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. ;)