evening, they are partying and the losers are getting ready for bed. 

Anyway, I'm awake and perky.  Even though I only got 4 hours of sleep last night.  I'll be ready for bed before the Designated Hitter is even ready for dinner tonight.  I'll never be popular.  You have to be tired in the morning and love coffee to fit in.  I'm an annoying loser.

I promise

I promise this blog will be a random string of seemingly unrelated events.
I promise I will be very sporadic in posting. 
I promise you will not understand much, if any, of what I post.

I think I can keep those promises!

I also promise this is very therapeutic for me.  I don't know why I put that in "promise" form.  Probably because I have this disorder where I start a trend and then I can't let it go until long after it has ceased to be funny. 

And I promise that while a fellow blogger did inspire me to start this fun, I am not intending to plagiarize... or steal followers... or advertising dollars... or to win the internet.  It's all yours.  And I'm not even getting any advertising dollars.  Let me know if I piss you off, hopefully we can find a way to both be happy. 

Anyway, for starters, let's have some intros.  This is me:

I have a dog.  I call him Muppy (it's a mash-up of Mutt and Puppy.  No that isn't his real name, but he gets called that more often than anything else)  I also have a husband.  For the sake of this blog, I'm going to call him the Designated Hitter.  The internet acronym of DH (dear husband) always makes me think of designated hitter, and I don't know what else to call him.  No, he doesn't hit me, and quite frankly I'm not a fan of the DH rule, but just go with it.  I did promise this wouldn't make any sense.  Anyway, I didn't draw a picture of either of them yet.  You'll see them someday.  Muppy is black and has a feather-duster for a tail.  Designated Hitter is tall, and doesn't have a tail. 

I have a family.  They're all nuts.  They'll probably be the prime focus of this blog.  Like I said: therapeutic.  Designated Hitter has a family too, and they're also nuts but in a much different (and somewhat less traumatic) way.  Muppy was a Humane Society rescue, his first family was probably the most traumatic but we're his family now.  And we try not to torture the poor beast.

I am typically a morning person, and it is well past my bedtime now.  I've been stuck in an insomniac cycle lately though.  I am going to try to go to bed now.