The Day I Almost Died

Today.  It was today.  I figured I would cut to the chase, and just tell you the when,  now, as opposed to leaving my readers dangling in the balance of when I might've faced my demise.  I'm sure the next question you might be wondering is, "But, how, fair maiden?"  I like to think that other people regard me as a "fair maiden".  Seems only fair. Okay, let me paint you a rather vivid picture.  But I must warn you, you are about to encounter an array of emotions.  One minute you might be in awe.  The next, flabbergasted, and the next sobbing uncontrollably and filled with, what people who are full of themselves would call 'ennui'.  So buckle up buttercups.  It's going to be an interesting ride...
Picture this:  Moi.  Donning black gym pants (I don't do spandex because no one, and I mean no one, needs to see the outline and detail of my whale tail), and a pink v-neck tee (but not too deep of a v, because I don't want to look like a douche.  Or a hoe bag, but I digress.)  What does this have to do with the story, you might be wondering?  Nothing.  Absolutely nothing.  But I always teach my students that they should "paint their pictures with their words," and I like to practice what I preach.  Okay, back on point.  So, I show up to Zumba class, and all starts out as normal.  There's a little Cha-cha, a little Salsa (not the nacho kind.  Saddsies), and even a little Bollywood action.  I'm sweating like a large farm animal in heat, and facing the back of the room while everyone else is facing forward.  They clap, I stomp.  They Cha-cha, and I almost take out a middle aged woman who has much smaller bat wing circumference than I do.  You know. The usual.  LMFAO comes over the loud speaker and tells me to "wiggle wiggle wiggle wiggle wiggle", and I continue to "wiggle wiggle wiggle wiggle wiggle" long after the song has ended.  I just figure it's a way to burn more calories when your ass continues to shake while you step off to the side to guzzle your water, hoping you don't barf during the next wiggle. But I held strong.  I swung my arms like it was my JOB. I did sit-ups until I thought I would cry.  I lifted my rump off the mat and did pelvic thrusts into outer space until I thought my ass would simply fall off, and roll away crying.  But I did it.  *pats self on back*  Then we got to my favorite part, which is the cool down.  I was laying on my mat that smelled like an armpit, and contemplated what I should nosh on after class that wouldn't ruin 60 minutes of torture, when it happened.  And I mean IT.  The part where I almost died.  As I brought my knees to my chest to take a deep cleansing breath, someone decided to unleash the fart hounds, and let a silent but deadly fart escape from their vicinity DIRECTLY INTO MY NOSE HOLES.  Honestly, here was my thought process as I was facing what I was sure was my heartbreaking demise:  1)  Oh hell no.  Someone is going to think that decaying corpse of a diarrhea fart came from me!  I almost wanted to announce to the class, "Wasn't me, folks", but I also know the tell tale slogan of, "Who ever blamed it, flamed it," and I wasn't about to go down that path.  Thought number two went a little something like this:  Oh dear lord, I can now taste it.  I now know what death tastes like.  I'm gonna die.  I'mgonnadieI'mgonnadie.  This is when the instructor told everyone to take a deep cleansing breath, and I'm pretty sure I said, "Oh hell no".  Out loud.  Finally the fart explosion scent dissipated, and I was able to gulp in some clean oxygen.  But as I sat up from my mat, you better believe I mean mugged every single broad that was in my vicinity.  This isn't yoga class, people.  If you have to do a number two, you high tail it out of there.  Or go by the fan.  A fan is always a good option.
So there you have it folks.  I looked death in the face, and I held my breath until it went away.  I am so strong.  So brave.  And so very, very nauseous. :)

Honey Boo Boo and Mrs. Clean

The other day when I was flipping back and forth between watching 'Here Comes Honey Boo Boo', and 'Rat B*stards' (which I'm fairly certain that both shows are a continued demonstration that the apocalypse is near. Kris Jenner is the devil reincarnate, so it's only fair that there are other clues that the world is about to implode), I had two overwhelming feelings course through my veins.  My first thought was, why don't I have my own reality show?? What could be more entertaining then me spending my days drinking boxed wine, pinning things on pinterest, and talking about how I should really spray some Shout Out on my boob stain because I've found that Franzia red doesn't come out so easily.  It would be a show about how I'm a hot mess, smattered with my sense of sarcasm and smart ass remarks.  How could that not be appealing?  My second thought had more to do with the commercials that ran in between these idiotic shows.  Every single commercial that featured a cleaning product or baby food, only depicted women as the ones who were Swiffering, Febreezing, vacuuming, or changing a diaper that was presumably filled with a load.  What. The. Hell.  It seriously pissed me off.  The last time I checked, just because you're a dude and have a dangler doesn't make you incapable of cleaning the house or dusting some furniture.  I have seen Leonard with my own two eyes push around the Dyson like it was his job.  Just because you have some extra weight in between your stems doesn't make a person incapable of doing a household chore.  Nor should having a triangle automatically imply that you should be the only one to push around a mop or disinfect your kitchen countertops.  Eventually I simmered down a bit. I mean, come on, that Honey Boo Boo is a riot, I was almost immediately riled up again when a Klondike ice cream commercial come on.  Right when I saw it I practically hollered, "I HAAAAAAATE this freaking commercial!!!!"  I'm pretty sure I pumped my fists in the air to show that I really meant business.  What got me in a tizzy is this:  The commercial goes with their normal tagline of 'What would you do for a Klondike Bar?', and a husband has to listen to his wife for a whopping five seconds. If he does, then he's awarded an ice cream treat. While he is listening he looks like he is in physical pain, and would rather be having his Georgia peaches waxed with sand paper than have to listen to his old ball and chain.  By the end of the insulting thirty second commercial, the husband jumps for joy and sighs with relief after he apparently did the most difficult thing in his life.  Seriously??  It's insulting to both men and women.  I know it's supposed to be funny.  Haha.  Men have the attention span of a goldfish, and women, oh us women, tend to yammer on and on about trivial things.  I felt that I should have been awarded with a ice cream square of yum just for watching that piece of crap commercial.  The only type of commercial that should not use men as their spokesperson are the ones that are trying to sell feminine products.  Let's be real.  I don't need some dude telling me how I'll be able to comfortably high-kick and pirouette when my insides feel like they're are trying to eat through my abdomen.  That can be a hands-off topic for the gentlemen.
Now, commercials are also sexist on the flip-side.  Anytime a commercial comes on that is showcasing  products for cars or tools, it's all dudes.  I hate to break it to advertisers, but guess what?  I can yield a wrench and drill like a pro.  I also like to keep my car clean, and I know how to change a tire.  Why would I be afraid of a little grease when I spend the majority of my day with a mustard stain on my left boob?  It's all fairly insulting.
So that's my rant for the week.  Thanks for letting me get that off my chest.  I should get going though, because I have to check my cars' oil and figure out a way to get Lean Cuisine marinara out of my shirt. :)

Peanuts and Prozac

Sooo.... in two days I will be boarding an airplane.  I should be easy to spot.  I'll be the woman on the plane with a bottle of Xanax in one hand,  a Rosary in the other, and wearing a beer helmet that is filled with gin and tonic.  I hate flying.  HAAAAAATE it.  I thought I was improving with handling this great fear of mine, but as soon as I pressed the "purchase" button to order my ticket, I broke out in hives and started hyperventilating.  In fact, my armpits are sweating profusely right now, and my left eye is twitching,  just thinking about it.  Sure, it'll get me to where I need to go much faster than say driving or walking, but I'd honestly rather walk 1,000 miles on my knees than get on a plane.  Let me paint you a picture of how it usually goes down-oh God, I think I should avoid that saying when I'm writing about airplanes-*ahem* of how I handle myself whilst on a deathtrap.  As soon as I get to my seat, I automatically lock my seatbelt into place, and look for the emergency exits.  I then have to unlock my seatbelt to let another person into my row, who either a) needs a seatbelt extender, or b) is wearing some exotic scent that violates my nose holes, and adds a migraine to my list of airplane ailments.  Just as I'm about to take a sip out of my gin and tonic tiara, I usually have to get up again, because Ms. Baby Soft or Mr. Drakkar needs to get something out of his or her bag, that is conveniently located in the overhead bin.  Finally, finally I am settled into my seat, where I will comfortably clutch the arm rests for the next three hours, while nervously peeking out of the airplane window, hoping that I don't see a colonial woman on the wing churning butter.  When the plane takes off, whoever is within a five foot proximity to me, will be able to hear me say the Hail Mary over and over and over again, with a few "Oh God's" thrown in, and "What was that?  Is that normal?  Are we there yet?"  Then again, these last few exclamations are usually drowned out because my head is shoved into a strangers armpit as I mumble to them, "Don't let this be awkward.  As soon as we land I'll remove my face from your arm crevice.  Hey, is that Dove fresh scent?  Because that shiz is delightful."  The only time I will uncurl myself from the fetal position is when the drink cart comes around.  That conversation usually goes like this:
Steward:  Would you like peanuts or cookies?
Me: If by "peanuts or cookies" you mean Prozac and tequila, well then both.  I want both. In fact, I will take one of every small bottle that you have on your little cart that always ends up slamming me in my elbows.
Stew: That'll be $296.00
Me:  Worth every penny.
So this upcoming Wednesday, say a little prayer for me.  Until then, I leave you with this classic clip from the movie Bridesmaids, because in all reality, Kristen Wiig's character was clearly based on me. :)

The sky is falling

Again, I really don't have anything stellar to write about today, so I've decided to compile a list of random facts about moi. Enjoy.
*I hate mangos.  I think their texture is repulsive and they taste just like vom.
*Cilantro is a runner-up.  I have a friend who believes that cilantro is the devil, and I would have to concur with that.
*I have an obsession with painting my nails.  Shocker.
*I can be super DUPER anal retentive.  If something is out of place, I can't relax until it is exactly where it should be.  I'm pretty certain my husband likes to torture me by not lining up the t.v. remotes parallel.
*I like even numbers.  For example, if I want the volume turned up a notch on the t.v., it has to be changed to an even number.  If not, then the world will explode.
*My favorite number is 23.  It's the only odd number that I enjoy.
*I love animals, and think that anyone who is cruel to an animal deserves to be water boarded and then repeatedly slapped in the face with a large bass.
*I'm a bit obsessed with pinterest.  The category with the most "pins" is titled "Snoogle Poofs", which is all animals.  (Refer to the fun fact two spots above.)
*I have a paper mache rhino head hanging in my bedroom.  His name is Richard, but we call him Dick for short.
*There is a large painting of a cow that hangs in between my kitchen and dining room.  His name is Mr. Ahmoozing.
*I name inanimate objects.
* I can watch the movies The Sound of Music, Garden State, Steel Magnolias, and Stand By Me, over and over and over again, and never get sick of them.
*I once met Chumlee from Pawn Stars on a flight back from Vegas.  He smelled delightful, and he wore an itty bitty Versace backpack.  He looked like a hippo with a Tic Tac container strapped to his back.
*My dream job would be an Indy car racer.  Sometimes when I'm driving on the thruway, Leonard gets his manties in a knot because I drive too fast and get too close to other cars.  I just tell him that I'm drafting and it's all part of my tactic.  He then proceeds to proclaim that he will never drive with me ever again.
*I'd really love to be able to yodel.  Like a boss.
*I wish unicorns were real.
*I'm addicted to my Instagram app on my phone.  I know no one really cares about the sixty-seven photos of my dogs that I post a day, but deal with it.  Just wait until I have a human child.  It will be photos of Stan's first dump, "Early Bird" style.
*I hate moon roofs in cars.  I recently got a new set of wheels, and I specifically asked for a car without one.  Why?  Because when the screen is open and reveals the sky, I'm convinced that some rogue object from space will come hurtling through the moon roof and cause mass destruction.  That, or the sky will simply fall on my head.
There's more, but I already know that this is a lot to process.  I have to go straighten up the house.  One of the throw pillows is askew, and if I don't fix it the world will tip off its axis. :)

The Truffle Shuffle

Hey there, friends.  Today's post is going to be short, sweet, and to the point.  Don't get your expectations up though, because I'm not feeling all that hilarious. In fact, I'm feeling more like a fat ass because I'm fairly certain I gained fifty-five thousand pounds this past week, because my best friend from back home came out to visit me, and what better way to catch up then sit around eating sticks of butter and reminiscing?  My husband was also on vacay, and Chef Boy-Ar-Lenny delivered.  So all-in-all I'm a big fat fatty, and quite frankly rather winded from just typing with my sausage fingers.
I will post about the adventures of Thelma and Lousie on another day, but for now I've decided I'm just going to give you my B*tch List.  Enjoy.
Words that are not real:
*Woofs.  Here I will use it in a sentence:  Look at those woofs howling at the moon.  Oh.  You mean wolves?  Look at those WOLVES howling at the moon?  I'm pretty sure "woofs" is what the wolves actually say.
*Yous.  Yous guys better hurry up.  I'm sorry, what?
*You welcome.  As in, you welcome.  How about we get a little pirate in you, and add an "arrrrre" to the "you".
*Libary.  I'm going to the libary.  I'm sorry.  I don't know what that is.  Does the libary teach you about woofs?
*Febuary.  Again, there isn't a silent r.  I don't pronounce March "Mach".  Unless you're from Boston, knock it off.
The only words that are permitted to pronounce incorrectly are "Irish wristwatch", and "rear wheel drive".  Haha.  You're saying it now, aren't yous?
And I leave you with a little Goonies treat, because essentially right now I resemble Chunk.  You welcome. :)

Chef Boy-Ar-Lenny

Here's a fun tidbit.  I can't cook.  I hate it with a deep, deep passion, and if you expect me to bring a side dish, you can guarantee that I'm more than likely going to bring either fruit or vegetables that have already beed sliced, diced, and packaged, and some pre-made dip.  If it doesn't come in a box or bag, then I'm more than likely not going to cook it.  On the rare occasions what I do cook, no matter what I make it all tastes the same.  Lasagna?  Tastes like chicken.  Meatloaf?  Tastes like chicken.  Polish sausage, chicken.  You get the point.  I have the blue box blues, and I plan on havin' em until I become an old hag.  When I'm feeling really gourmet I make what I loving (and creatively) refer to as "fire pasta."  Sounds interesting, doesn't it?  I will be sure to include the recipe at the end of the post.  What it essentially is, is spaghetti noodles, butter, and hot sauce.  *BAM* Money.  There was one time when I must of been having an episode of some sort, because I attempted to make a "fancy" grilled cheese sandwich.  Meaning, I had to use cheese that wasn't just Kraft singles.  That should have been my first warning that I was going to be out of my league.  But I thought to myself, it's grilled cheese.  How on earth can I possible screw this up??  Hahaha.  Silly girl.  Silly, stupid, girl.  I started off strong.  I had all of my cheeses lined up nicely, had the bread buttered just so, and then I put the sammies in the frying pan, and I watched as it congealed into a concoction that was part plastic, part magnificent bouncing ball.  The cheese had taken on a new life form.  It was something that should have been studied by NASA, and I'm fairly certain the "cheese" could have been used to patch a hole in a tire.  As I stood at the stove, staring down at the bread that now resembled a wadded up napkin, and the cheese slowly turning into cement, the fire detectors went off.  I'm pretty sure I gave the detectors the bird, because come on.  That's what I get for being fancy.  About ten minutes after my sorry attempt, Leonard came home from work and was all like, *sniff sniff*  "Why does it smell like smoke?  Did you almost burn down the house again?  Were you trying to get all fancy with the ramen noodles again?"  And I was all like, "Dammit Sharpe!  I was tryyyyying to make you a fancy grilled cheese sammie."  And then he was all like, "Did you call NASA yet to have them study your new form of glue?"  And then I threw down my chef hat, and continued to sip on the cooking sherry.  But here's the deal, even though I can't cook, Leonard can.  Fantastically too, I might add.  When I'm all like, "Would you like the chicken tenders that are in the shape of dinosaurs or star shapes?"  He's all like, "I made you a honey glazed chicken, with a side of pea puree and baby roasted potatoes that were kissed with a hint of truffle."  And then I look at him in confusion because I don't speak that fancy chef language, so he clarifies it for me, "It tastes good, and you can't bounce it across the room."
So if you're ever invited over to my house for dinner, and Leonard is out of town for work, don't be surprised if I present you with a Lean Cuisine and a sorry look on my face.
I leave you with a picture of Chef Lenny, to prove that the man means business when he gets down on the get down.  Oh, he's going to be so pissed.  :)  Hi Lenny!  Don't be too mad, because I think your carrot/potato creation is the bomb diggity.  For reals.

I believe he is pureeing some macadamia nuts, during one of his own self-induced "Chopped Challenges".  Sometime I like to play Iron Chef, where I shout out random foods just for funsies, and watch Leonard dig through the cupboard for truffle oil and mangos.

And last but not least, I leave you with my recipe for "Fire Pasta".  I swear to God if this become a thing, I best get credit for it.  :)
"Fire Pasta"
*Take a fist full of dry spaghetti noodles, and snap them in half
*Throw them into the boiling water
*Go sit on the couch and watch The Real Housewives of Whatever.  When someone tosses a table, then it's time to drain the noodles.
*Drain pasta, and then add a glob of butter, and then add a good glug of hot sauce
*Mix thoroughly
*Dump into bowl
*Enjoy
YOU'RE WELCOME

I had a dream. And that shiz was crazy.

I think it's pretty obvious that I'm not exactly "normal."  On the outside I may seem sweet and innocent, but on the inside, and for those that actually know me know me probably think I'm a little bit of a whackadoo.  (Which I consider a compliment, btw.)  Even my dreams are bizarre.  Like, super duper bizarre.  There are two dreams in particular that I have every now and then, but I think those are the ones that I have when I'm stressed out.  One is where a Southwest plane is hovering over my house, and eventually crashes into it.  Weird part is, the plane stays in tact, no one gets hurt, and there is never any damage, but I'm always either in my backyard, or looking out my bedroom window, watching the plane take a nose-dive into the ground, and thinking, "Holy crap.  I can't believe I'm seeing this." I usually wake up right after feeling a bit panicked, and every time I'm in my backyard and a see a purple and gold plane flying in the sky, I hold my breath a little bit.  The other repeat dream is where I'm back in my old neighborhood, walking back to my house either from the middle school that I attended (what up, Hoover), or making my way back from the high school that I attended ('sup West.)  I'm always aimlessly walking back, either feeling lost, or like someone is following me.  That one doesn't sound so weird, but I guess it's more of the feeling that comes along with the dream that makes it feel so spooky. I have also had super macabre dreams, that should probably have me laced in a straight jacket and thrown into a dungeon.  I've dreamt of being at a carnival and watching a person get decapitated on the Tilt-a-whirl.  I've dreamt of watching someone get murdered, and then the murderer asking me to carry the duffle bag that they've stuffed the body in, and drag it into the woods.  See.  I told you I was weird. But it's not like I can control my brain at all times.  But seriously, sometimes I wonder where I come up with half of this strange crap.
Not all of my dreams are bad, or have someone dying a dastardly death.  I also have awesome ones where I dream that I can fly or levitate, or that I'm swimming in the crystal clear ocean.  I've read online before that if you dream of clear water, everything is a-okay in real life and you aren't stressed.  I've also dreamt of being in deep, dark water, far away from shore in a total panic, and that dark tumultuous water symbolizes stress.  I believe those theories, too.  Usually the dreams that you remember hold some value and become a picture show of your subconscious.  (Whoah.  Didn't know I could be so hea-vyyy, did ya?  Ahh snap.  Where's my beret and corn husk pipe?  Cause fancy smart people wear French chapeaus and smoke pipes.  And before any of you get your p-words in a bunch, my pipe would be empty.  I would just look extra sophisticated having one hang out of my mouth.)  I promise I'm getting somewhere with all of this.  *promise*  So, I get it.  They say that if you dream of death, it can symbolize a new beginning.  If you dream of accidents, it could mean that you feel out of control.  If you dream of water, blah blah blah.  But here's my question for you.... What the hell does this dream mean? And I swear to God this is something that I dreamt the other night, and when I woke up I was all like, huh?  Here it goes, and I'm open for any interpretation....
Francis Mcdormand (the lady that was in the awesome sauce movie 'Fargo'), was putting things away in a kitchen that I have never been in in real life, and she was wearing a Wendy's drive-thru head set (I only know that it was a Wendy's drive-thru head set because she said it in my dream.  Even Francis was like, let me clarify this one for you), and she was listening to aliens come through on the frequency of the head set.  And she thought it was both exhilarating and delightful.  What. The. Eff.  What does this mean?  Does this mean that I'm having a premonition about the future career of my girl Francis?  That she should change career paths?  Or is this more of a 'build it and they will come' type of situation, where I have to go get me a Wendy's head set and contact the alien hob-goblins out in deep dark space?  Have I officially lost it?  Someone, please just explain this one to me.  I'll even buy you a Wendy's frosty,  because they are delicious.
Now, don't get too concerned my dear friends. I'm about 87% sure that circus music is playing up in the old bean most of the time, and my brain is like, how can I confuse her this time?  But if I start donning a helmet out of aluminum foil and telling everyone that I'm looking for Mork to pair up with an earthling named Mindy, well then yes, please bust out the butterfly nets.
Alright.  That's it for today.  I have a sudden hankering for a square hamburger. ;)

Flappys, Laser Beams, and (of course) Poo

Today's post is dedicated to my husband.  Leonard, you are the apple of my eye, my little love muffin, and the inspiration for so many blog ditties, that I don't even know where to begin.  You see friends, Leonard is just as big of a random weirdo as I am.  Quite simply, the man is the peach to my cobbler.
I figured I would just illustrate why he's right up my alley by giving you snippets of some of the conversations that we have had, just within the past week.
Sitting in the car...
Me:  Do you think I'm cute?  (I don't fish for compliments.  I go right in for the kill.)
Leonard:  No. I think you're beautiful.  And I'll still think you're beautiful, even when we are both old, ugly, and flappy.
Me:  Did you just call me "flappy"??!?!
Leonard: Noooo.  I just said that when we are OLD we'll both be flappy.  We can be flappy and happy together.
Me:  Dear God.  You think I'm going to be flappy....  Me, with my old lady flappy arms.  You, with your old man flappy balls.  Evens Stevens.
Sitting in the car, during a separate occasion...
Me:  Quick.  If you had the choice between having laser beam eyes as a super power, or shooting wolverine claws out of your fingers, which one would you choose?
Leonard:  Easy.  Wolverine claws.  No brainer.
Me:  Pppbbbttt.  I would choose laser beam eyes.  'Cause this way I could shoot my laser eyes at people that are at far distances.
Leonard:  Yeah, but then I could also fling my wolverine claws at people far away too.
Me:  Umm.  No you can't.  They would be retractable claws.  Kind of like cat claws, only made of metal.  You could go around scratching people like a cat.  And then people could start calling you Puss in Boots.
Leonard:  Why didn't you say so?!?!?!  You need to clarify these skills.  Laser beams.  I want the laser beams.
Me:  Too late, Puss.  You've already made your choice.  And I want a cape.
Watching t.v. when a commercial came on about people having difficulty taking a dumper...
Leonard:  Why is there a lady with a fancy basket, walking around first class in an airplane handing out pooh treats?
Me:  Ummm. What?
Leonard:  The lady on t.v.!  Doesn't she think that people back in coach need to pooh, too?
Me:  Why the hell is this woman handing out pooh treats on an airplane?  Is that what you get in First Class?  Besides an egg salad sandwich, you also get pooh pills?
Leonard:  (Hypnotized by the television screen, absolutely dumb founded by the fact that this woman is  not offering her Metamucil delights to those that are behind the curtain.)  I just don't get it...
Me: I'm more concerned about the fact that you're upset about something that you refer to as "pooh treats."
There you have it.  Just a tiny snippet of why the husband and I are weirdos.   :)

YOU'RE an idiot; Here's YOUR sign

I realize upon reflection that between my last post griping about people who can't drive, and today's post, I kind of sound like a crotchety old man.  It's like I'm somehow morphing into Andy Rooney, the quintessential old fart that would have a whole entire segment on 60 Minutes, where he could b*tch about anything that he wanted.  Lucky b@stard.  So even though I don't resemble the old man from the movie Up, and I am not, in fact, an old man, I'm still going to complain anyways. :)
People who do not use the correct form of "your", "you're", "there", "their", or "they're", drive me iNsAnE.  Without fail, everyday when I peruse Facebook, I always, always, ALWAYS see people misuse those above mentioned words incorrectly.  THEY ARE GROWN UPS.  And as far as I know, fairly intelligent people.  I mean, COME ON!!!!  It's not. that. hard.  And I will not accept the excuse of, it's faster to type out "your".  Really?  Really.  Adding in an apostrophe and an extra letter really takes that much time out of your day?  Really.  Now I KNOW I am far from perfect.  I have gone back and looked at some of my entries and have found numerous mistakes, but still. Come. On.
Quick lesson:  You're= You ARE.  Example of the word being used correctly:  You're really annoying me when you use the word "you're" incorrectly.  I'm pretty sure a piece of my soul dies every time you use it incorrectly.
Your=Your; As in, showing ownership of something.  Example:  I think we should get a mini horse for YOUR birthday.
I know it's not the end of the world when someone is grammatically deficient, but still, it drives me bonkers. And honestly, it's not that hard of a rule.
*phew*  Okay.  I suppose that's enough of a b*tch fest.  I'm going to go see how I can get my own nationally syndicated show where I can complain about anything that I want to, all while I drink copious amounts of sangria. :)

Rage Against the Machine

Now I know I tend to paint myself in a glorious light.  I try to highlight the positive attributes that I have.  You know... My ability to swim like a dolphin, play intense instruments like the kazoo and finger snapping, and my greatest goal in life, becoming an exceptional fisherman of items that have fallen down into the deep crevice of my boobie cavern.  Not all of us can be graceful creatures.  But today I figured I would show you the more "human" side to me, and that I too, have flaws.  I think I just heard audible gasps from the crowd, and can practically hear some of your internal thought processes:  You mean this woman who tries to pass off mustache sweat as a glow has flaws?  Say it ain't so.  Oh.  It's so.  Okay... here it goes.  *Deep breath* I...have road rage.  NOW WAIT A MINUTE!!!! Let me explain.  The problem you see isn't me.  It's all the douche nuggets on the road that goad me into a rage of fury.  I have two wishes in this world.  1) That my car came equipped with a box of rocks, so that I could have them on hand to hurl at people who are driving like ace-holes.  Each rock will come equipped with a note tethered to it that would say: YOU are a douche nozzle.  I'm not concerned with a "Baby On Board" window sticker.  I want one to say "Lady With a Box of Rocks On Board".  See if you'll want to ride my a-s-s then.  Douche.  My second wish is that the my back windshield had LED lights that would spell out "You Sure Must Be An Ass Man, Because You Sure Are Riding Mine-BACK OFF", or "WARNING: Lady With A Box Of Rocks".  *sigh* A girl can dream.
You might be wondering why someone as demure, calm, and classy as myself would be filled with such rage, and the answer is simple.  People are ace-holes and don't know how to drive. The other day I went out to lunch with a friend of mine, and the issue of road rage came up.  My friend had a theory that the reason why we probably have road rage (she's a rager, too), is because we have to have so much patience during our daytime jobs, that by the end of the day our patience tank has been completely depleted, and we are ready to lob some rocks.  Being professional beekeepers  does require copious amounts of patience, so I totally get her point.
I will end today's post with a conversation snippet that happened between Leonard and myself, as we were driving along the thruway, and the King of all Douche's that was driving a gigantic white Dodge pickup truck, license plate number IMADOUCHE, decided to ride my rear and then had the AUDACITY to flash his high beams at me, and then proceed to make hand gestures to me, suggesting that I should get in the other lane.  Yeah. Well I had some hand gestures for him too.  Unless you have a RAGING case of butt rush, get off of mine.
Me:  OMG...This ace-hole is going to run me off the road! And now he's giving me the thumb!  I'll give him the thumb!  Except instead of my thumb I'm going to flash him the Doublemint Twins.
Leonard:  Seriously Kristina.  He can't hear you calling him a douche bucket.  Your window is rolled up.  Just get in the other lane.
Me (too busy being enraged to listen): I am busting out in HIVES, I'm so mad right now. HAHA! I'm not moving over. I'm going to box this tool off.  Let's see how going forty in a seventy feels. *maniacal laughter*
Douche Nugget behind me:  More erratic thumb gestures.
Me, having a death-like grip at ten and two on the steering wheel, plotting new ways to piss the D.N. off even more.
Leonard: OMG, Kristina! PUT YOUR MIDDLE FINGERS DOWN, AND PUT YOUR HANDS BACK ON THE WHEEL!!!!!  People carry guns in this state!
Me: I AM NOT AFRAID!!!!  Dude's lucky I don't have my box of rocks.
And that my fine friends is an example of how I can be quite scrappy, and have absolutely zero tolerance for people that don't know how to drive.  So if you're ever driving along the thruway and you see a lady driving around in a black Jetta, and she's waving around her two middle fingers screaming, "You're lucky I don't have my box of rocks!!!!", it's just me.  Remain calm, and help me box the D.N. in. :)

Swimming Upstream

So I’m seriously considering changing the name of this blog to “Sweet Bass”, because of the copious amounts of aquatic fodder that I’ve been supplied with, due to my new adventure of training to become a deep-sea diver.  It’s like I’m the female version of Michael Phelps, except cuter and I don’t have a banana to fit snuggly into a banana hammock.  Anways…. 

Where shall I begin.  Oh, I know.  How about how Leonard thinks that I have an “old lady” bathing suit, because it has “old lady” ruffles on the front.  First of all, it doesn’t have ruffles, it’s ruching to help accentuate my one-pack.  Second of all, old ladies tend to wear tropical print bathing suits that have built in over-the-shoulder-boulder-holders that make their tah-tahs resemble torpedoes.  My bathing suit has not a pastel palm frond in sight, or a built-in cone bra. So there.

But back to my story of how I felt like a salmon trying to swim upstream.  When I got to the pool the other day, I noticed that there were a few fellow Olympic swimmer hopefuls that had beat me to the early bird arrival.  One man, who I believe was alive during the Lousianna Purchase, was doing what I believe were aquatic lunges, while simultaneously doing arm curls with the foam arm “weights”.  And then I saw her;  My water nemesis.  She was  decked out in the typical old lady swim gear, i.e. not my bathing suit.  Black suit with purple and teal tropical flowers, and her lady missiles were creating a wake in the water.  I didn’t realize her plan at first, but after I discovered that I was treading water in the same exact spot for five minutes, and not moving anywhere, I discovered her evil, master craft plan.  Let’s just call my new arch nemesis “Lilly Pad”.  L.P. was walking laps in the pool.  NBD.  Who am I to dog on a person for doing a little water aerobics?  Not this lady. As I furiously tread water in the same spot, I noticed that I was being slightly carried towards Missiles MaGee, I realized her tactic.  Lilly Pad created what I believe was essentially a water vortex.  L.P. wasn’t just walking back and forth, up and down the lane.  Oh no.  She was creating her very own whorl pool by walking in a circle.  The same small circle, over and over and over again.  I think she was threatened by my aquatic prowess.  I mean, it’s not everyday that you come across a thirty-ish mermaid who is gasping for breath as she’s attempting to doggy paddle in her not-old lady bathing suit.    So, being the grown up that I so am, I stood up and huffed at her.  And when I say “huffed” I mean I mean-mugged her to her backside, walked back to the part that allowed me to paddle freely, and sighed heavily.   She probably thought I was just trying to catch my breath from attempting to do the dolphin in her whorl pool of destruction, and didn’t realize that I was actually just exasperated at her.  And exhausted from swimming like a mammal with a blow-hole. 

After her 7,862 laps around, she finally called it quits, and I was able to go back to swim like a sweet, sweet Bass.  Little does Lilly Pad know that tomorrow when I go back, I’m going to be prepared.  I plan on wearing a bathing suit that will give me missile boobs, because those babies can make some headway in a current created by Ms. Palm Fronds.  :)

Mrs. Green Jeans

I'm sure many of you are aware that I am a master of many crafts and talents.  I mean, I have the ability to pick up an instrument and play it beautifully, without having been given any type of formal training.  You should see me rock out a tambourine.  It's like woah.  I've had people throw money at me while I broke out in a random concert playing, what else, but Tambourine Man.  Just so you know, quarters hurt, so if you have the urge to throw cash at me, please make it rain with paper money.  But back to my "many crafts and talents."  I have what the kids call a "green thumb."  I can throw something in the ground or pot, and watch it flourish.  And then I keep watching it until I decide that it can now die a miserable death and dry out to a big brown heap.  I guess I just like to challenge myself to see if I can actually grow something.  A few years ago I decided to grow a vegetable garden.  Lenny was all like, "Really, Kristina?  Really."  It's not that he wasn't supportive in my farming endeavors, but rather the man knew exactly what I would do.  I would till, churn, water, and pluck.  I would have tomatoes grow the size of basketballs, and cucumbers that were huuuuuuuuge, and looked like, well, large cucumbers.  Perverts.  Where did you think I was going to take that one?  I had patches of mint that grew enough leaves to make at least a dozen gallons of mojitos.  But eventually after my garden had flourished, I was dunzo.  I stopped watering it.  The thought of eating anything from the garden made me want to *horf*.  I mean, ew.  That shiz is growing in the dirt.  Do you know what can be found in the dirt?  Spiders.  Worms.  Beetles.  SPIDERS.  HORRFFFBBBBLLAAARRGGGGGG <--- That's the sound of me vomiting from just the thought of eating any of it.  Now, I've had well informed people say to me, "Umm, dummy.  You do know where the vegetables that you purchase from the grocery store come from, right? "  And I'm all, "Yeah, yeah.  I know.  But I don't have to see it."  At least when I buy stuff from the grocery store I don't have to see it being plucked from the ground.  I can just pretend that it just magically appeared there, and not a single spider leg touched a single berry, potato, or cucumber.  So I'll stick to buying my produce at the market.
I know I'm not the only one that feels this way, either.  My one fur-child, Barkley, decided he was going to have a feast on the tomatoes that left laying on the ground that were being inhibited by a family of tarantulas, and proceeded to come into the house and barf all over the living room carpet about sixteen times.  I think the realization that he just ate spider tomatoes hit him, and it made him yak.  I mean, he does eat poo sammies on occasion, but whatevs.  Spider tomatoes are nasty.
You would think that after The Garden of '09, I would've learned my lesson and realized that I could indeed grow a crop, but nopers.  A couple of months ago I wondered if I could grow something inside of the house.  You know, away from critters.  So I bought a packet of basil and mint seeds, and they grew.  Boy did they grow.  And again Leonard said, "Really, Kristina?  Really.  What are you going to do with the basil?"  This is a valid question because 1) if it doesn't come in a box or bag, I'm not going to cook it, and 2) I don't recollect the time when I've ever had a hankering for something basil-y.  But I grew it anyways, and eventually I grew bored with it (haha... get it... grew), and let it die.  I just tossed the shriveled basil and mint leaves away just a few days ago.
For now my growing spurt has dissipated, but I'm sure the urge will return again.  In fact I think I'm going to challenge myself and try to grow pumpkins.  Inside.  On the kitchen window ledge.  Oh, the possibilities. :)

I am Mermaid. Here me Glug.

I am BACK.  Sorry for my absence, *but truth be told I was interning at a scorpion rehabilitation center during the months of August-June, so my blog entries have been few and far between.  Note to self: There is nothing snuggly about a scorpion.  They are bite-y.  And stingy.  But I digress... What I'm trying to say is, I'm back now on a more regular consistency.  (*I am lying.)
Now, you might have looked at today's title entry, and are wondering to yourself, "she's a mermaid, too?" Basically, yes.  I have always loved the water.  When I was a kid I would lay in the bathtub and have my hair fan out and I would swish it to-and-fro, pretending that I was a magnificent mermaid.  I wouldn't leave the tub until my body resembled a large prune, and the water became a tepid fifty degrees.  When I got a little older, my family finally got a pool, and I practically lived in it from June-August.  I would splash around gleefully, resembling that of an orca, arcing gracefully out of the water, and then thundering down with a loud (and wave churning) *splash*.  But when you're a kid, you really don't care how you look in your swim gear, and you're just there for the fun of it.  I would rock out a neon colored one-piece suit like it was my job, and my main concern was that I had the less pinch-y type of nose plugs, and if my BFF would be able to bring her blow-up whale over, so we could go on an epic sea adventure in my ten-footer.  But as I got older, and the blow-up whale had more than one blow-hole (due to one "sea adventure" that involved jumping on the inflatable whale like it was a clydesdale, only having it sink to the bottom of the pool like a boulder), and suddenly it dawned on me that one should not draw attention to themselves by basically wearing neon colored underpants in the daytime.  So, my pastime of swimming like there was no tomorrow were long gone.  Until today.  You see, now that my summers are free, I decided to get a swim pass at a local rec center, so I could swim myself back into shape.  Let me paint you a picture of today's first time back in the pool, in I don't know how long...
I set my alarm for 5 AM, and I actually rolled myself out of bed, stuffed myself into my black life-sucking bathing suit (all the while wishing that it would be acceptable to wear a turtleneck and yoga pants in the pool),  and trying to shove my armpit fat down into this torture device known as "swim gear", hoping that I could pass it off more as boobage, instead of having armpit rolls that resemble vaginas.  Sorry if that's a little much, but let's be honest.  That's what it looks like.  After adjusting my bathing suit so my armpit wings wouldn't get in my way, I was in my car and headed to re-live my youth as a magnificent, magnificent mermaid.  I pulled into a parking space, and literally had to brace myself before walking in.  There actually were quite a few cars in the lot, which induced panic.  The thought of swimming like a torpedo in front of an audience made me hyperventilate. But, because I am brave, I went in anyways.
After trying to figure out how to open up the frigging locker for ten minutes-I'm not even kidding.  I probably looked like a newborn primate trying to figure out how doorknobs work-I finally was ready to get my swim on.  With a deep breath, and my towel wrapped tightly around my waist, I headed for the pool.  Luckily there was only one other dude in there who looked like he was a current subscriber to AARP, so I dropped my towel with a little more confidence.  I mean, he might've been wearing goggles, so he could've had a clear vision of me thrashing around like a bass out of water, but the man was utilizing a kick-board, and seemed to be in his own little world.  I slid into the water and thought that I would start off strong by doing the breast stroke.  Oh. My. God.  Who knew you could actually sweat while you were in water.  I was half-way down the lane and I literally thought to myself, "Self, if you were ever stranded out at sea, and had to swim for it, you'd be screwed.  You would sink to the bottom like the Titanic, and then be eaten by barracudas."  I honestly think that if Mr. Kick-board wasn't there I would've walked back to the beginning lane, and called it quits.  But I didn't.  Instead for the next half an hour I swam like a champion.  I didn't care that I probably looked like a manatee that was on its last leg, or that I was huffing and puffing like the little engine that (barely) could, and that I kept drifting into the side of the wall because I am incapable of swimming in a straight line. I kept on going.
When I decided that I was ready for the water Olympics,  I took a deep breath, splayed my hair out in the water, just like a mermaid would do, and then wondered if it would be okay if I brought an inflatable whale with me for next time. :)
And here is a little photographic evidence of my childhood spent as a neon-donned mermaid.  I am the one of the right.  The person on the left is my best friend, and inflatable whale supplier. HA!  Love you, Brooke!

Mine

Fact:  I am an only child
Another fact:  This is a fact that most people are flabbergasted by.
Let me demonstrate-
Me:  "I am an only child."
Not me:  "You're kidding?  I never would've guessed."
The above conversation is a true story.  Typically when people come to light of the fact that I am a lone child, they are stunned.  Amazed.  Bamboozeled.  When people are surprised by this piece of information, I usually have a follow-up statement and/or question of:  "It's because I'm so amazing, isn't it?  You would've guessed by my humble demeanor that I come from a Duggar household.  You assumed that I was at least child number three, because I don't seem bratty.  Or self-entitled.  Or needy, like a middle child."  (Sorry you middle children, but Marsha, Marsha, Marsha.)  I am a rare breed.  Both because I am an only child, and I am all of the wonderful things that I have listed previously.  Kind of.... You see, I am a giver of my time, my hugs, my wit and charm.  But there is one aspect of my singleness that does demonstrate that I am, indeed, a lone spawn.  I hate sharing.  Hate. It.  And I completely blame my mother. :)  Mom Dukes never really encouraged the whole "sharing" thing.  She always figured that since I was an only child, I should be able to reap some of the rewards.  I never had a brother or sister to rip toys from their hands, or have to fight over who gets what.  It was always mine.  I can vividly remember Christmases at my house, and I would hold my breath and have a mini melt-down over the fact that someone was touching my new Barbie.  I would pile my loot and put all of the extra-special things in the back of the tree, where no one could get their grubby little paws on them.  Even though I would never really say anything to anyone, I would be watching them like a hawk, and thinking to myself, "I swear to the Heavens that if anyone, anyoneeeeeee, pushes that pop-o-matic bubble too hard on my new game of Trouble, I will pop them."  I'm sure it must've been pretty entertaining (or irritating) for my family to watch a neurotic six year old lose her shiz over the fact that someone was manhandling something that wasn't theirs.  I wish I could say that I have outgrown this tendency of selfishness, but alas, I haven't.  I still have a difficult time sharing any of my goods.  Now don't get me wrong, I do share, but on the inside I am sweating bullets and having a total conniption fit.  The thoughts of, "If you break it/ruin it/mess it up, I will squish you," comes to mind.  There is a pot 'o gold at the end of this rainbow, though.  I find the older you get, the less you actually have to share.  The only time that I am reminded of my embedded selfishness is when Lenny and I get Fat Kid Food-aka take out-and he plunges his hand into the bag and starts grabbing random fries.  That are probably from my fry container.  You would have thought that the man was about to steal a kidney without permission.  I seethe with irritation, all the while trying to seem nonchalant, but manage to say through clenched teeth, "You better keep those lady fingers out of my fry box."  Okay, maybe I'm not so nonchalant about it, and maybe I've not only effectively demonstrated that I don't like to share, but I can also behave like a total fat a**.
In conclusion, I think it's fair to say that I am the Captain of the 'S.S. It's Mine-ow', and really have no qualms about it.  Share a hug?  Sure.  Share my sticks of delicious Idaho goodness? Get your own. :)

I don't even know...

My thoughts have been so disjointed lately that there is a whole random cluster taking place in my brain, making it nearly impossible to get any of the "funnies" into competent, coherent sentences.  So, to be a little less of a slacker, I have decided to jot down the swill that has been churning over in my thought wrinkles:
*My irrational fear of garage zombies (I will go into more detail about this one at a later time, but it pretty much coincides with the scary death man hobgoblin that lives under my bed, that will grab me by my ankles and pull me down into Torture Land-where there are spiders the size of Cadillacs, and 'Keeping Up With The Kardashians' is playing on a constant loop-if I don't jump into my bed fast enough at night.)
*How I feel that skinny jeans and fedoras should be illegal (and anyone who wears them together should be shipped off to Hipster Island, where they can watch Downton Abbey on a continuous reel, and have contests like, 'Who Has The Tightest Pants', and, 'Watch How I Can Turn This Palm Frond Into A Stylish Scarf', together.)
*The fact that I have owned too many turtlenecks in my lifetime, and have used the word 'wanderlust' (Out loud.  To a person that could hear me), to ever be considered cool.
*How I want to own this shirt, because I find it ironic. (*The shirt is described as a "zombie wound", but I took it to mean something totally different before I read the description.  I mean, seriously.  How many times have you told a person, "I'm fine," when clearly you aren't, but it's just too exhausting to explain otherwise.)

*How I want to adopt a slow loris, because this critter is one outburst of, "Scratch my wingies!  With both hands!  In circles!" from being the fur version of me, demanding to be tickled and/or scratched.

*And finally, how I feel awkward and uncomfortable listening to Justin Beaver "rap" about being someones boyfriend.  Oh, the Beave...the Beave...
So hopefully on a day when my thoughts aren't all squishy and mushed together, I will write a cohesive piece on why there is nothing better, or more hilarious, than a deep-V neck t-shirt.  :)

Someone get out the meat sheers

*The following conversation is embellished (aka-fictionalized), but it basically sums up my life:
911 dispatcher:  911, what's your emergency?
Me: I'm stuck.
911:  You're stuck?  In what?  A well?  A hole?  In quick sand?
Me: No.  Boots.
911:  You're stuck in boots?  Is that a place?
Me: No.  My BOOTS.  My knock-off Wellies.  They're stuck.  On my feet.  And I'm having a panic attack.
911:  Is this the same lady that called before about getting stuck in her Spanx?
Me:  I don't want to talk about it.
911:  And wasn't there also the time, something with a turtleneck?
Me:  Hey!  It's not MY fault that the fashion industry discriminates against people who happen to have a large circumference around their dome.  They should take people like us into consideration when they make their turtleneck holes.  It was like giving birth to my own head.  I just saw flashes of blue cotton fibers, and my life flashing before me eyes.
911:  Just exactly how are you stuck in your boots?  Or excuse me, "wellies".
Me:  Same as the Spanx and the turtleneck.
911:  You're squeezing things of a large circumference into something too small?
Me:  I'll happen to let you know I have large feet to hold up my large head.  I'm proportionate.
911:  We can't send emergency workers to release you from your boots, ma'am.
Me:  Dammit.
911:  Just get out the meat sheers, ma'am.
Me:  But then my boots will be ruined.
911:  Ma'am...
Me:  Dammit.  Fine.

And that is the story of the time my boats got stuck in the dock, so to speak.  My predicament did give me an idea for my next Halloween costume, though.  I'm going to go as a Chinese finger cuff, decked out in my death trap blue turtleneck, Spanx, and blue wellies.  And I think Lenny should be one big giant meat sheer.  (Gotta keep with the couples theme. :)

It's good to have goals

Happy New Year, my darlings.  It is now officially 2012, and the world has not imploded.  *sigh of relief* It's that time of year where people typically make resolutions.  I honestly don't ever do that, because it's basically setting yourself up for failure.  However.... however, this is the time of year when the "random strikes again", and I get new and different ideas in my head that I want to accomplish.  I mentioned one of my ideas to my husband the other day and he had the audacity to mumble, "Gah, you're so random,"  and I was like, "Really?  Really."  Like it's something new.... But I figured I would share my list with you of 2012 goals,  and then I figured I would be able to share with you through this new year if I accomplish any or all of them.
Here it goes....
1)  I want to do a Polar Bear Plunge.  Number one, I LOVE polar bears.  I think they are adorable and delightful.  Now I know I won't become a polar bear if I accomplish this goal, but I do plan on roaring and swiping my p. bear paws as I plunge into the frigid lake waters of MN.  I did my research and there is a plunge-a-roo coming up at the end of January.  I'm *thisclose* to registering, because I have also tangled a few friends into this delightful tangled web of hypothermia, and I figured if I end up losing a few ears and limbs due to frostbite, and least I won't be alone.
2)  I want to learn how to rock climb.  I'd be fine with starting off on one of those rock climbing walls that they have at a gym, or at an REI, and then make my way to a canyon that is about ten feet high.  Where did I come up with this little diddy, you may be wondering?  Well, there is a new commercial on t.v. for a credit card, where this insane woman and her pretend boyfriend climb to the tippy top of a mountain.  My first thought was, "What a nut bag."  My second thought was, "I would poop my pants if I did that."  And then my third and final thought about it was, "I wanna try it."  I definitely do not want to climb something that high, but I feel that it is important to do something that scares the crap out of you, at least once, because that's how many times you live, and you might as well enjoy it.  So if you happen to venture out to an REI store, and you see a woman swinging like an orangutan on a wall made out of plastic, and her shouting, "Get me doowwwwwwnnnnnnnnnnn!!!!!  I just pooped my pants from fear,"  it's just me, crossing an item off of my "to do" list.
3)  I want to learn how to sew and get one of those fancy sewing machines.  You see, I am awful at sewing.  I had pants hems that have fallen more than Lindsey Lohan on a bender, and I always resort to tape, a stapler, and maybe some Elmer's glue, and for whatever reason, it never really keeps.  So I'm feeling crafty, and I want to give it a whirl.  Nothing would give me more satisfaction that proving to my Home Ec teacher from twenty years ago that I can indeed use a sewing machine without physically punching it and destroying the bobber.
4)  Now this last one is probably on everyone's list this year, but I refuse to call it a "resolution", because like I said before, I feel like I'd be setting myself up for failure.  But here it is, my last random act of to do's for 2012 (until the next ridiculous idea comes to mind):
I would like my thighs to not touch.  There.  I said it.  And I mean without the help of Spanx.  How glorious would that be to not have to worry about the chub rub?  So I'd like to get a treadmill so I can skip myself into a smaller circumference in the privacy of my own home.
There you have it, folks.  My List.  I'll let you know if I accomplish any of these things.  Chances are, pick the most ridiculous one off the list, and that's that one that I'll probably tackle first.
So heres to 2012!  May it be a year filled with (intentional) icy plunges, rock climbing gear that rides up your triangle, and smaller thighs!  Happy New Year, friends! :0)