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)

Rapunzel, Rapunzel, Let down your chin hair!

Soooooo, yeah.  I'm not exactly what you would a call a "Spring Chicken".  I have passed the tolerance threshold of wearing a tube top in public and getting away with it, or having more "elasticity" and "height" in my boobage.  Each year they drop about three millimeters, so I figure by the time I'm 50 they'll be down to my knees.  The picture that I'm trying to paint here is that I'm getting older, and I'm not exactly shy when it comes to admitting to the changes that I notice.  Like for example, the other day I was pulling back the skin on my face so that I looked both sleek and surprised (more like terrified), when a shiny strand caught my eye.  What is this?  I asked myself.  Is that a speck of glitter that I see perched in between my brows?  A rouge eyelash that lost its way?  Nope.  It was a long, majestic blonde hair that had decided to grow smack dab in the middle of my forehead.  In other words, I'm transforming into a unicorn before my very eyes.  Except instead of a magical horn, we can replace it with a hair.  A long, shiny, can't miss it, can't pass it off as a bang, hair.  Grrrrrreat.  So, how does one grapple with such a situation, you may be wondering.  The answer is easy.  After I stopped crying over the fact that my youth has withered down to a glistening hair that is perched atop the bridge of my nose, I grabbed the tweezers, and then began furiously wrestling with my new bang.  And guess what?  It was a slippery little jerk.  No matter the angle, that lone hair slid right out of those tweezers like a champ.  It stood there in defiance, standing straight at attention.  I believe it even waved at me and laughed.  Cripes.  What was this thing made out of?  After the umpt-teenth attempt I finally clamped it in between the tweezers and gave it a yank.  And that stupid thing curled like a Christmas ribbon.  So instead of having a poker straight hair sticking out, I now had a jheri curl.  It was a quandary.  Do I try to blow torch it off?  Mat it down with some gel?  Pull it back and try to incorporate it with the rest of my not there bangs?  Nope.  You swear at it and call it a jerk while you squeeze the tweeze with a death-like grip, and yank that little curled b@stard out.
There you have it folks.  I'm sprouting hairs in random places like a Chia Pet.  I'm random, so why shouldn't my hair particles be anything less?  So if you ever see me sporting a random curled chin hair, you really don't have to point it out to me.  I more than likely can feel it tickling me in the breeze and attempted to yank it out using hedge sheers.  Just be sure to tell me that my hairs are looking rather fantastic that day.  Maybe I'll even let you give that curl a little yank.  The bounce on those things is rather spectacular. :)

To the guillotine you go!

I just have to express my genuine aggravation over something.  I mean, it seriously pisses me off.  To the point where I wave my fists in the air filled with fury, and exclaim the same thing Every. Single. Time.  Don't believe me?  Just ask my husband, because he's the one who witnesses this on a weekly basis.... We like to watch a lot of reality shows.  No, not the Kardashians.  I CAN'T STAAAAAAAAAAAAAND them.  I think the Jersey Shore idiots look like a classy, brilliant bunch when compared to those fame whores.  But I digress.  When I say "reality t.v." I mean shows like Chopped, or X-Factor.  But there is always a line in each of those shows that drives me INSANE.  Let's see if you can spot it:  Chopped: "It's down to two contestants now, and they both will be cooking for their lives."  X-Factor:  "Tonight our remaining contestants will be singing for their lives."  Really?  Seriously?  So you're telling me that whoever is the big fat loser of the night, is going to be executed?  They're going to die if they don't win??!?  Holy crap!  What kind of contests are these?  If you don't hit the high note, or you don't know how to correctly saute a garbanzo bean, they're going to take you out back, and a firing squad will have their way with you.  I just wish they would say what they really mean, "If you suck tonight, you're off the show, and no one will be around to stroke your ego, and you'll have to go back to your job of folding pants at the Dress Barn."  If they are going to promise such things, then they need to unleash some hungry tigers.  Let's start a new trend:  "Reality Shows-Gladiator Style."  Let's do it.  And we can name the show, "You Better Run Fast, 'Cause That Starved Feline is Going to Eat You A#%."  I would't have any false advertising.  If you have the audacity to incorrectly sing 'Eye of the Tiger', or show up to my contest wearing a blazer with pointed shoulder pads, you best run.
I have to go figure out my theme song for my new show, and contact my boys Siegfried and Roy to see if I can borrow one of their tigers.  I hear one is rather feisty.   (<---I know that is bad.  Really, really bad.  But funny.  And true.  And we all know I'm all about the truth).  :)

Get a job!

This is what Lenny and I tell our boys on a daily basis.  And by "boys" I mean our two fur children, Bentley and Barkley.  I have long ago imagined that if my two furry chicken nuggets were able to be gainfully employed, they would be working at the Home Depot.  Why?  Because they both would look adorable in orange smocks, that's why.  And the "r" in Barkley's name would be written backwards.  Before you (continue) to judge me and think I'm a total nutbag, I've decided to throw my husband under the crazy bus, right along with me.  This is a conversation we had just the other night:
Me (to my boys): "Go get a job.  I hear the Home Depot is hiring."
Barkley and Bentley's response: *Bentley continues to chase reflections gleaming from the Christmas tree lights, and Barkley brings me his bouncy ball, because they both are masters at changing the subject.  They enjoy being given a free ride.*
Me (to Lenny): I think Barkley would work in the power tools section, and Teeny would work with the plants.  What to you think?"
Lenny: *with a "are you kidding me?" stare:  "Wrong.  Barkley would work in the lumber section, and Teeny would obviously work with the paints.  Obviously."
You thought his stare was going to indicate that my husband thought I was nuts, didn't you?  Negative.  He encourages this crazy like it's going out of style.  :)
And I apologize for the delay in posting, but truth be told it's huntin' season around here, and I've been busy. Nooooo, I don't hunt.  I just spend most of my evenings decked out in camouflage that I picked up on the clarence rack at Cabella's, and I hide behind trees and scare strangers.  I will try to be more diligent in updating my posts more frequently, but it's hard work blending in with a pile of leaves, but somebody's got to do it.

I brake for dragonflies

The above title is actually true.  You see, I adore animals.  Furry ones, winged ones, even dragonfly-y ones.  Whenever the ASPCA commercial is on that features Sarah McLachlan, I have to put the t.v. on mute, and bury my head in the couch cushions.  She has even inspired Teeny's bath time song (Teeny is Bentley... don't want there to be any confusion about that one...).  I sing "In the Arms of an Angel" at the top of my lungs, because he looks like a pathetic wet rat, with big brown peepers that say, "You are a cruel, cruel woman, Mama.  I currently hate you. Don't spray the noggin.  Don't spray the noggin.  Don't spr-Argh.  She sprayed the noggin."  Whenever I am driving along and I pass by horses, puppies, bunnies, or geese, I always exclaim the obvious.  Leonard and I could be having an intense conversation about pajama jeans, and I will without hesitation interrupt him by shouting with glee, "Oh!  Ponies!"  Of course the man is used to this by now so it doesn't even register with him that I am easily distracted by adorableness.  I have also come to the realization that not everyone is used to this part of my charm.  A while back I was driving with a few friends, and we drove past a herd of cattle.  Midway through my rant about Justin Bieber's bangs, I shouted, "Oh! COWS!"  and then went right on back to how I think he should decorate said bangs with a bow.  The two lovelies that I was driving with burst into laughter, and looked at me like I was insane.
A couple of years ago I watched this movie called "Dead and Breakfast".  It was a cinematic delight, I tell you, but there was one character in the movie that has always stuck with me.  I forget his name, but his character would jot down the types of roadkill that he would see along the side of the road, so he could say a prayer for them later on in the day.  The other characters thought the guy was a weirdo for doing this, but I say nothing wrong with it.  Now, I don't have a roadkill list, per say, but whenever I do see a small (or large) creature laying in the middle of the road with a tire print down its' back, I literally make a frowny face, say something the lines of, "poor baby", and then have a teeny tiny urge to find the person that ran them over, and punch them.  Now I do know that sometimes you can't break for an animal darting into the road, because you can cause more damage to you (or another car), but I just can't help myself for feeling awful for the four-legged smooshers.  I am guilty of being a Michelin murdered, and I have cried each and every time it has happened.  I have smooshed birds that have swooped down in front of my car, bats that have flown into my car, and a squirrel who decided to play chicken against my automobile.  And every single time I have either called up my mother or my husband to confess my vehicular sins, and every single time I can hear them holding back their laughter as I sob over the fact that Mr. Nuts will never be able to complete his squirrel destiny.
So if you ever find yourself driving behind a Jetta that has a bumper sticker that says, "I break for honey badgers", give yourself at least a 100 foot distance from my car.  :)

Shake It Like A Polaroid Picture and Kickin' Buckets

I hope you are singing the song now.  Out loud.  And proud.  And I also hope you are shaking an imaginary polaroid picture around in your hand as you are singing the song.  Lord knows I do each and every time.  Even when I'm car dancing.  I think people mostly think I'm swatting at killer bees or flies, but truth be told I am just jamming out to my imaginary boyfriend Andre 3000's sweet, sweet tune.  Right now you are (hopefully) thinking to yourself, "Why the is she talking about this?", and then you smack your forehead because you then remember that this blog is dedicated to all things random.  Specifically my random, pointless thoughts.  Let me 'splain.  The other day I was driving home from work and this particular song came on.  And like always I sang it at the top of my lungs, and shook my pretend polaroid picture.  And then it happened.  I now knew what song I want played during my funeral.  Can't you just imagine it?  Me. Laying there decked out in my prom dress and tiara, surrounded by roses and lilacs (but not carnations.  NEVER carnations.  Right Brooke? 'Cause you know that I'll come back and haunt your a**), and all of my minions will be dancing around like fools, all the while shaking imaginary pictures.  GLOR. I. OUS.  Now I know that this is slightly morbid.  Okay, it's super creepy and gross, but as God as my witness, this actual thought popped into the old learning nugget, and I thought, "Whomp.  There it is."  Before I always felt that a somber tune should be played (I always imagined something from the Titanic soundtrack, perhaps), and people should throw themselves on top of my casket while sobbing uncontrollably.  And then I had my polaroid epiphany, and thought, "Nahhhh." I mean, if you rearrange the letters in "funeral" you get "real fun".  *Ba-da-bump*  People already associate the ridiculous with me, so why should it be any different when I kick the bucket and get ready to play the harp with angels, and bounce on a cloud?
So when I'm a hundred and twelve, and my Spanx are losing their elastic give, and my BINGO dabbers have run dry, I hope you all shake it.  Sha-sha-shake it.  Shake it like a polaroid picture, just for me. :)
I leave you with the all time greatest song in the world.  IN. THE. WORLD.