Betsey Booms

On The Next Intervention...

2009-10-23T12:29:00.000-07:00

The mister and I have the most disgusting habit.

Every Friday it hits, without fail.

Usually it's of the Big Mac variety of craving. But just last Friday found me shoving Chicken McNuggets in my face so frantically that the last one was still hot when I got to it and my fries even managed to be on the still extremely warm side when I got to them. Salty, fried goodness.

The above picture happened just today. And this is the mister moments before the interventionists burst through the door:

Actually, they never showed. He was just upset that I made him pause. It was after Noon afterall. I'd made him wait long enough for the crack with special sauce on a sesame seed bun.

For more on our Mac Attack and what we're up to check us out at the house that booms built.

Where I Am

2009-10-23T06:42:00.000-07:00

Hey all... I just thought I'd take a moment to share with anyone who might still be subscribed.

Jason and I have a new blog. So come by and check us out. It is by no means as exciting as "all of this" (big hand wave in this blog's general direction). But? It is mostly everything we've been up to lately.

Enjoy.

And By Hostage I Mean He's In The Basement Watching TV

2009-09-16T07:19:00.000-07:00

When the mister and I were at lunch today we overheard a news story about someone being held hostage for 18 years. And he was all, "how can you be held hostage for 18 years"?

And that's when I said, "Easy, I've held you hostage for the last five. You call it marriage, I call it "hostage negotiation."

He laughed so he didn't believe me, but I have terms if anyone wants to hear them. My "husband" is being held hostage until at least one of the following things happens:

This man gets his own show:

or

They bring this show back with Sam still traveling:

or finally:

That's right, somebody needs to reanimate at least half of this picture and put a zombie ass Airwolf on the air. Mostly because there is nothing wrong with a reanimated Ernest Borgnine that I can figure out.

I feel the way you are looking at me and I don't know WHAT your problem is.

Oh and he's not REALLY being held hostage. I think he likes it here and the idea of these shows being on the air.

Also? There are not enough shows with eye patches these days.

***

I kind of think they missed the real opportunity with the movie Roadhouse, because Patrick Swayze and Sam Elliot wearing tight pants and kicking beer bottles out of ruffians hands was legendary.

If they just added a bearded Kenny Loggins to the crime fighting team we would have had the BEST action hero trio in history.

PS: Evidently I have to clarify, just because Ernest Borgnine is alive doesn't mean he doesn't need to be reanimated. Plus? Who wants to spell out Jan Micheal Vincent all the time? I have to use this joke more than once, you know.

Evidently I Hate Myself, But Stay Tuned For Tight Pants Kicks and Airwolf

2009-09-15T12:10:00.000-07:00

Friday afternoon, I picked up my daughter's copy of "Twilight". Yes, I wanted to beat myself with the book.

And, two days later, I finished off the second book "New Moon".

My thoughts:

She Was A Good Blog. She Always Tried Her Best And Never Ate Too Much...

2009-08-12T11:49:00.001-07:00

I think it's pretty obvious that Betsey Booms has been dying a slow death for a while now.

She's sickly and inhibited. She coughs even on her best days. She has a swagger, but it is eerily similar to Val Kilmer's in Tombstone. I said it was time for some changes and one of those changes seems to be location, location, location.

When I was younger and untethered to the big people responsibilities that make up life, I used to just pick up and move when I felt the urge. The urge to spread my wings, to run through the field, dragging a technicolor kite behind me.

I'd pack up my paltry belongings and throw them in the back of my car and go. I'd quit my job and get a new one, because I could wait tables or sell beauty products anywhere.

I'd change my hair color to some other place in the spectrum that is the rainbow that I hadn't yet explored and I'd start fresh and breathe.

Just breathe.

Lately? I can't breathe. I just can't breathe. I try, I make the motions of the breath and I pull the air in and it's just jagged, sharp and not right.

I've been told this could be a move that rates high on a scale of 1 to stupid. And I think it's a risk I'm willing to take.

My question is, do you want to go with me or do you want to hang out here?

You can hang out here. But I've got to go. I've got to go splash some bright paint on some white walls. I've got to go ponder which wall my second hand couch would look just right on.

I've got to go and see how loud the neighbors in another building are. Do they party? Do they stomp? Do they smoke pot that will waft down through the vents when I'm trying to sleep or read quietly to myself?

Will there be hobo's that will dig in my trash? Should I leave little treats for the hobos, in clean bags that are tied at the top with brightly colored post-it notes letting them know the good stuff is in that bag?

Because I do that, you know. Only you wouldn't, because I haven't told you.

I leave goody bags for hobos.

That is who I am. Do you know this?

What will happen to BoomTube? Well,I think she might stay. I'm pretty sure you will still be able to tune in there. Because there? On BoomTube, I can talk and smile and laugh and I'm fine with you seeing it. Those of you who look but don't speak. I'm okay with you seeing me.

Here? Not so much. My co-worker knows where my blog is and that doesn't bother me, so much as those of you that I can see reading and not saying anything. Because I can you know, see you. How long you spend, what you read, how long you hang around.

It sort of feels like I'm locked in my bathroom. You know I'm crying, I know you know I'm crying... But we're both too embarrassed to say anything. But still you hang, in my living room, with a cocktail... Just waiting to see my mood change.

Some days I smile, a lot. Some days I cry, a lot. Some days, I do neither but think of weirdly fantastic things in my head.

So it's time. I'll still Twitter as Betsey. I'll still BoomTube you. Jason will still play records for you.

I just have to write somewhere else.

If you would like to email me, to find out where I am. Then please do, BetseyBooms@gmail.com. But if I don't tell you, don't be hurt. I can't imagine that I won't tell most of you.

Or maybe I won't.

We'll see.

My Daughter Is Home And Praying For The Eternal Salvation of Her Mother's Soul

2009-08-11T17:45:00.000-07:00

A not so widely known fact about me is that I was baptized as a Lutheran. I was raised by a Catholic and an atheist.

What I am is not important to this story. Because what I am is the mother of a dead child who struggles most days to understand what His purpose is with that little nugget of fantastic pain that I was dealt.

Tonight what I was though, was a haggard and tired woman in a Buddha t-shirt and scrub pants, standing in the middle of her kitchen, fighting with her toddler on whether or not she was loading dirty dishes into the dishwasher. He was mostly unloading. As he screamed "no mama!" my tween approached.

"Here mom this is for you."

"Oh, thanks Boo, this is very nice. Did you do this at church camp?" I only saw the glimpse of the cross and was mostly expecting handmade birthday wishes as doomsday is fast approaching. I looked at my daughter who just got home less than 24 hours ago from a summer with my ex-in-laws.

"Yes, mom. They told me to give it to someone who doesn't go to church."

As my youngest stood clinging to my leg and screaming bloody murder, I peered down at the religious propaganda I held in my hand. Beautifully decorated by my daughter, with the word Mom carefully written on the front, I looked back into her blue eyes.

"Oh gee, thanks kid."

And that's when she stood there and proselytized in the middle of her brother's tantrum.

"Hey babe, let me stop you right there, I don't go to church because I'm 32 years old and I don't have to anymore, okay?"

"Yeah, but do you believe?"

"Seriously, are we standing on the street corner in NYC right now? Take this dollar and go on, Boo. I get where you are coming from and would love to have a religious discussion with you, but you should know, people are not cool with random questions about their religious affiliations. You know, just between you and me."

And I could tell, she was already praying in her head.

She already believed I was burning in Hell, but the question was, could she, as the daughter of such a heathen, be saved?

My standard answer to the question of "do you believe" is "suck it, none of your business, bub." But today,I had to be more delicate.

As she walked off to her room, as my kid stood still clinging and screaming, as I realized I was still holding the primary colored religious materials, as I looked down at the Buddha on my chest, I sighed and I looked up. "You are up there, aren't you? Some kind of sense of humor you've got, huh?"

Your Weekly Booms Round-Up

2009-08-08T16:33:00.000-07:00

Tune in tonight to catch the new night/format of:

I'll be on at 9:30 Central but you can tune in around 9:00 to catch Jason's set.

Then stay tuned (actually, you'll have to change URL's) for Be The Marriage directly following BoomTube.

And then? Yeah, you can totally catch Jason again at Midnight Central on his weekly show, Droppin' The Boom, not only will you hear Jason and be able to chat live with him, but you can check out guest DJ Ryan Truman. And trust me, you don't want to miss that. Even if you don't like House, you might just like Ryan.

PS My kid is trying to eat me alive today... I had to actually check to see if he was evil or if I was just low on tolerance. Turns out I'm actually evil and he's not even tolerant of himself. Weird.

Cardboard is good for dancing on and writing love notes on... Not for being made out of

2009-08-05T09:06:00.000-07:00

I know this person who is so very stiff. She's so stiff that when she thinks something is funny, I'm uncomfortable.

Why?

Because it's weird...

To see cardboard laugh. And what does cardboard laugh at? Uh, well, things that most of the people in my life would say without a second thought. Because a second thought would imply, oooh, I was just funny right then.

The thing that pisses me off about cardboard people? Is that they are judgy. Judgy and usually a tad mean. Or a lot mean.

Hey cardboard people! You are only interesting when someone else puts something on you. When someone else's imagination and wonderment is projected onto you.

So don't judge me, cardboard people.

Also? You probably shouldn't blog, tell jokes or act like you are better than other people.

You should eat dry, plain baked chicken and white rice. Both things that are delicious, when imagination and wonderment are thrown all over them.

So yeah. Suck it cardboard, plain chicken, white rice people.

I think I should dub this "Suck it" week.

Eat your heart out Shark Week.

Although you? Shark Week? You are righteous too. I bet even cardboard people love you.

PS. This? This is one way that cardboard is delicious and precious.

In Picking David Bowie Lyrics I Should Go With Chh-chh-Changes, but I'm Going With Moonlight, Serious Moonlight

2009-08-04T08:34:00.000-07:00

My eyes are puffy and bleary which only means one thing! I've been crying like a wee baby and it was necessary to sing David Bowie at the top of my lungs on the way to work and marvel at the fact that if I had Karoke balls, I'd go out this weekend and rock the DB. I'd rock Mr. Bowie's tunes so freaking hard that you'd be all, "she is a hard rockin' (something that is surprising in how hard it rocks) thing".

And you see how I didn't rock hard at all right there? That's to add to the air of mystery that is going to shroud my hard rockin'ness.

So lately? I've been putting all this thought into how people are all judgy and waste their time thinking about things that make them seem cool. And by cool, I mean hip. And by hip, I mean, seriously? You take yourself that seriously? Or they do the opposite and they waste all this time thinking about how they are the opposite of hip. Or better yet... and this is my favorite. I am totally and I mean completely enthralled by people who think that the beer they drink defines them.

I could think of 100 things, wait no... (uh, 1, 2, 3...) Okay, I could think of maybe FIVE things that define me and my beer? It ain't one of them. But here is the thing, I find that I'm totally amused and want to be best friends with people who ARE concerned about how their beer defines them. And not because I think their awesomeness will rub off on me, but because I really, really want to get into their minds to find out what makes them tick.

All I know, is that by the end of that voyage? I'd want an icy, cold, Miller Fucking Lite. Because that is what is in my garage RIGHT NOW. Oooh, or better yet? A Michelob Ultra. Because I think THAT beer says, "I'm chubby, drunk and like the taste of fermented water." Because all of that? Is who I am. Well the drunk part is just a fraction of the time, but now we're getting into semantics.

I know, you? Yeah, you are fucking wowed right now. And I spent like a whole, I dunno, 5 seconds on my beer decision. I've mastered this.

Also? Yes, way back deep somewhere in my most reptilian mind, I probably feel that I'm just slightly more rad because I don't care that much.

But what makes me the hippest? Is that if I was in a bar that played, oh say, C'mon Eileen, I'd totally be all, "This place sucks!" and walk out after throwing my can of beer on the floor. But then I'd have to bend over and pick up my wood grain coozie.

***

PS BoomTube has moved to Saturday night and it's only a half hour now. Because you can't stretch this kind of fantastic out for a full hour. You just can't. So don't ask.

PPS This change already means that Jason and I are more than likely already pitted up against each other in the same time spot. He has an hour long set that might be aired at the same time. We're pulling out the cardboard dance floor tonight and having this crazy mad dance off to prove to just ourselves who is more awesome so that you, the people, don't have to.

PPSS If McCain and Obama had done that, we'd no longer be a democracy, but we'd be the coolest fucking nation in the Universe! You can bank on that!

Ouch, Stop! That's My Kidney!

2009-08-03T13:23:00.000-07:00

I know this really big crazy dude. His name is, get this... Life. Horrible name, right? His mother obviously HATES him. She took one look at his big headed, ugly mug and was all, "well isn't that just life?"

Life kinds of stomps around and has tattoos. He wears big heavy combat boots and says things like "I'm loco, esse." Which is weird, I think he listened to too much Cypress Hill and House of Pain in the 90's.

Life is kind of cool, because you know, you can hang with Life at parties and drink a 40. Life picks on you and gives you noogies that jack your hair all up, but the second someone else picks on you, Life does one of two things:

A) He either comes back and punches that bitch in the lady box

or

B) He turns around and punches you in your lady box and tells you to suck it up and quit being such a fucking titty baby

Life? Well, he's kind of a dick. And if you don't have a lady box then watch your nuts. He's a crazy swinger.

Currently he and his friend, Coincidence, are taking turns kicking me in just one of my kidneys. The other they are saving for when they are drunk and angry. They think of me as kind of a little biological punching back.

Life and Coincidence totally, and I mean completely, underestimate me. Because guess what I just did?

I waited until they passed out and then? I tied them up in their bedsheets and beat the crap out of them with a baseball bat and then I yelled, "suck it!" I also airpunched, but that is neither here nor there.

Life and Coincidence may never respect me, but that is fine. Because I'm gonna kick their bitch asses.

Me and this big set of balls I just grew are gonna go and swing them around and pretend like we own the joint now.

Mostly because somebody just lit a fire under them. My balls that is.

This was weird.

Revamping This Hobo Tramp

2009-08-01T18:26:00.000-07:00

It's time.

Time for change.

Time for new starts. New bidness.

Time to let somethings go and introduce something newer, maybe even better.

It's been too long since I've had something to say that resembles what I have been in the past. For far too long, this blog has been like that weird fruit that floats around in jello. Or worse? The carrots. Carrots in jello is something that I'm pretty sure was based on a 1950's era drunken dare. You know, all, yeah, casseroles are awesome. So awesome in fact that a gelatin based casserole would be out of sight.

I'm all about casseroles, but gelatin based anything should be pretty much sent to outer space to die a fast, oxygenless death.

Do I make sense?

No, clearly not.

And that's the point.

What I'm saying in this mysterious and convoluted manner I've adopted lately is that I'm changing, Betsey Booms is changing and BoomTube is changing.

My voice in it's current form is meaningless and being heard far less than I'd like to consider the importance of myself to be worth. Wait...

Hell, I don't even know what that just meant or if it was even a complete thought.

I'm having less complete thoughts these days.

Last year about this time, I had decided that it was time that I stopped caring what other's thought about me, that I would simply be my authentic self and fuck! That just has to be good enough.

And you know what? It is good enough but I'm even better. I'm worth treating myself even better and shedding even more layers of the funk that gets slimed all over us by the world the very second the umbilical cord is cut.

I'm hoping that you'll stay tuned and enjoy it all.

But if you don't? I enjoyed your readership while it lasted.

Annabelle, John and The Stranger Walking Around My House

2009-07-31T10:29:00.000-07:00

Our vacation started off the way any vacation should.

Horribly.

With plans to meet at the Farmer's Market after Annabelle and John met with Annabelle's cousin, Jason and I left home.

Home.

Where my cell phone was.

The phone where Annabelle's number was stored and the phone that Annabelle had the number for.

Long story short, the vacation started off late and with an interesting cab ride that lasted only 5 blocks.

The first evening, we all sat on the deck, enjoying beers and the weather that seemingly blew in from some place way more awesome than Kansas City. Granted, KC is the cat's mother fucking pajamas, but still.

Then Jason's phone rang. He ignored it.

The house phone rang. We ignored that too, you know, probably just people wanting money for that new liver I've put a down payment on.

Then Jason's phone rang again. He looked and saw it was our neighbor. So Jason grabbed John and headed across the street.

When he got there our neighbor was all wide eyed and, "dude, there is some weirdo walking around your house."

John held out his hand and said, "Hi, I'm John."

We left the next day, but we didn't tell our neighbor.

We thought he might drink all of our beer and dance around in Jason's underwear without our yard patroling weirdo.

Okay, I'm lying. Jeez.

He wouldn't dance around in Jason's underwear.

He'd run down the street in mine.

I'm Back and Mostly Funk Free

2009-07-31T05:31:00.000-07:00

We got back home last night. I am strangely relaxed and revived and I have to say, I really kind of like it. It's a strange feeling but not one that I'm opposed to feeling more often.

The good news is that in recent months I've put on just enough weight that I don't actually feel the post vacation bloat. So let's hear it for being chubby. You know I just brought down the house with my chubby chub dancing styles. The even better news is that I don't go back to work until Monday and I only go in for four days before I rock another three day weekend.

So I'll probably be back later today to tell you how my best friend's husband's head looks like he was involved in the Chernobyl accident. It's mostly attractive in a flaky kind of way.

BoomTube will be on tonight. 9pm Central, 10 Eastern, 7 Pacific and 8 Mountain.

So you know, later skaters.

Watch BoomTube or Tranny Bong Monkeys Will Take Over Blogher And Most Of Chicago

2009-07-24T06:47:00.000-07:00

Just because I'm on vacation doesn't mean I'm not giving up the goods.

Join Jason and me tonight for BoomTube Live. Sign-up for a USTREAM account so you can chat with us live on the air.

9PM Central, 10 Eastern, 7 Pacific, 8 Mountain

Things you could learn about:

Tranny Bong Monkeys
What my husband thinks of Jason Stackhouse
and more!

And don't forget to tune into Skankelodeon directly afterwards. I've linked it over on the side.

Of course, Droppin' The Boom will be on Saturday night as well. Info on the side again!

I'm Scratching This Itch and I Can't Stop

2009-07-21T06:53:00.000-07:00

I woke up in the middle of the night, already raking my nails over the lump forming on the bump at the top of my foot that only Fred Flintstone and I could call an ankle bone. I kept scratching the little bite because I knew the second I stopped it would be agony. I scratched and I scratched, it was nearly euphoric. If I stopped, if I stop scratching, if I stop running my nails over this little bite, agony.

Eventually I had to stop.

And, then I laid there, awake. Itching. Thinking. Knowing that there was some sort of metaphor in here somewhere but I was too tired to grasp it.

I think I'll just keep scratching.

This Place Has Just Become...

2009-07-20T08:45:00.001-07:00

Horseshit. One word. Horseshit.

Seriously? Why are you here? Have I given you anything worth a damn? No I haven't. I haven't given anyone anything that is worth a damn. I used BoomTube as an excuse and did you see that freaking train wreck?

In my defense, I wasn't ready. Jason and I had just argued and then he's all, "ready, set, go! Be funny!" and I was all, "Wait, what? No." But then it was too late and the light was in my face and I had to try to be funny.

And you know what? When I'm in a bad mood I am not funny. Not one thing is funny about me except maybe the stupid look on my face. No funny here, kids. No anything here. I even have two designs that I HAVE to get out this week because next week? No one is getting a single, solitary, gawddamn thing from me. It's not like their getting much as it is.

A really big part of me wants to just blow everything off until after vacation. I've already check out. I'm gone. Splitsville. I'm so fucking gone I just said splitsville. What the fuck?

No, really, what the fuck? Can you tell me? Because I've got nothing here. And, for some reason splitsville reminds me, this weekend Jason watched a biography on Marlon Brando and when he was done he looked at me and said, "Marlon Brando was really a dick." And, I was all, "Not a newsflash, the man was a dick and screwed like... I dunno, something that screws a lot. How many kids did he have?" and then Jason was all, "Like ten or maybe even more, no one really knows." And that made it seem really mysterious to me.

I have no point of telling you this except that I would be really, really pissed and disappointed if after someone got done watching a biography on me, if they weren't asleep, that they might then look at their spouse and be all, "Dude, she was a total dick!"

But then this takes me one more place. Something Jason and I didn't get to on BoomTube was the Super Bitch. There is a car that is always parked on the street down about a block or two from our house. And across the back window, in giant and I mean really big fucking letters, red ones even, it reads "Super Bitch".

Now, seriously? That's what you're going with. Super bitch? You're sticking with that? That's your label, your message? You could put anything in the world in that space and the stroke of genius that you had was super bitch. I have been thinking about this shit for like two weeks now, right? So while I was in the middle of thinking about it and trying not to nod off on my drive to work, I saw a bumper sticker that read, "From zero to bitch in 1.5 seconds". What are you saying there? You are both a zero and a bitch because that is some seriously fucked up advertising and you might want to consider firing your PR agent. Or seeing someone about your self-esteem issue.

All I'm saying is maybe I should just get it out of the way and put "disappointing dick" on the back of my car.

I would just feel bad when Jason had to drive it.

Which now? I'm reminded of the time my brother spray painted "FAT ASS" on the side of his car and I had to drive it. And I was all, "Yeah, funny and ironic when your tall, skinny ass gets out of the car. When I get out of that car it's just mean."

Even When I Can't Write, I Can Still Babble Like A Monkey. Babblin' Monkey

2009-07-17T04:09:00.000-07:00

UPDATED: 9PM Central, 10 Eastern, 7 Pacific, 8 Mountain

So it's that time again.

Join Jason and me tonight for BoomTube Live. Sign-up for a USTREAM account so you can chat with us live on the air.

Things you could learn about:

USTREAM Gang Wars, it's on!
My irrational fears
Dry sponges
and more!

Also? I might delve into the great Teen Wolf topic.

At the very least, I promise I'll look like a total tool.

And don't forget to tune into Skankelodeon directly afterwards. I've linked it over on the side.

Of course, Droppin' The Boom will be on Saturday night as well. Info on the side again!

Baby Stepping Through The Muck

2009-07-16T06:49:00.000-07:00

I sort of feel like I don't own this space anymore and it pisses me off. It used to be that I would rush to the computer every day to sit down and write. My blog was my very favorite thing and I couldn't wait to get to it every day.

Now? It's a struggle. Worse? I'm writing about blogging and that is like one of the Seven Deadly Sins of blogging. You don't write about blogging. You blog about everything else going on in your life. And maybe that's what I should do, but you know what? I just don't want to. It feels forced. I feel like a stranger in my own world right now.

Furthermore, I should recognize what this is and I haven't even bothered to do so yet. I have Summer depression. I always have, since I was a kid. I feel listless and useless. The gears in my head that normally crank out the words are just chugging along, working harder to perform basic daily functions.

Getting up out of bed? Well that takes more effort than it did just two months ago. Every year I go through this and every single year it sneaks up on me. I work harder to smile, I work harder to not grump about and tell everyone in my eyeline to eat shit and die. I wouldn't mean it if I said it, but still the temptation is there and it would be a delicious moment when I did say it. Well, until the guilt set in. I'm not big on hurting feelings.

The good news is that I'm going on vacation soon and hopefully it'll knock this shit right out of me. This never lasts too long, it's more of a nuisance than anything. I just have to work a little bit harder to push my spirit out and project something other than blech. I fake it 'til I make it.

Little reminders:

Am I smiling?
Am I responding in a pleasant manner?
Wait, did I just tell that person to suck it?

Fuck.

I made it through what would have been my son's fourth birthday. Now I just have to push through until the anniversary of his death. It falls 3 days after my birthday every single year.

It's time to buck up.

It's not going to change.

I've Gotta Do It My Way, Or No Way At All

2009-07-15T07:55:00.000-07:00

Yeah, I HAVE been on a weird Foreigner kick. So just turn me loose, okay?

This week I'm in the weirdest fog ever. It's like my brain is just like, "Seriously? This shit is bogus and I'm so fucking out of here!" And I still have 9 days until vacation. Brain. Brain! Do you hear me, I need you to check back in and get the hell back to work.

The worst is when I'm in the car. Driving back and forth to work I've had to literally slap myself in the face to stay awake. Which, if that is what I have to do, then so be it, but the people at stop lights next to me are looking at me a little strangely. In any case, it's clear, I either have Mono or Narcolepsy.

I know this because a symptom of both of those is clearly the tingly, itching feeling I have on the back, right side of my head that feels like my brain might just burst out of it at any moment like the Alien. It feels fuzzy and twitchy and like it's directly connected right to my left eyeball.

Also? Someone on Twitter said that perhaps I should think about writing a dictionary because I said, "I'm getting ready to interview a guy named Stiles, how Teen Wolf awesome is that radness?" She said, "Who says that?"

Erm, me, I say that and that is totally clear and something you'd hear on any given day in any given place, right?

Sure it is.

And just to hammer the point home, I guess. I had an email exchange with The Slackmistress the other day that ended really, really well.

You know, if you're discussing unicorn farts.

I kind of didn't have the heart to tell her that it was a totally normal conversation for me. Mostly because I didn't want to scare her.

Friday Night Live Or Like You Have Anything Better To Do?

2009-07-10T08:57:00.000-07:00

Tonight is the maiden voyage of BoomTube Live. The good news is that you can chat and interact with us while we broadcast. The bad news? Well, you can chat and interact with us and there is no editing and chances are cocktails will be involved.

You know, if you can call beer in a can a "cocktail". And you totally can. So if I'm all "Wooooooooh look at me!" you know why. Oh and it's my show, so suck it.

Then stay tuned for Skankelodeon with those lovable nutjobs the Dirty Pirate Hooker and Ghost of Keywork. Those crazy kids. I'd totally ruffle their hair and give them Popsicles if I could!

I've put buttons on the sidebar over there so I can't make it any easier, unless I come into your house and open your laptop and do this for you, people. And if I do that, you have to feed me. I eat a lot and I like everything fried.

We're on at 9pm Central. That's 10 Eastern and 7 Pacific for those of you that are lazy with the mathin' skills. I have to do everything around here. Gah!

One more thing. Saturday night is totally party night and no party is complete without tunes. (Who the hell says tunes anymore?) Well drugs and alcohol help too. But one of those is illegal and chances are the other one is too if you are actually still up at Midnight. Never one to judge, let's just move on. You can catch my husband Jason Booms, who is a very talented House DJ on his radio show, Droppin' The Boom. There is a button for that too.

So one of these days, I'll show up around this joint and not pimp a single thing. Oh I'll be ho slappin', but I won't be pimpin'.

If you're a ho, I'm sorry, that was uncalled for. I'm so crude, but let's be real, you're a ho. Someday? I'll see you in the dumpster behind my office. If your legs don't twitch or anything I'll call someone. But I'm not touching you! Grody.

Another One Bites The Dust Is A Badass Jam And Hopefully Not a Running Theme Around Here

2009-07-08T06:43:00.000-07:00

Ennui. I have it. Of the blog variety that is.

I don't think I'm alone, I've noticed it going around the blogosphere a bit. We're writing less, we're looking less. It's the dog days of Summer rearing their ugly heads. I'm actually okay with it, but I'm not going to pretend that one day, soon, you're going to show up here and find brilliance in writing.

Oh you might, in a month or two, but probably not right now. No, right now the best you can hope for is that I'll show up, punch the clock, drink a Diet Coke, fiddle with a paperclip, send a text message, take my lunch, screw around for another hour, think about checking the mail and then call it a day.

And, that, my friends? Is total bullshit. You should really expect more from me. You should pull me aside and get all up in my face, wave your finger around near my nose and say, "Look, asshole, get your ass in gear. Whip yourself into shape and give us something! Anything! Christ, it's freaking sad around here. You are fucking lazy! I've seen more action from a half salted slug."

You'd be right to do it. But, the problem is that I'd probably just shrug and say, "You're right." and then wander off like a dejected 14-year old boy that was just turned down for date to the dance.

I'm still here. I'm still around. I'm just asking for some lenience for the rest of this month. Hang with me, be my friend, enable my sad ass. I'll write when I can, when it comes from within, but I just can't handle all the GAWDDAMN pressure already. Jeez, get up off me, you freak!

Good news.

BoomTube is still in full force and will now be broadcast live every weekend.

Wait. Did you catch that right? Freaking A right you just did! You can now spend your Friday nights, with me. Look, the world just lost Michael Jackson, right? It's my turn to give back and spread this awesomosity out in full force. It's Human Nature. And I promise, it will be Off The Wall.

Gah, will I just fucking stop already?

Friday nights, 9 PM Central, 8 PM Mountain, 7 PM Pacific, 10 PM Eastern - you got that? You can find BoomTube right here. And just to make that easy for you, I'll put a button on my sidebar that you can just click on to tune in. You'll be able to chat with us (and amongst yourselves) live during the broadcast and if you can't make it, well you can watch anytime your little heart desires.

That? Is not grody by any means people.

Some of you may notice that is the time slot directly before the greatness that is known as Skankelodeon. That's right. BoomTube is a warm up act. Which means two hours of freaking fantastic every Friday, just for you. Which I cannot find the URL for right at the moment, but I promise I'll have a button for that too.

You might get something a little grody from that show.

Whew, this is getting exhausting. But don't go yet because I've got one more for you.

As some of you may know, my husband is a retired House DJ with 14 years of experience under his belt. He took a hiatus from spinning and playing around the country to do a little thing called starting a family. But now that he's used to us and maybe even a little sick us, he's ready to get back at it. He's heavily influenced by 80's Synth Pop and the Chicago and San Francisco House scenes. I know because I edited the bio.

So we've taken care of your Saturday nights too and you can find him and his radio show, Droppin' The Boom here. (Scroll to the bottom for the full scoop.) Midnight Central. You do the math on the other time zones. I gave you the formula earlier. And you know I'll be giving y'all a button for that as well.

Woah, I just laid a hurtin' on your world, didn't I?

Someday you're going to realize just what a genius I am, but not today

2009-07-07T06:46:00.001-07:00

Because for today all I'm going to give you is this. BoomTube is changing.

And, Jason has this going on:

More info to come.

I'm putting the words Juke Box Hero in the title because the song is bitchin' and I just want to

2009-07-06T11:43:00.000-07:00

I'm edgy today and every time I start to write it turns into a laundry list of exhaustion. Even right now, I'm willing my fingers to not go into the tirade that includes how just stepping into my office six days a week is eating my soul alive.

But look, I did it again.

Tsk, tsk.

I'm unpleasant. I'm plastering this mucked up smile on my face today whenever anyone just looks in my general direction. Behind it, I'm seething and ugly. Frustrated and just edgy. It's nothing more than that hormonal freight train that smacks me square in the gut every month. By tomorrow, I'll be better but in the meantime...

- My two year old named his teddy bear Paul. We don't know a Paul. He doesn't know a Paul, yet Paul it is. Because it was either that or Two. He knows when strangers say things that are upended in his general direction, he typically answers "Two!" So now we have this thing known as Paul Bear that must be looked after and I find it so endearing I've darn near chewed his face off and squeezed him silly.

- My likeness is on a bottle of hot sauce. I use likeness loosely because this cartoon chick is incredibly hot. A portion of the proceeds go to various Fire Fighter charities. I'm sure all of you want my face looking at you over your eggs in the morning. I'll be pimping this out more when my mood lifts.

- I have 17 days until my vacation starts. I spent the first few minutes of my morning, sitting at my desk, counting little boxes on a bigger box that said 'July' at the top. And my rush to get to that last little row of boxes is kind of pissing me off as well.

I'm sparing you because I like you.

A good rule of thumb today is: Keep your nuts, shins and throat away from me. Hell, your thumbs too.

PS - Rush should probably get off of my radio and put Foreigner back on. You know, if they know what is good for them. Stupid Rush.

Today's Tom Sawyer is getting changed to another station.

PPS - I'm really not as edgy as my blog would lead you to believe. But I did take the week off of posting because this is the only kind of crap that I could come up with and I don't want any of you to throat punch me so, you know, I try to keep it to myself.

BoomTube, Episode Five, Just go to your room and don't come out until you can apologize, missy/mister

2009-06-24T18:47:00.000-07:00

Let me apologize upfront for the use of the word "awesomosity", repeatedly. As well as the "fingerbanging" wink and sound. I. Am. So. Stupid.

Look, I said right up front that I'm undermedicated. You totally deserved that and you know it. Okay, I'm sorry. Really, I'm sorry. Jeez.

Things I have to say, the "sponsors" demand it:

RainyDaze79 Twittered: Shout out to Austin and are they real?

So uh shout out, Texas people and the answer is real expensive. I feel uncomfortable just typing 'shout out', saying it would probably do psychological damage. I'm fragile you know. Like a animal testing lab monkey. You never know when I'm going to blow and bite your face off with my freakish teeth, ala Outbreak.

I've not actually watched that movie, so if that was inappropriate, I'm again, apologetic. I read a book titled 'Outbreak', I enjoyed it. I'm not sure if the movie is based on the book, but the rule is, if the book was good, the movie ain't. So why chance that shit? I'm not a gambler with things like big chunks of time.

Also? I just looked up the plural of vagina, because I needed to know if there was a bag of them sitting next to me on the couch if I would say, "Oh, look at that bag of vaginae" or perhaps, "Oh, look, there is a bag of vaginen." Oh there is that gambling with chunks of time thing.

So, Miss Merry said: It's valium time.

Okay yeah. Looks like it. Care to send me any? The answer to that is... no. No, you won't, because if you have it, you keep that shit to yourself. It's like the land of milk and honey. I know that doesn't make sense, but it makes sense to me. And NOOO OOOONNNNE else around here pays attention.

Obviously. Ahem.

You can watch The Dude get "Hasseled" by the Hoff. And, of course, you can look at boobs until your heart explodes. (I'm still number 24.)

Oh, come back, I still love you...

But less than I did before. My heart grows stingy.

Wait, does stingy grow? Eh.

This is the one and only time I'm going to tell you to look at my rack. Do it and then vote for number 24.

2009-06-24T06:50:00.000-07:00

I was threatened under assault with dog poop mail to enter this little competition that is all about comparing breastial assets.

I know.

So I did it regardless of what my self esteem says.

If you love me, I mean really, really love me, you might even go vote for me. I'm number 24. Plus? If you click this link? You get to look at my boobs.

Vote every day people. My girls are all depressed and sad. If this was the boob prom, they'd be standing in the corner in their head gear. Trying to get all straight and pretty while working hard at avoiding eye contact.

I know. Your Wednesday just got chock full of awesomosity.

So thank Rassles for the word "awesomeosity" which I'm still not entirely sure how to spell correctly, and then thank my surgeon for my performance enhanced chestal region.

PS... Mr. Booms chided me for not submitting a sexier picture of the Sisters Booms.

Becoming Mrs. Booms, Act One

2009-06-23T07:03:00.000-07:00

It was early Autumn, 1996. I had just crossed over into that great beyond that lies past childhood. I wasn't quite an adult. I could no longer live with my parents simply because bitch slapping those who gave you life is considered insulting or just down right rude.

I was stumbling around in the world, trying to find my place. Trying to act like a big person, mostly just clinging onto that youth that I never really had to begin with. I had been forced to grow up way too fast and now I just didn't want to be a grown up at all.

I had already forsaken college and had moved on to cosmetology school, which with just one short month in, I already knew it was a big mistake. Just like nursing, this wasn't my field. Mostly because touching other people was, to put it simply, for other people to do. Not me.

That leap, that jump to this school was going to be the thing that changed my entire life. I would only spend roughly three months there, but my life would never be the same. The thing about "beauty school" is that unless you've got a wide gap between it and your high school years, there isn't a lot of difference. Except this time? Your entire class is just. bitchy. girls.

That's it. We had one dude. One, lonely yet lucky, lucky dude. I spent the first two-weeks hanging with the only girl who pushed the nerdy envelope in the class. And, to put it mildly, she was dull. So very dull. I actually concentrated on braiding hair in that time. Which, by the way, I can't do worth a shit. It was the worst way to start the schooling. However, when we got to updo's, guess who won every class competition.

Me, bitches, me. Now, shut up or I'll stab you with a hair pin.

During those quiet two weeks, if I had known, if only I had known, I would have slept more.

Soon, the mean, rough girls that were loud and obnoxious could no longer be avoided. They were going to drag me into their world and there was not a damn thing I could do about it. The truth of the matter was, they had no idea what they were doing. Inviting me into their little world, would only invite them out.

The three of us were trouble. Their names were Summer and Shay. Summer and Shay had never, ever been mistaken for nice girls in their entire lives. I was still commonly mistaken for one in those days. Okay, the jig is up, I still am... ssssh.

After the first glitter covered club night with those two, I don't remember one more thing about school. But, as you might have guessed, not one of the three of us ended up licensed.

Class time was spent giggling and doodling. Playing with hair and whispering about things we had done the night before. It was a giant slumber party that my parents were paying for. My hair changed colors more than I changed my underwear, you know, when I wore it.

Shay had a steady that wasn't so steady and Summer was already on her second boyfriend since I'd met her. Little did I know at the time, that both of Summer's men would play a part in my life. The first one, RJ, didn't last long. But let me put this out there for you to ponder. RJ was in the Army. At the time, he of course, had a roomie. That roomie would later become my ex-husband. And later? RJ would share a house with my current husband. And yet? He had nothing to do with my meeting them, because you see. I never met, as my daughter calls him, Uncle RJ when he was dating Summer.

Summer then started dating someone new. Someone different.

Every day she'd come into class with a story about her new beau. How cute he was, how great he was. Our evenings were spent in her parent's basement, which honestly, was bigger than any of the houses I had ever lived in. We put in her new boyfriend's mix tape and giggle some more and dance. And she would get very serious and say, "If he knew I was letting you listen to this, he'd be so mad." Why would be mad? Probably because he was just a fledgling DJ. Spinning records on his friend's deck, in his one room basement apartment.

When I listened to those tapes, I listened. I mean, I really, really, listened. I don't know why. I still don't know why I hung on her every word when she talked about him. But I did. And with every word, with every song, with every beat I fell in love.

I had never seen his face. I had never heard his voice. I had never touched his hand.

Then it happened.

Summer and I had spent the afternoon shopping (her mostly lifting) and getting ready to head out for what would be the very first party in a warehouse I would ever attend. I was going to a rave, kids. First stop, however, was to pick him up.

We drove her convertible Mustang down to the part of town that I lived in when my mom was a single mother and roaches were our roommates. We parked behind the building, walked through the crumbled lot, through the basement door that didn't close all the way, we passed the washers and dryers and knocked on his door.

It opened. She said, "This is Jason".

I kid you not, this is what really happened.

My eyes met his.

And, my heart dropped into my stomach, and my stomach dropped into my shoes.

The she said, "And this is Mike." I tore my gaze away from those blue eyes to meet more blue eyes, in a heavily freckled face.

I hated Mike. HATED. HIM. So what did I do? I ended up dating him. So not worth your time. Or mine for that matter. All the way to the party, in the backseat of that Mustang, Mike annoyed the holy living hell out of me.

When we got to the party, Summer said "This is James."

Six months later, Mike would cheat on me.

A year after that, James and I would be married.

Jason? Well...

All I can say is that I must have been emitting some toxic pheromones that night.

To be continued...

I just fell in crazy love all over again

2009-06-22T10:00:00.000-07:00

Behold, the Booms 12 years ago:

My heart is pounding at the sight of his sweet, 20 year old face.

I am so in love.

Again.

PS. The good news for Jason is that I've gotten better with age. Just like my mom promised I would when I was a sobbing, gangly, awkward 13 year old girl.

The Dude gets Hasseled by the Hoff

2009-06-19T15:50:00.000-07:00

For some reason my son is absolutely, mortally terrified of David Hasselhoff:

UPDATED: New Design, And I'm Mostly Awesome, Oh and I'm Giving a Design Away

2009-06-19T08:41:00.000-07:00

I launched a new design today. Take a careful look at this blog.

As I mentioned in this week's BoomTube, the opportunity to win a free blog design is coming up.

Within the Petite Gamine design is some strategically placed nookie. If you can find it, you can win one of two free blog designs we are giving away.

Each one of us is giving away one design. Leave a comment on her blog and/or my blog with the location of the Sexual Chocolate Egg we've hidden. If several people find it, then we will draw numbers to see who wins.

Blogger wins a design. Wordpress wins a header.

Good luck! And happy hunting!

UPDATED!! We'll always have Hasselhoff

2009-06-19T06:22:00.000-07:00

"Hello?"

"I just passed a garage sale and they had a 6 foot tall cardboard cut out of David Hasselhoff, in full Knight Rider gear. Should I turn around? Should I get it?"

"Shut up! Of course you should get it. Are you crazy? Turn around."

"Alright, oh shit, hold on... Okay, I'm back on the road, I'll get it."

***

"Hello?"

"Man."

"What?"

"It was Elvis."

"It was Elvis? How the hell do you think that Elvis is David Mah'Fucking Hasselhoff?"

"I don't know, I drove by quick and turned and... Well, I think I just wanted it to be the Hoff."

"You totally did! What a let down."

"No kidding, my Hasselhoff dreams are ruined. I was already thinking of all the things we could do together. Just me and the Hoff."

"Ah, honey, I'm sorry."

"It's okay. It's just that he was wearing leather and I thought it was Knight Rider, but it was the King."

"Jason..."

"Yes?"

"I know you're sad. But, I promise. I'll make my life's goal to find you a 6 foot tall cut out of David Hasselhoff."

"Ok. You know, I think if I just had a cheeseburger, I might be okay. But, I seriously was thinking of all the things we were going to do together."

"I know babe, let's cue the montage of you and David running down the beach together. Perhaps having coffee. I love you."

"I love you too."

"We'll get through this. I promise."

"Yeah, we'll always have the Hoff, if only for a minute."

***

After hearing my story, my bosses decided to take pity on us and printed and mounted the Hoff head on a board for us. Oh the places we will go...

BoomTube, Episode Four, I don't remember the links at this point...

2009-06-18T19:35:00.000-07:00

So I don't remember all the links I promised at this point but I will watch and THEN remember, because I'm mostly awesome like that.

Also? The audio in this video might not be safe for mixed company such as your young children or your cubicle neighbor. Uh, or your mother in law.

Or Ms. Manners.

So uh, the links.

Let's try this.

And the other link I will put up when we launch the design and prepare for the design giveaway.

I hate giveaways, but this IS my own business, so you know.

Anything else I promised in the video, I'll post tomorrow. When I am sober.

Love,
Betsey

Look at me, I'm pimping myself out. But I've been mouthy so now I have to go take care of business and bitch slap myself.

2009-06-17T08:05:00.000-07:00

I mean, not that I promote violence of any kind, but seriously? Have you ever had to deal with me?

Perhaps you've noticed that I haven't been around as much lately. My posts are fewer and my comments are even worse off. Or, perhaps you haven't because you never really cared about me to begin with and have simply been toying with my emotions.

In which case, you are a little hussy, aren't you?

I'll forgive you, just buy me something nice.

Oh, wow, looks like I've lead you right up to the point where we discuss buying nice things. And, where I tell you what I've been up to.

About two weeks ago, I contacted another blogger because I totally loved her blog and as Mr. Booms said, "it was big time". And, then he told me that I needed a big time looking blog design too. When I asked if she could help me out, she let me know that she kind of rigged her own blog but didn't feel comfy rigging others.

I frowned, I was sad. I totally understood. And, my normal blog designer is so busy now, not to mention pulling in the big bucks, so I didn't feel right asking her, nor do I have a budget for such things. So I set off on a journey to make myself over.

And I did. A couple different times already.

And then, once I did that, I thought, you know, that wasn't so very hard but that's because I know like some caveman level code, but I know a lot of other people don't. So then, I did this. She just let me pimp her blog out, pretty much anyway my heart desired within her tastes. When that was so well received, I did this. He wanted dark and blasphemous.

Those were simple, free blog templates that I just remixed a little to suit the blogger's personality and wants. Then I expanded and I did this. She wanted hockey and girly.

Again, totally well received. So I went on and did this. She didn't know what she wanted, but I think this is pretty awesome.

Those were not free templates. While they were composed of free elements, I basically scrapped and remixed their blogs for them.

The awesome part? I love doing this.

I know custom designs are big bucks these days. I know code isn't the easiest of puzzles to figure out.

So if you need a little help with yours for an extremely low price, please just let me know. You can email me at BetseyboomsAtGmailDOTcom. I'll be happy to give you quote for a customized blog design of your own.

Come on, you know you wanna.

In The Last Week, My Kid Has Become A Total Clutz. Or, How My Kid Preps For The X Games

2009-06-15T19:12:00.000-07:00

My kid is a walking bruise. I'm starting to think that his sudden growth spurt has thrown him completely off his game. Either that, or perhaps I should cut off his happy hour consumption. But you know, the kid has things and issues he has to deal with so hitting on chicks at the local hole is all he's got. I mean have you seen the economy, his stocks are shit.

Wait! Before you run off to nominate me for yet ANOTHER parenting award, I mean seriously, my mantle can't take anymore, let me tell you what I'm talking about.

At this very moment, that little slumbering wino angel has a huge scrape down his back, a bruised cheek, a healing bloody nose and a scrape on his knee. Now you may run off to cast that ballot but he was only in my care during ONE of those incidents.

The scrape on his back we are assuming that he got himself stuck in the little ol' picnic table he was playing on at lunch on Friday at daycare. I mean a kid has to practice sleeping on picnic benches for his obvious future of hobodom.

The cheek happened when Jason was playing around with him and he smacked his face right into my knee. For the record? Totally my UFC knee so you know, he's got a belt coming his way and some deal pushing burgers and TapOut wear.

Let's see here. Oh, right, the bloody nose. Well you see, he was standing on a cow, while playing with his little buddies and totally took a header. I heard he made a full 8 seconds though, so you know PBR (not Pabst Blue Ribbon, ya'll) here he comes. Yee haw.

And, then he scored himself some mild road rash while heading out to check the mail with his dad. This? From the kid who was beggging me to buy him a skate board while he jumped in circles around the house while watching Bucky Lasek and Danny Way this weekend. He yelled "DAKE BOARD" and then would ollie off the couch.

Evidently, when little boys are issued, they need to come with some sort of warning. Because while I'm telling him to, "rub some dirt on it", my heart is breaking into a million pieces.

PS. When you are watching the X Games in 16 years and you see some crazy blonde woman, who is so young enough to still have blond hair, scraping her kid off the ramp, you can say you remember when.

BoomTube, Episode Three, Unfortunately, We Were Not Able To Get Tony Toni Tone On The Soundtrack, But We Did Get World Famous Jason Kidd

2009-06-10T17:55:00.000-07:00

This week's BoomTube is the "It's Our Anniversary" edition.

My husband may have made a comment about the carhop at Sonic, what he fails to tell you is that I too, would put a hurting on some roller skates.

And that's okay, we are all special snowflakes. I'm just curvier than most.

Texting With Monkey, Or There Is No Way In Hell I'm Going To Survive This Parenting A Tween Thing

2009-06-09T04:00:00.000-07:00

Friday night Jason got home and said it was time we got new phones. He and I would upgrade and Monkey would semi-upgrade to my old phone. (Which is now covered in Pooh Bear stickers.)

(I said semi and pooh!)

With the upgrade in phones, we also added unlimited texting, which basically meant that Monkey could text now and texting was destined to become her new job, which would replace the old job of looking at me like I was dropped on my head and put on this planet to totally jack up her life.

Saturday when her dad came to pick her up, the Dude ran down the hall yelling "Sissy, your dada's home!" (How is that for blended family dynamics?) And off with her dad she went, about 2 hours later, the first text rolls in:

Hi mom. :) :P...

I responded and then she came back with:

Cool!!!!!:)...

And then:

Realy?!?!?!?!:)...

And:

Realy?? OMG!!:)

On and on this went for 3 hours until she ended with:

KINGKONG!!!!!!!!!!:) :) :) ...

Ten fucking exclamation marks. King Kong all one word, which still beats really with one L, I guess. This makes me question the school system that awarded her straight A's. Also, I'm not really sure what the hell she was talking about. I don't think she was even watching King Kong.

The good news is that this is the most we have talked in a year. You know, since "the hormones" kicked in. Well, with the exception of that day when I told her where babies came from and completely ruined her life FOREVER! Why AM I so weird and gross? The bad news? I was trying to drink in relative peace from my children and now she could reach me anywhere. Thanks 3G network! No really, freaking thank you.

In the morning I was a little hungover, eating an ice cream bar and french toast and greeted with:

God morning!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!:)...

When she got home from her dad's that afternoon I said, "Let me see your hands."

And then I broke her number 1 button pushing finger and told her she'd thank me later. Because no kid of mine was going to abuse punctuation in this manner. If she couldn't punctuate maybe she'd focus on her spelling.

I'm pretty sure this is the same program they'd use in Summer school's across the country.

The next day I caught her texting her friend:

i just got back from the grocery store

No punctuation.

"Monkey, go put that damn phone in your room!"

She had to explain to her friend later that it's not that she's NOT excited about the grocery store, who wouldn't be, it's that she is grounded from exclamation marks. And only allowed 25 texts a day.

***

PS - I totally lied about the breaking of the finger.

PPS - I just sprained it a little.

PPSS - Still lying, I kicked her in the shins...

Do I realy need to go on???!!! :) ;P :) ... OMG!!!

He's Got A Face That Only A Mother, The Camera And The World Could Love

2009-06-08T07:02:00.000-07:00

This was the best thing that happened this weekend:

He will insist that we keep clicking, over and over and over again:

When the camera comes out, he will give you hours of good face:

Other than the steak tacos that Jason made to cure my craving, the rest of the weekend was pretty much crap and I'd kind of like to crawl back into bed and sleep the sucker off.

Oh and if I don't stop eating things, you know things, I'm going to end up on TLC or the BBC. And they will be using a wench to get me out of my bed, or better yet, off the couch. The good news is we will find the remote that has been under me for months, the bad? We'll find Cheetos and lint too.

And pudding. We'll probably find pudding. But I don't really like pudding, it's just that ice cream melts, so we wouldn't actually find any ice cream, just the ice cream stain.

Boom Tube, Episode 2, Take It To The Hoop Ya'll

2009-06-03T06:44:00.000-07:00

Here is this week's edition of BoomTube. And why, oh why do the stopped video stills make look like I've suffered serious head trauma? I know, don't be jealous of my beauty.

Today I take you to hobo hangout, so check it out:

So here are the "links below" that I promised in the video.

Thank you to A Jill Of All Trades for the naming of BoomTube.

And a huge thank you to the girls at Room 704. They showered me with love on their radio show last week. So make sure you check those beeshes out. And try and figure out what totes means for me, okay?

What has happened to my blog? Shut up, naysayer.

Updated: The Muppet Babies Are Going to Make Me Work Out

2009-06-02T07:07:00.000-07:00

Last night I decided that I had had enough of THIS (waving my hand all around in front of my beer gut). It's been a long time coming and you know how with heroin you have to hit rock bottom before you get that monkey off your back? And by rock bottom I mean you find yourself dressed up like Cinderella in the bottom of a dumpster with a can of tuna on your head like a pillbox hat. And when you try to remember how you got there the only word you can come up with is 'robots' and you're pretty sure that wasn't really how you got there. It was a lot like that only less "found in the dumpster Barbie" and more "oh my God, I'm gross and have nothing to wear".

I've just been decidedly uncomfortable. I've been slowly creeping out of every pair of jeans I own and when I bend over I actually have this ball of belly flub that hangs over the top of my pants and let me tell you, that has never happened to me before. I'm not even convinced that it is ever going away. I'm more easily convinced that there is a just a rather large parasitic donut growing in there that is actually some seed for a master race of aliens that will come and take over, but more than likely it's just, you know, beer and french fries.

Mmmm, fries. Especially with chili and cheese. Oh, oh and onions.

And, now you see my problem.

So last night I went down in the storage room and dug out my favorite work out video that has been sitting in there since we moved in the house and evidently, I've been discouraged at finding it because it was all like in a box, that was taped shut and everything. I was sure it was going to be 30 whole minutes of digging, scrounging and pretending I'm on a geological expedition in South America all Muppet Babies, let's imagine style, and it was actually in the second box I looked in. Which just made the last two years of my life seem more disgusting than they actually were before I set foot in that storage room.

The video itself is super embarrassing because, and get this, it's totally Buns of Steel... FOUR! Buns of Steel Four. I got it for a dollar and the last time I used it, I ended up wearing a bikini in Mexico. I'm pretty sure that will never happen again, but then I also came up with that bullshit about alien donuts and Muppet Babies, so you know, it's a toss up.

Anyway, I worked out last night and when I was done, my head was insanely sweaty and my face was beet red, but you know what? I felt really freaking good.

And, then I got up this morning and my pants still hate me. So evidently you have to do this shit more than once. So I think I'll try again tonight.

Oh and PS - The hobo dance club has removed the cushionless couch and added a dirty mattress with several pairs of dirty jeans, a door knob and a kids toy box sitting on top of it. I'm not sure, but I think it just became a hobo strip club.

PPS - and now that I wrote that and then read out loud back to myself, that all seems even weirder than I initially thought.

And, my co-workers want to know why I'm mumbling about hobos, but not in a real concerned for me way, mostly in a selfish, is she going to shank me way.

And yes... Yes I will, back off.

PPSS - When I said I ended up wearing a bikini in Mexico, it wasn't like waking up in the bottom of the dumpster. I remembered flying to Mexico and everything. The video had nothing to do with it and absolutely did NOT slip me rufies or anything.

Twitter Is Going To Kill My Blog

2009-06-01T07:57:00.000-07:00

Anything I have worth saying, I seem to say on Twitter these days. I will have more for you tomorrow. For today, I have mindless Monday fluff for your viewing pleasure.

And you know, if you don't do "the Twitter" then this is all new to you.

The Booms go New Wave:

There is something about this shot. The dude coming and dad going, that tugs my heart strings in ways I didn't know they could be:

Oh and I bedazzled a jock strap for my friend (warning: He's not necessarily safe to view at work) to wear after his vasectomy. I'm thinking I can start my own Etsy shop and call it Jocks of Love. For the recently neutered man in your life. What do you think? Solid idea?

And then? I made the dude model it, because that is just too good to pass up.

My mom was hanging out while I was gluing away, she informed me I was the ONLY person she knew that would bedazzle an athletic supporter. I told her that she either didn't know her friends well enough or she should invest in some new ones, because this? Is where it's at.

Please Stay Tuned For A Very Special Episode Of Betsey Booms, But I Promise Nobody Will Touch Dudley In His No No Place

2009-05-27T17:57:00.000-07:00

Due to popular demand, like two readers who are kind of pushy, it looks like I should make the "vlog" a regular feature here. Besides, I have a regular writing gig now so it's made my blog feel more like a free for all.

But, I'm kind of a procrastinator so chances are it will be like a semi-regular feature until it gets to the point where you just don't expect it at all, but look you clicked and look at that, she got off her lazy ass and did it.

Here's the thing though, I'm kind of refusing to call it a "vlog" from here on out. I think we're going to call it something better. Faster, stronger, more Betsey. Something like TeleBetsey or BoomsVision. I don't know yet. It could be something really cool that I don't even know about yet.

However, I don't want to sit here and yap at you about things you don't care about. So here is your chance. Delurk now! Please email me at BetseyBoomsATGmaildotcom. Ask me questions or for advice. Tell me what topics you want me to talk about. Maybe stories you want me to elaborate on. Anything you want. Feel free to Twitter me @BetseyBooms.

You know, you can even say that you want me to croon the sweet, sweet tunes of Kenny Loggins or even Kenny Rogers. Because you need to know when to hold 'em in the Danger Zone. Chances are I won't actually croon, but you know, you gave it a shot. You're a gung ho hipster.

Oh and I can't film them in my car anymore. Jason will end up with ulcers.

Because You Can Never Have Enough Shirts That Say Fingerbang Or Have My Face On Them

2009-05-27T08:13:00.000-07:00

You know how some days you wake up and you're pretty sure that TODAY, this day is going to be the best day of your life?

Well, if I had woken up with that feeling I'd be absolutely correct. Because the lovely NATUI at Not Afraid To Use It created this just for little ol' me:

If you are so inclined to wear this piece of awesome art and tell the world what a true hipster you really are, you can find it here.

But if you buy one for yourself, please send one my way as well.

My life is complete. I'm fingerbangin' my way through the day. You hipster trash, you.

Subtlety Was Never My Strong Suit And Do I Have Excess Spit Or What?

2009-05-26T18:10:00.000-07:00

As I promised, here is video of me awkward talking. Things you might notice in this video:
1) You can see the really cool combination of flat and fuzzy that my hair takes on when I've been standing out in the misty rain because my car wouldn't start.

2) I seem to have some kind of a salivating problem because I swallow an awful lot.

3) I just said swallow an awful lot.

4) I'm obviously NOT a hipster. Mostly, because I drive a foreign four-door sedan and then because there is a car seat in the back seat. Also? I only drink PBR when it's a dollar at the local bar. Oh and I hate righteous microbrews and look horrible in skinny pants. I do wear Chuck Taylors but I've done that since I was 14. My hair is never artfully messy and if I look glazed over it's because I might not be very bright. Bleach has evidently done something to my brains and made my insides a dark, dark place. And that's okay.

It's okay because I don't act righteous and then go around getting all up in everyone's face and making comments about how hateful people below the Mason Dixon line are. I love my Southern buddies. Also? I don't go around telling people how awesome I am and exactly why they should pay me, nor do I keep everyone else to a standard I can't seem to maintain myself. Oh and I talk about finger banging so you know, it's got to be interesting at least.

You'll Have To Tune In Tomorrow To Find Out How To Finger Bang Your Day And Why I'm A Hipster

2009-05-26T06:30:00.000-07:00

This morning I had the really bright idea to create a video blog. And, I did and it was AWESOME. I mean, I'm totally getting an award for this piece of directing genius! However, as it seems my genius taps out pretty early, I forgot my USB cable and will not be able to post it until tomorrow, or at earliest, tonight.

But, here are some things you will learn about when you view it, and you will!

1. I'm a hipster, a crazy hipster. Actually, I'm a 31-year old mother from the Mid-west, that might be a just a little overweight and never has any idea what is going on in the world, but evidently? I've redefined hipster. I guess, that in itself, is the ultimate hipster.

2. Do you know what finger bang means? I know someone who didn't and find out what happens when you use it in the wrong context.

3. The dude had his second birthday this weekend. He also can escape a federal security prison complete with armed guards, or perhaps just his own birthday dinner with a houseful of adults, multiple times.

I know, the edge of your seat is all, "Get off me, man" with that kind of a lead in. And, I promise it will in no way live up to any hype at all.

Frankly, I'm Exhausted

2009-05-22T06:27:00.000-07:00

Honestly, I just don't have the mental capacity to write anything that makes total sense. However, a few interesting things have developed in the last day or so.

First of all, I picked up my father in law at the bus station last night. He was an alcoholic and homeless for years.

So I guess I'm not really sure why I was so surprised when I got out of the shower this morning and through the open window I hear the sound of a beer opening on the back deck... At 6:30 AM.

Now, granted, it was NA beer. But, you know, it just seemed kind of not right.

I was really struggling this morning, so perhaps I should have cracked a beer myself and claimed hair of the dog. Last night I stayed up way too late, sitting on the back deck, drinking cocktails and listening to my brother's tales of woe.

One story in particular is still sitting in the front of my head this morning because the sheer audacity of some people is really amusing to me.

My kid brother has this friend, and I use the term lightly, let's call him Mack. Mack and my bro have been friends for years. Since they were just fresh faced kids in school. They've been through all the usual junk that your formative years hold. Some years ago, Mack moved to NYC with his girlfriend. Said girlfriend dumped Mack shortly after he moved, leaving him to fend for himself in the big bad city. When Mack called upon my brother to help him move back, my brother jumped in his car on a Friday and went to help and was back at work on Monday morning.

My brother put a trailer hitch on his Volvo to pull the U-Haul trailer back, which they ended up not being able to get, so he then put Mack's moped in the trunk of his Volvo and back to KC they came.

They've had adventures like this for a long time now.

The point of this story is simply to lead you to the next awesome act of friendship my brother did for this guy. It seems Mack was in receipt of some student aide to take some online classes that he didn't really feel were worth his while. Mack cooked up the bright idea that my brother would help take these classes for him and Mack would pay him $150 to do so. As it turns out, my brother helped the kid get a B in one class but he received a D in the other because Mack failed to mention the due date on an extremely important paper.

Fast forward to this week. The camera store my photog brother worked at has closed, putting him out of work. My brother has a small legal issue and is need of cash. Calling in the $150 Mack said he'd pay him for the classes was necessary at this time. Repeatedly Mack says, "Sure man, I've got it." The day my brother goes to get it, Mack calls him and says this:

"Dude, I've got a moral dilemma with paying you the money. You didn't really get a good grade in the class so morally, I just feel like I can't pay you the full amount, but I've got fifty bucks for you."

***

"STOP!", I yelled. My brother looks at me. "Seriously? He's having a moral struggle over paying you the full amount he said he would to have you LIE for him. A moral dilemma?"

My bro looks at me, slowly nodding his head like I'm an idiot. "Wait, do you see the huge problem here? That's like saying, I'm not going to pay you for killing that guy, because all you did was maim him and now he's just a quadriplegic and not a dead one! I just can't, because my morals won't let me."

Realization lights up my brother's face, "Hey, yeah, that's more jacked than I thought!"

"No really, it's like telling the hooker you just told to give you blow job that you won't pay her now because she only licked one ball and morally you feel that's just not right!"

It's Not Hobo Humping, It's Flank Steak, Subs and Naked Time

2009-05-20T11:12:00.000-07:00

For some unexplained reason, my husband wanted to eat a sub sandwich naked today. Actually, I can totally explain, so excuse my lying ways. He wanted to have sex while eating a sub sandwich.

Look, I'm not saying anything here he didn't already allude to on Twitter.

The thing is, I'm all about eating a sandwich while getting it on. You know how people are always all, "strawberries and whip cream"? I've always been more of the, "throw a steak on his chest and let's get this thing done!" kind of girl. Which seems maybe just a little weird, but I'm married to a man who wants to do it with a 6 inch on wheat in his hand. So your opinion of weird might not jive with mine.

I met him at the sub place for lunch and because I wasn't wearing a skirt today and we were in broad daylight, I couldn't swing the naked time. Not even partially naked but as we sat down to eat, I took my first bite and said, with my mouth full, "This? Would be sooo much better with your penis in me."

He was completely not amused.

And then? We went and bought flank steak.

And then? He almost hit a professional baseball player with his car while yelling at him out the window.

It was close to the best lunch ever.

Oh, and I have to go the whole weekend without making even one hobo joke. I feel myself getting ready to explode already.

PS - Now I have a post it on my monitor that just says "MEAT" on it so I don't forget to take home the meat. People are looking at me weird in my office.

PPS - Weirder than usual.

Ousting Hobos From The Back Alley Party Zone

2009-05-19T06:57:00.000-07:00

I'm always just a little wary when I see one of my bosses approaching my desk. I have three. One never asks for anything. The other two, well, you just never know what it is going to be next.

So when one of them started coming towards me yesterday, with that glint in his eye. The glint that said he was going to jack up my whole day, I started to tremble slightly. They always start with a, "Betttsssy!" The task at hand? Shutting down the hobo dance club that has formed behind my office. I mean, it's kind of rude to try to close this thing down. There is a filthy, cushionless couch and chair sitting right next to a dumpster. This? Is an obvious invite for hobos everywhere to come kick it with their brown sack booze and catch up on the hobo social scene. You know, complete with hobo paparazzi asking what Smokey is wearing today. Which is obviously urine caked, mismatched work boots and the latest in torn flannel. I mean, even I can see that. Oh and the valet out there, that parks the one bike that they pass around back and forth, which invariably leads to Smokey punching Patches in the gut when he wants his turn to bike around to check out the hobo ladies. Good thing Unicorn Jenkins is playing the role of bouncer or this could get out of hand.

Look, all I'm saying is far be it for me to go out there and bust up the hobo happening. You know? Instead? I think I might start leaving hobo delicacies in the garbage to help them out a little.

And obviously in my mind this is more like an episode of Tom and Jerry than of the back alley Kansas City homeless scene. You know with tuna can percussion and fish bone guitars. Cats banging garbage can lids to a groovy tune.

Anyway, I evidently am busy with very, very important things. So just look at these pictures and stay happy while I get my ass kicked by Toothless Joe and the Crusty Bunch.

My new hair cut:

The Dude when he wants his picture taken - CHEEESE!:

The Dude when he's done taking pictures looking not so much like a baby anymore:

Sunday baseball at the K. Where evidently we missed a brawl between the parents by mere innings. Complete with one parent kicking the shit out of the other parents head:

I Don't Have The Balls To Speak For My Entire Gender

2009-05-15T06:20:00.000-07:00

I guess you can call this a counter point: In case you missed it, Dell Computers launched a new site directed at women. Meet Della.

Della is evidently pissing women off everywhere. And, those women are saying something about it. Loudly, boldly, and all over Twitter. Running the risk of offending somebody, I'm just going to go ahead and say it. Kindly shut up.

All day long I hear women bitching that marketing isn't directed at women. Women who make the majority of the buying decisions in households across the country. And guess what! When Dell does direct marketing at women they then bitch that it's insulting.

It reminds me of the pain reliever campaign that tried to speak to the mommy world and insinuated that maybe, just maybe they had back pain from carrying their little ones in slings all day long. Mommy's everywhere railed against it and how insulting it was.

Really? Was it insulting? Or did your back actually hurt from carrying that little bastard around all day long. Because I don't know about you, but my kid is heavy and my back is a mother fucker at the end of the day, thank you, I will have a pain reliever with my beer when junior goes down for the count.

So, yesterday I tried to dig in a little bit and find out what was so insulting about Della. I'm not going to name anyone here, because I'm not representing anyone else, I represent my opinion only. But I was told that this site assumes that we're not as bright as men. Really? Is that what it is saying? Or is it saying that we like things in pretty colors? Because that's what I think it's saying.

And guess what? I fucking love pretty colors. And, when I clicked on the button to build my own computer guess what that sonofabitch did! Just guess? It started asking me technical questions, just like I was, dare I say it? A man! GASP!

Yes, once you go to order a computer on this site it asks you all kind of questions about what you want your pretty pink laptop to have for brains.

I guess what I'm saying ladies, is please stop speaking for our entire gender. I never felt like Dell was telling me I needed to have a huge set to order from their site. I felt like they understood that yeah, I like my shit pretty. Just because I bleach my hair, have boobs and wear the color pink every fucking day of the week, does not mean that I don't understand the tech world. I don't understand the tech world because I just DON'T! So when the tech world gives me a site where I can pick out whatever I want, just like a man, but with pretty colors all around, well... I'm kind of pleased about it. When the marketing world realizes that yeah, my back kind of hurts from lugging my big kid around, well gee, thanks for noticing.

They never said that I was less of a man because of it. They just told me they get it and if I don't like it then I'm more than welcome to strap one on and use the regular old site just like any dude, or any woman who just doesn't dig the Della site.

And, someday I hope that I can stand up for our gender and say, "yes, I like to bake, yes I like Hello Kitty, yes I want a free spatula with that, thank you! And now, I don't give a shit how much ram I have, can I get on Twitter? Can I blog?" Because I'm just a dumb shit girl who likes what I like.

Just like all the fuss over Twitter this week with their change in reply views, I have this to say: It's all free folks! It's free! The Della site is a choice, you don't have to see it. Twitter is a choice, you don't have to use. And frankly? I think you'd bitch if they hung you with a new rope.

Let's take it down a notch and realize the intent was not to insult. So don't treat it like it was:

Oh and PS? I work in marketing. Shhh.

Honestly, I Didn't Really Mean To Use So Many Words Referring To Male Genitalia

2009-05-13T07:39:00.000-07:00

In the past week a few things have happened, but somehow I cannot seem to cobble them together to form one streaming, composed thought.

So as much as I'm not a giant fan of the bullet points, I'm going to go ahead and shoot a few at you:

When your accountant husband sends you an email at the end of the day, that happens to come at the beginning of the month, and in that email he says, "I'm pissy". Do not, under any circumstances reply with, "Oh good, my favorite!" It doesn't go over well.

After I railed on what a complete dick my kid has been, and by after I mean literally like two hours later, he transformed himself into the most charming child in the world. Leaving me to look like the dick. Well that and the "my favorite" comment pretty much sealed the deal.

On top of being charming, last night I managed to give him a bath that did not resemble a concentration camp "shower". Seriously, you'd think I was tattooing numbers on his arm and shaving his head instead of merely taking off his clothes and diaper. Granted, I had to drag him in there kicking and screaming but once I was done washing him, I walked just outside the door where he couldn't see me and he played sweetly. Until he saw me again and then his mouth opened up and locusts flew out and the skies caved in, and his head spun on it's own little toddler axis, but I call that a success.

As you know, Sunday was Mother's Day. We all got together at my Mom and Dad's house for a bbq. Both of my grandmothers were there. You should know, one of my Grandma's was raised as a Quaker. The other, was not. Getting them together is just a little like placing a urine caked, foul mouthed hobo in the library. Someone is going to be shushed and someone is going to piss on the magazines. Once my brother-in-law shouted "boner" and we recapped my neighbor kid's dog with the "bleeding cookie", oh and Grandma Betsey talked about woody's, I thought "other grandma" was going to have a coronary.

And finally, someone in my husband's office powders his balls. Every day Jason goes into the bathroom and every day there is baby powder on the seat. Which makes me wonder how sweaty your balls have to be that powdering them at home is not enough. You have to repowder at work? Does he just blatantly walk in there with a bottle of powder or his he discreet? And, is it really baby powder or is there some sort of musty ball powder? So now thanks to him and Twitter, I'm walking around his office looking for suspect trails of baby powder and sniffing in the general direction of all their balls.

Which I swear, really is different than the norm.

But I Love Him, Why Is He Doing This To Me?

2009-05-11T14:02:00.001-07:00

The Dude turns two in two weeks.

In the past two weeks he's mastered the temper tantrum fit from hell.

I cannot believe a sound so horrible and soul punching can come out of something that I love so entirely.

I'm kind of starting to feel like I can't function anymore. He just won't stop being a jerk.

It's like its his thing now. Like being a total dick is his hobby. He's not a dick, he's an adorable little boy with a solid streak of naughty running through him. And, I love that naughty monkeyness. I just wish it didn't come with the sound of a pterodactyl being drawn and quartered along with it.

I swear, I've never shin-kicked a toddler before, but he makes it seem tempting.

Instead? I just hold and love his little evil self.

Even when he crawls into my bed in just a diaper on Mother's Day with Jason prompting him to say the much practiced "Happy Mother's Day", he instead screamed "NOOOOOO!", hit me in the face and then laid there half naked, tweaking his baby nipples.

I'm not sure I can all the glamour associated with being his mother.

Is It Still Called My Happy Place If There Are Shivs and Shin Kicking Gnomes Involved?

2009-05-08T06:53:00.001-07:00

This week has found me saying "a-hole" more than the average amount. Whether it was in the rain-soaked traffic or muttering it under my breath, just out of ear shot of my almost two-year old as he threw his 800th fit of the day. Yes, I called my adorable son an asshole. Because he was. Being an asshole that is.

What I'm saying is I've had it with all you assholes out there. And, I don't know if that means you, but if you think that it might then just stop being an asshole and we'll all be okay.

Monday started the week in fine form with layoffs in my office. We all sat around waiting to see if we could kiss our asses good-bye, so by the time they got around to telling you what percentage your pay was going to be cut, you were dancing for fucking joy that you still had a paycheck. It was only later that you stopped and thought about it and went, "Hey! I just got screwed!"

After wading through the mounds of COBRA paperwork and making sure I was all up on the new COBRA stuff (which would be more fun if I could be all hip hop and singing, "I'm all up in your cobra stuff"), I sat around with shaking hands for the rest of the day to drive home to Young Wheezy and his full-on fuck you attitude.

And then? The rest of the week went like this:

* The kid stayed sick and wheezy and grumpy and just schmucky and junior douchey in general. This morning he laid on the floor, face down and screamed for an undetermined amount of time.

Undetermined because by that point, I ceased to care about whatever it was that he completely invented on the spot to get pissy about.

* Jason went into Monk's room with a box of trash bags and went to town. Now our garage is filled with bags and bags of all things pink, glittery, fluffy and girly until she goes through it all and decides what it is that she can't possibly even think about going on living without. And, because "the puberty" is imminent she's been a joy to be around.

* Proofreading multiple replacement window brochures, multiple times. Who knew you could write 20 pages on windows? Well I know, I also know that degrees MUST be spelled out and for the love of all things zombie, why the fuck can you not stop hyphenating that fucking word? I circled it over 100 times already.

* Ants, fucking ants. Why? Because the people in my office drop things like pecans on the floor and then just leave them there. Simply so they can come up to my desk and whine about all the fucking ants in the kitchen.

* And apparently eating all those fucking pecans makes them stop up the toilets which then again, becomes my problem because evidently no one can wield a plunger except for me.

* Speaking of toilets, it's common courtesy to put the toilet seat down in shared bathrooms. I mean unless you're a hobo. And if you're a hobo then go piss in the alley where all the hobos take our trash out of the dumpsters and just leave it there so we can hand pick it all up. I don't want to touch the toilet seat every time I take a whiz. Seriously, it's just a little like touching every ass in this office and I'm not down. Especially because it seems you are hobos, dirty, hobos. Besides, there is trash in the alley I have to go pick up now. Scooping up old spaghetti and used tissues is just my idea of a righteous time.

If all of that wasn't enough, then my red, swelling, itchy eye and my also swelling fat ass should be. Because as it turns out, I also eat when I'm stressed out. Which meant that, yet again, this morning as I went to put on my jeans all they did was groan and say "fuck you, lard-o". Being curvy isn't always grand. Actually, it's mostly not grand. Also? I didn't know that denim could actually groan and creak, but look at that, it just did.

I am now sitting here, fashioning plunger handles and pecans into shivs. Pointy-ass shivs. I've gone on to create a hobo assembly line, with all those dirty, drunken hobos just a whittling away. Because if you're going to do it, you do that shit right.

A Word About My Mother

2009-05-07T07:15:00.000-07:00

In honor of Mother's Day (a completely fictitious holiday obviously created by the greeting card people, that I partially depend upon for a paycheck) I'd like to take a moment to thank my mother...

For never REALLY selling me to the gypsies.

I mean, you threatened it a lot and there was that one time you put me out on the front stoop with a sign that said Five Bucks(which I thought was a little low but whatever), and then that guy with the van that had blacked out windows tried to actually pick me up, but you stopped him.

And that? Was awesome.

Thanks Ma.

I Now Present You With The Raging Chad...

2009-05-06T15:21:00.000-07:00

I didn't have any puca shells so he's not complete. But I can assure you, he was being really douchey in this shot.

His little popped collar sends chills down my spine.

You Can Take The Boy Out Of Texas, But You Better Keep Frying His Food

2009-05-06T11:16:00.000-07:00

Spending the last two days at home with the dude, now known as "Young Wheezy, gave me the opportunity to do something I don't get to do very often.

Make dinner.

I know. I'll be the first to tell you that in this arena I am one spoiled princess like girl. Not only does Jason cook daily, but he is a fantastic cook. Always coming up with new ideas, everything is always tasty and in no way pushes the lame envelope.

And, I used to be a great cook. I can still whip up some sauce that is high on the rad scale and and some mean, mushroom cloud laying enchiladas, but the thing is, I'm completely out of practice from being Mrs. Booms. And chubbier, I'm decidedly chubbier from being Mrs. Booms too.

Looking back on yesterday, I should have stuck with that box of stroganoff I almost put the hamburger slam on. Instead? I opted for lemon pepper talapia, pasta in a creamy Parmesan sauce and steamed green beans. Chances are this meal would have been pleasing to anyone else. Well anyone not from the state of Texas:

Me: What is that look on your face about?

Jason: (carefully not letting his tongue actually touch the fish) Nuffin'.

Me: Really? Could have fooled me, you hate it right?

Jason: (finally gulping it down his throat) Um, no. I mean, yeah. No.

Me: Oh hon, you are a red meat guy. I'm sorry.

Jason: It's okay, I just don't think I'm a "fish" guy.

Me: Really? What if it was fried and oh, I don't know, called catfish?

Jason: Good point, you can fry anything and I'd eat it.

Me: Well how about those turkey corn dogs with the multi-grain coating?

Jason: I'm not touching those.

And that's fine by me, I like to eat them and pretend I'm a drunken hepatitis ridden carnie that runs a dangerous ride that's never been inspected.

I'm just a dreamer like that.

Scenes From Our Sick Day, With Snot

2009-05-05T09:38:00.000-07:00

Light On The Vulnerability, Please

2009-05-05T08:08:00.000-07:00

Climbing into bed last night, it felt like one of those nights where I would lay there awake, tossing and turning. But, as I laid my head on the pillow, it felt like the events of the day were piled on my chest, dragging me down into sleep.

The day had been wrought with lay offs and pay cuts, and when someone tells you that you're pay is getting cut and you don't have a choice about it... you suddenly realize just how vulnerable you and your life actually are. You realize you're happy just to have the job and the pay cut seems suddenly like a bonus.

Granted I work in a place where the owners took the largest pay cuts, it still stung As the emails from my co-workers who were let go on Friday came rolling in, I suddenly realized that my job, the job that I love so very much could be ripped away from me. I don't "belong" there, I just work there.

I came home and watched my son struggle to breathe. Vulnerability is like an albatross around my neck today. Sitting on my back, watching my struggle with the realization that my life is not made of steel and brick, it is flimsily constructed of paper and strings. Creatively wound in the form of a soft hammock that cradles me, but that may just tip and drop me to the hard, rocky Earth below at any moment.

Also? If you're my neighbors, that flashing light wasn't code for 'please fucking help us we are being murdered', not that you offered. It was my kid and I fighting over which position the light switch would be in while he fitfully slept.

He won. Light on.

Is There Such A Thing As Zombie Slop, You Know, Like PIg Food?

2009-05-03T09:15:00.000-07:00

Mr. Booms and I have always been "anti-gun" when it comes to keeping one in the house. I have many reasons including a kid accidentally killing himself when I was in school with his father's gun, and my brother finding my dad's and shooting a hole in their box springs.

Jason and I have been on the same page until yesterday:

Jason: I'm thinking maybe we should a gun for the house and keep it someplace like the attic.

Me: What? No, absolutely not.

Jason: What if we need to protect ourselves?

Me: We can get one after the kids have moved out.

Jason: Pssshaw. Why get one then? The only person left to protect would be you.

Me: True, I see your loving point. You know, now that I think about it, we should have one in case of zombie infiltration.

Jason: A handgun is going to nothing in case of zombies, honey.

Me: So not true. You aim for the head. Always aim for the head.

Jason: Yeah right, totally not going to work.

Me: Seriously? You're going to tell me how to kill zombies? I think I'm just a little more educated in this area.

Jason: Whatever.

Me: That's it, when they come you are toast. Zombie toast. I'm tossing you in while I aim for their heads.

Chances are I probably won't, but let's not tell him that just yet.

Also? I had a conversation with my 9 year old who asked me questions regarding "the period" and "the puberty".

Sigh.

I Have Found My New Favorite Person

2009-04-30T06:40:00.000-07:00

With not a drop of Diet Coke to be found in the house this morning, I made my way to the drive through at the local McJerk's. The placebo effect of the Diet 7*up that I did have was only going to last so long.

I ordered my fruit and yogurt parfait and large Diet Coke and proceeded into the converging drive thru (it has to be spelled this way, the sign says so)lane because this McD's is all fancy with two lanes to order in. Pulling up to the window I reach out my hand full of my debit card and see neon pink and green acrylic nails on the end of a heavily tattooed hand, which was connected to a wrist with a tattooed chain wrapped around it. Looking into the face of the owner of the hand, I smiled at the crinkles around the corners of the 60-something year old that greeted me with a smile.

That's right, Grandma. You rock those jobstoppers! Because you, my friend, are my new favorite person.

And, I've decided that I hate my purse. If I see one more dumb broad carrying one just like it, I'm going to lob mine directly at their head. But only after I get my monkey wallet out of it.

PS. I should add that my new least favorite people are the two dip shits at the pizza joint yesterday, who obviously went to lunch together and then sat at the table across from each other, talking in loud, girly voices to other people on their cell phones through the whole meal.

Because Sometimes My Email Is As Freaky A Place As My Mind

2009-04-29T06:39:00.000-07:00

I'm all frisky this morning just like my five pound Yorkie Poo after she gets groomed. Probably because my hair is nearly the lightest shade of platinum I could muster without turning it blue (actually it was blue for a moment), and I'm back to my awesome bangs. I couldn't handle that side swept, get a hair cut already, bullshit I was sporting.

What I'm saying is my ass is wagging around like I just found a ball I totally forgot about under the couch and it's the coolest shit EVER!

Also, I came into some fantastic email love from Miss Yvonne and sometimes you realize you can touch someone's life even if the entire state of Oklahoma separates you from them. Check it:

Depeche Mode came on XM this morning on my way to work and it made me think of you, and then right after that Billie Idol's Dancing with Myself came on. For reals. I was air punching the shit out of my drive today. It was like you were there, except you weren't and I was by myself shoving my fist into the air and curling my lip and then the lawn guys at my office saw me and started laughing and I was all "fuck you, lawn guys! You don't even know how cool I am...I'm Miss Yvonne, assholes!" and then I did a double air punch just to spite them.

And, you know that touches me in a special place I call my heart. It's like feeding little hungry children and shaking hands with lepers. Only the kids are still hungry and there isn't enough hand sanitizer in the world to make me touch those zombie freaks.

It's okay, lepers don't have feelings so don't get all crazy on me.

Inside of the little oasis that is known as my email is also an email exchange I had with the Dirty Pirate Hooker, in which I offer up some fantastic parenting advice she in no way actually asked for:

DPH: Omg, my kid is Hitler this morning. I refuse to sieg heil.

Me: Well you should, or she's probably going to rape you and throw you in the gas chamber and that would be all kinds of wrong.

DPH: I'd take a violent rape and gas chamber over her attitude today.

Me: Holy shit. What the fuck is the matter with you?

DPH: I don't know. I haven't had enough coffee yet.

Me: Well apparently. You're kid is a tool of the devil. Pretend like you don't even notice.

DPH: I wish I could video her rants in the morning and show her why I'm a drunk in 10 years.

Me: Can't you just get her up from bed at like 10:00 at night and show her that you're a drunk now?

Oh you said show her WHY! My bad.

And that is why I'm watching episodes of In Treatment lately. I need to brush up on listening/advice giving skills.

The moral of today's story. If you send me an email, it might just make it to my blog. Actually, more than likely it will. My life is a little on the slow side. And, if we're all not careful, our kids are going to get video of us looking like David Hasselhoff with a cheeseburger.

I Did That Thing Where You Tell Someone About Your Blog And Then They Have To Read It

2009-04-28T08:06:00.000-07:00

I do this thing when I get drunk and tell people about my blog. And then I always regret it the next day. The good news is THIS TIME, I don't regret it at all. My friend Tiffany is going to be reading and I'm sure SHE will regret that shit soon.

But I know her husband and I know that she has a lot more to regret in life than this.

However, she's probably going to be confused about a few things.

Let me provide a little key to reading my blog. I write about a few things a lot.

Zombies - I have a weird fascination with zombies. She'll understand, she knows Mr. Boom's when he's been drinking.

Robots - They are crazy cool and when they take over the world I want to be on their good side.

Shivs - When robots take over the world, or I end up in prison because of something Jason has done, I will want to be as schooled on shivs as possible. So I talk about those a lot. I'm still not down with how to keister stash one though.

Joaquin Phoenix - I don't know. He's just really weird and cool. That's all.

Teen Wolf - Teen Wolf will be saving the world when the robots take over. It's the only explanation for why Teen Wolf has had a resurgence and this is the Year of Teen Wolf.

Air-punching - It's the universal signal for kicking fucking ass. Who doesn't get this?

Being a rail riding, breakdancing hobo who is a master of skullfuckery - Wow, that's kind of a long story.

Billy Idol - The king of air-punching.

Saying things about Jesus that are bad.

Other random things:

Kenny Rogers
Foreigner
Journey
Wolf Nuggets
Monster Squad
Nards
Mr. T

You know, looking over this list I now realize there is no real help for me. My mind is a strange and dark place. Which is mostly okay by me, but if you're reading my blog and enjoying it, you are screwed.

I'm Pretty Sure The Only Reason I Still Have A Job Is Because I Change Light Bulbs

2009-04-27T13:20:00.000-07:00

I have this tendency to send emails out to my office where I say pretty much everything in the subject line and then finish in the body of the email. And then when I'm going back through my emails I start to think I'm nuts because I'm just looking at the body of the email and not the subject line.

I read things like (And I swear, I really sent all of these out company wide):

"Head over!"

"There is a huge, bubbling difference between dishwasher soap and dish soap."

"He is running late this morning and will be in shortly. Shortly and probably angry.
He’s like that."

"This guy looks like a total tool. I’m easily amused"

"Thanks, all my fresh-breathed homies"

"Dig in and smear away."

"Really, corn is delicious and kind of nutritious, but splendid?"

"For those of you who have not done this yet? I know who you are, I will hunt you down. Or throw something at you. I swear I will, don’t make me."

I'm not really sure why I still have a job. Mostly, I think it's because I say shit like this. However, if my emails are ever part of the review process I'm totally fucked.

You Are Perfect And Spotless

2009-04-27T06:55:00.000-07:00

It's the type of morning where you rush from the car, through the rain, into the drug store. Where once inside that store you plunk down a Diet Coke, a bag of M&M's and the biggest box of tampons you can find.

You dash back out into the rain and lunge head first into your car.

Crack the bottle, shove in the candy and rush to sit on the non-moving, damp, shiny road, desperately praying for a song, any song, no, THE song to make you feel better.

It never comes. Instead? You just keep pushing the buttons over and over again. Like a nervous tic, while dodging other cars, on slick roads. Breathlessly cursing the 200 stations you pay for and the selection of CD's you have stacked in the changer.

Pulling into the furthest spot from the front door, the wind yanks your car door open, jerking your arm from your shoulder. Reaching into the backseat, you wrangle the giant golf umbrella into the front seat. Shoving it out the door, struggling with your bag and all your Monday morning needs, you pop open the umbrella where it inverts INSTANTLY.

And I say you because you've had this morning too. Right?

If you haven't? Then fuck off. You are perfect and spotless. I am damp, soggy, wrinkled and soft. And slightly angry.

But mostly? Sad.

My Neighbor Kid Is An Asshole

2009-04-24T06:43:00.001-07:00

And, just wasting my energy on this little tweentard mental ninja of Jedi, fuck with my daughter's mind tricks is pissing me off.

Here's the thing. The kid made my kid cry and now she's going to pay.

She's run a steady show of bitchiness that we have tolerated up to this point. My soft spoken, kindhearted daughter typically shrugs it off and goes on her way. But, she's fucked with her brother and now Monkey is not happy.

Monkey takes very good care of her brother, because as she said, "He's the only one I have now and I want to protect him." So when the neighbor kid got pissed at Monkey for paying attention to her brother and not to her she blurted out, "He's only your HALF brother anyway." She just tossed that in her non-stop stream of snotty, bitch face comments.

I just realized I'm too mad to even do this right now.

My kid sat, curled up against my side, sobbing last night.

Jason and I tagged team the kid at the bus stop this morning. First, he pulled up next to her and said, "Before you come over and play again, I'm having a talk with your mother." Without knowing this, I pulled up next to her:

Me: You know, you really hurt Monk's feelings last night?

It: How?

Me: By telling her that her brother was only her half brother...

It: I didn't mean...

Me: I don't care what you meant. Are you aware that her brother died?

It: Yes I am.

Me: Well then have a little consideration for her feelings about her brother. He is the only one she has and she loves him. You need be a little bit nicer to my daughter, young lady.

Yeah, I busted out a young lady.

Whatever.

This is stupid.

That kid sucks.

Nefarious Acts Committed Under The Cover of Darkness

2009-04-22T16:42:00.000-07:00

I now present you with a dramatically drawn hypothetical reenactment of alleged activities, supposedly committed under the cover of darkness, theoretically.

[Close Scene]

The Squirrels In Our Family Tree

2009-04-21T07:09:00.001-07:00

When I was a little girl, my grandmother wrote a book about the whack jobs in my family. The title of the book was 'The Squirrels In Our Family Tree'. Keeping up with this rich history, I went on to marry a man whose last name literally translates into "nut tree".

In the usual chaos that composes my morning, my very favorite story about the horrid little man that was my Great Grandfather made it's way into the forefront of my mind. Moe was little, drunk and mean. He was a scrappy, spiteful man with a wicked back hand who was as bitter as the day is long.

Moe and his wife, Dotty, were raising my Grandmother in St. Louis, back in the days when you could send your kid down the street with a bucket and she'd come home with it filled with beer. I imagine that was handy. Mostly because Moe was a painter and like most every painter I've ever met he was a drinker.

Moe had been contracted to paint the interior of the neighborhood funeral parlor. On this day, he had been instructed to paint a particular room and in the middle of that room was the body of a dead man on a slab. Evidently, the funeral director didn't feel it was necessary to move the body or to instruct my intoxicated Great Grandfather on what to do with the body.

Undaunted, Moe set about his work, giving the room a fresh coat of white paint. As the day wore on and the room was finished, he then turned to look at the body in the middle of the refreshed room. Noticing that he has splattered the poor, dead, African-American man with white paint, he did the only thing that seemed logical to him...

He painted the man white.

His entire body got a nice coat of interior paint.

I never did hear what became of that man, but I can only imagine the looks on the faces of his family when they showed up to view his body.

Hypothetical Suburban Yard Wars, Or The One Where I Figure Out It's Easier For Me To Spell Hypothetical Than It Is Suburban...

2009-04-20T06:23:00.001-07:00

Hypothetically speaking, let's say that there's this guy who lives on the corner in Suburbia. His lawn is immaculate. As a matter of fiction, he is a grass dork. He dorks out on having the best lawn on the block.

And he does. The shit is fantastically green and lush.

So much so that, hypothetically speaking, his friend allegedly threatens to piss on it all the time.

The other day Hypothetical Man noticed some hypothetical dandelions had cropped up. And when he looked across the hypothetical street he noticed that Presumably Jack Ass Neighbor on the opposite fictional corner hadn't mowed his grass that was more dandelion than not.

So let's keep up this really fucked up hypothetical mess and say that maybe,just maybe Hypothetical Man drank some alleged beers. Wait, that's not right. They actually were beer, that can be proved so I guess he drank beer. Just beer. And, maybe, just maybe the more he drank the more pissed off he got at the dandelions. He was revving up to be a mushroom cloud laying, dandelion killing mother fucker. But mostly, he just got pissed off at the guy that I totally just made up that lives across the street.

So Hypothetically Drunk Man allegedly went down into his imaginary garage and filled a completely theoretical sprayer with vegetation killer. Supposedly, he then under the cover of night, sprayed a good chunk of the Fuck Face Neighbor's lawn with the totally unproven chemical.

By the way, I'm speculating when I say he's a fuck face, I don't really know, for obvious reasons. However, I have a suspicion that Hypothetical Man might be presumed to be a huge douche for this. Especially when he raced outside the next morning to see the California Brown grass across the street.

What do you think?

Also? Hypothetical Man may have come into my room while I was laying in bed and shoved a spoonful of pudding parfait in my face last night.

I may have still been pissed off this morning.

That's my theory at least.

I Crushing Your Head Because Lassos and Invisible Jets Are Played Out

2009-04-17T06:46:00.000-07:00

I lay in bed, working and stretching out all of the kinks that always work themselves up overnight and hang around until my medicine kicks in about an hour later. So I stretched and did the very same thing I've done every morning since I was a little girl.

I reached my arm out and took my fingers and did the "I crushing your head" move to something across the room.

If you don't know what I'm talking about, well... You need to check your freaking life. You've fucked up somewhere along the way.

So I lay there and I do things like pull my drawers open from across the room. And I pick up things that are on the shelf, way over in the bathroom. I even do it with my foot and kick imaginary holes in the wall. I can actually see the sheet rock crumbling.

And that's when I realized that this? THIS? Would be the most awesome super power EVER!

I just don't know what to call it when I finally get asked what super power I'd liked to be assigned. I kind of think I just made it up.

I am, however, absolutely positive that if a hipster was going to have a super power, this would be the one, because you haven't seen this before. And if you say that you have? You are a fucking liar. Or you spent a lot of time in Europe, whatever.

Hurry Up And Calm Down

2009-04-16T07:22:00.000-07:00

For right now, the buzzing has stopped.

The part of me, inside, that seemingly vibrates and buzzes until I can't stand it anymore. I don't know if it's in my brain or in my body and I don't really know it's there until it's gone.

The sadness is quiet again.

The ache that makes me burst into tears. The longing that makes me explain away my watery eyes, all day long.

The veil of calm has been pulled back down. My stomach doesn't tell me to eat all day long. To eat and eat, because something, anything has to fill that hole. The void, the dark, buzzy nothing that is just always behind it all.

It's like a heavy, weighted blanket has been thrown over me. Snuggle down into it, allow it to comfort you.

And, I will.

I am.

I am comfortable again... for now. Snuggling in it before it gets ripped off me again. Yanked back from my sleepy, dopey head, ruffling my already ruffled hair.

I'm tossing and turning in it. Trying to get every inch of the cool before it becomes warm and itchy again.

Because it will.

Itch.

Updated: I've Been Laying Low

2009-04-14T08:18:00.000-07:00

I don't post for days and then I do and when I do, I cover you all in my roller coaster of emotions that is me.

As most of you know, I am the mother to two beautiful, healthy children. I am also the mother of a dead child.

With the recent deaths of babies circulating around the blogosphere, I haven't said a word. Mostly because I didn't realize just how raw my insides still were until it happened. I read the first sentence of any post lately and I burst into tears.

I can't equate the pain of losing a child to anything else. When it happened to me I felt like my insides and been yanked out and shoved back in, but not in the right places and I was just supposed to wake up the next morning with all of this weird, twisted madness inside me and make it all work.

And it didn't. It didn't work.

And I felt selfish for being so eaten alive about someone who held such a short window in my whole life. But it was my whole life.

If you read nothing else today besides this mess, then you are missing out on the best thing I've read in a very long time.

Simply put...

Thank you, Maggie.

Thanks for remembering for me.

**Update: I just wanted to take a moment to thank all of you from the bottom of my bruised soul for the amazing comments and emails I've received. I am a huge wuss. I know this. I know how selfish I've been with trying so desperately to ignore the current atmosphere of Twitter and blogville. I know this too. I like to imagine these things don't happen to other people. I like to pretend it's only Jason and I that shoulder these horrid things. Unfortunately, it's just not true. I also know that the support you are lending to these families is going a long way in the weird combination of dark and bright days that will be their recovery. Thank you.

Now if you don't mind, all of this "feeling" is killing me and I need to go on calling people douchebags again before I remember how fragile and almost human I am.

I Don't Know, Why Did I Call You A Douche? Opening Day Part 2

2009-04-14T05:00:00.000-07:00

Beer in hand, Jason looked at me with a glimmer in his eye. I see the same glimmer in my son's eye, usually right before he guns his ball into my face. I shook my head at Jason. Don't you dare, just don't even.

He looked at me, looked at his beer, looked at Jeter. I think I saw fear in the eyes of our Yankee seat neighbors. Jason conceded. Jeter missed the Bud Light blood bath. Settling into our seats, Jason started yelling at Andy Pettite instead. "Cheater! You're a cheater!" Our mild mannered, Nebraska born seat mates looked shocked. I apologized again.

But soon, Johnny Damon was up to bat. I jumped up out of my seat, "How does it feel to shave your face for the devil, Johnny?" At that, the Yankees fans laughed at me and looked proud that Yankees have to be clean cut. I looked proud about my taunt.

The seat neighbors to the other side of us got up to head over to the party deck. We called my sister and told them to head over to the seats. More beer and jalapeno laden nachos magically appeared. My sister and I scrambled for the jalapenos and took huge scoops of something they claim is cheese. I say it's delicious. When the peno's and most of the cheese was gone, we passed them back to the guys.

Before we knew it, the party deck goers came back. So we decided to roam the stadium. We checked out the kid's park, with their mini-soft pretzels. We marveled at the carousel and then jumped up and down on the soft material surrounding the jungle gym.

Soon we found our way to the outside of the new bar. But how to get in? Simply enough, I ducked under the rope. I was still half dangle-crouching under the rope when the cop grabbed my arm. He insisted we had to use the front entrance. However, he had a back and he had to turn it towards me eventually. When he did, I made my move, right in front of the bar employee, my sister and I swooped under the rope. Of course, my sister and her fiance know someone at the bar, right? Then Jason made his way under the rope. The only person left was Kurt, my future-bro-inlaw. Being over 6'5", it wasn't so easy to get him past the cop's backside.

A little finagling and the promise of phone numbers that belong to eighteen year old cheerleaders my sister coaches and soon the 19-year old bar employee was releasing the rope for Kurt.

We are all standing around, loud, drinking, being hilarious and suddenly these words are leaving my mouth, "that guy looks like a complete douche." Next thing I know the douche as has turned around and asked, "What did she just say?"

*This is where I have to stop and tell you this. We are obviously serious fans. When girls come to the games wearing mini-skirts, halters and stilettos, my sister and I laugh, hard. Because have you seen those girls navigate the stands? Right. They look at the games as magical husband finding land. The guy who just walked near me? Looking for those girls. I saw his hair before.... on Simon LeBon in 1986. His pink polo shirt and it's popped collar peeked out from beneath a brown blazer. No one had told this guy, he was at a baseball game.*

He looks at Jason and DanTim, who we had just met, "Did she just call me a douche?" Jason replies, "Why yes sir, I think she did!" He looks at me, "Why did you call me that?" I cannot help it, I laugh, "I don't know, why would I do that?" I look at my beer (you asshole beer). The guy still looks shocked, "No, really, why?" "Uh, actually I was talking to your shirt." He looks at Jason, "What?" "I think she's saying, your pink shirt and brown jacket belong to some douche that is at a baseball game." DanTim steps behind Jason, ready to back him up and defend him against douche shirt and Simon LeBon's hair. Simon Douche looks at Jason, looks at me, shrugs and moves on.

I don't think he knew. Good thing I told him.

At this point? I could regale you with the names of local sports celebrities that we came in contact with, but it would mean nothing if you don't live in KC. We watched the post game show, doing our best to distract the on-camera talent. And we did. Taking pictures with every part of the stadium that would stand still, we soon realized we were the last people in the stadium that didn't work there. On our way out, I realized I didn't have my camera. Back to the outfield side we raced, Jason coercing our way back into the bar, no cop to dodge this time, I made my staggering way to the bathroom to find my camera, that was no doubt, sitting on the counter. All of our Yankee hating memories sitting within that camera.

Out of the bathroom I came, camera in hand (because who would want to lose this gem?). Jason asked if it was in the bathroom, "Sure" I nodded. Out to the car we went to head to the neighborhood bar for beers and a Nacho pulling competition.

It was on the way to the bar that I revealed the camera had been in my pocket the whole time.

It's probably best to end it by telling you that I passed out talking to my mom at our kitchen table and got up to a doggy bag of nachos for breakfast and salsa all over the second jersey I wore that comprised my 6 layers of shirts for game day.

Things I Wish I Was Doing Right Now (Complete Filler, Photo Dump)

2009-04-13T17:31:00.001-07:00

Jason finally took our Florida pictures off the camera after asking me for the millionth time if I had done it yet.

And now that I see the pictures,I wish I hadn't because I'd rather being doing all of this rather than all of this (waving my hands over this blog in general):

How Does It Feel To Shave Your Face For The Devil, Johnny? Opening Day, Part 1

2009-04-13T10:00:00.000-07:00

Some days you wake up and you know the day is going to be righteous. Other days you wake up and start to head out and you have to accept that it is going to be a miserable day. And yet even still, some other days, you are set to have an awesome day as long as you can accept that the day is going to be peppered with douche bags and you just might be one of them.

This was the case on Opening Day 2009.

In the days leading up to Opening Day, the energy is palpable in our house. The television and radio are set to an almost constant selection of baseball. We talk baseball, eat baseball and sometimes we drink baseball. Yep, we drink lots and lots of...

Baseball.

The day was cloudy, cool and rainy, but that was okay. It was 11 degrees warmer than last year, the rain was tapering off, we had a canopy, tarp, grill, chairs, dogs, a cooler full of beer and our baseball loving souls.

We were waved into the lot where we would be starting this year off at, G29. If I forgot G29 for just a second, the trip back from the portapotty would be dangerous and littered with potential drunken encounters. As I got out of the car, the car next to us started to unload and right away I already knew, we were going to be tailgating neighbors to complete enemas. The problem with being a sports fan is that your chances of encountering some form of schmuck are pretty much at 100%. That's okay, it's not like they had Yankees jerseys on, but then again, they didn't have Royals jerseys on either.

As I let my future brother-in-law out the backseat, the kid next to us starts to pour his first drink, McCormack's and Amp, into his gas station cup. His buddy shouts at him, "Dude, it's not cool to be passed out before game time!" As I walked by in full fan regalia, I added, "Nor is it good to roll down the hill on your way to the portapotty and end up hugging it for the duration of the game."

Blank stare.

I shrugged and started to assemble my coozie/beer/chair/combo. Suddenly, a Yankee's jersey walks past us. "What the hell? Are you serious? You know you have no soul, right?" He keeps going. It's for the best.

Our fire is burning, the beers are flowing cold, tasting of can, and the mood is Opening Day madness. And then Juanca from the enema camp comes over. "Can you guys set us up with some tunage? I loaded up my iPod with AWESOME stuff, you know, Nugent, The Smith's, Nickelback?"

I let it slide. What? You know what I let slide. "I think we have some Smith's, if not, we have Joy Division, hold on." And as I check Jason's CD's I see that both of those are not in there. And then I see it. Nine Inch Nails - Pretty Hate Machine, guaranteed to please the douche bags.

And it did.

Our stadium has had a complete renovation since last year. The largest HD screen in the world can be seen from anywhere in the parking lot. The shiny, steel facade greets you with a sense that maybe, just maybe, our city is actually on the map.

We discuss what we can see of the stadium, we discuss the ass kicking we gave the White Sox, we toss jokes around about the bail money that we will need to gather for Jason when that beer gets tossed on Derek Jeter. I'm already wording the apology letter to Mr. Jeter in my head and then I remember, his bank account is all the apology that guy needs.

Juanca shows his face again, which is eerily like Gene Wilder, if Gene Wilder were a college aged good time having dipshit. "Hey so, we're totally going to see Nickelback. That's rock, right?" I let it slide the first time, I can't do it again. "That's as far from rock as it gets, guy."

"No, they're cool."

My sister pipes up as her fiance pulls his hat over his face to avoid the whole scene, "No, man, they aren't cool." "Let me guess, you liked Creed back in the day." I say it as a statement, not a question. And then I look at him, "Oh my God, you STILL like Creed, don't you?"

Juanca looks abashed, "Creed was cool. You know I listened for a minute." Again, my sister shakes her head, "No... Creed was never cool. I promise you that." With that, she and I head to portapotties.

Getting into the portapotty line, it's apparent we are the loudest and possibly drunkest fans there. As we laugh loudly at our own hilarity, like we always do, we hear the guy threeup in line say to the guy right in front of us, "Hey! You were supposed to stay and watch the grill!"

"Yeah, what the hell? You are such a self-centered asshole!" I lean over and tell him. My sister laughs like no one else bothers to, "Yeah, really. Not only did you not watch the grill, but now I have to stand further back in line." The kid busies himself with his text message as his friends roll their eyes at the drunk rowdies that are me and my sibling. We continue to chatter and laugh raucously at ourselves when the kid suddenly realizes that we're funnier than shit. And apparently, shit is funny. We stand there, entertaining ourselves and everyone around us with our beer in hand, one in pocket for the walk back to G29 when it suddenly becomes our turn to to go. As the kid heads into the head he turns around, "Enjoy your pee's and the game!" I shout back, "Yeah you too, and next time don't be such a douche, pee in the grill like a man!" He nods a, "will do!"

My sister and I meander back to the car where we hang and drink and chat with Jason's cousin who has found her way to G29. And then? Then it's time to head into the stadium. We grab beer for the walk in, passing the cans back and forth. As we go through security we lay our eyes on the new stadium for the first time. We hit the huge bathrooms, no wait for girls, huge wait for guys. Perfect.

My sister and her fiance head off to their standing room only and Jason and I head down to our seats. We sit down and as I'm marveling at the field, Jason nudges me, "Trade me seats, I can't sit next to these guys."

Yankees fans.

From fucking Nebraska.

So I settle in, apologize to them for what is about to happen and then Jason nudges me again. I look up and see it. With only about 20 rows and one overweight concession vendor busy with a sale in between us and the focus of Jason's gaze:

Derek Mother Fucking Jeter.

I'm Right There In The Dork Hole With You

2009-04-09T07:01:00.000-07:00

Hold on for a minute while I dork out on you. If you know Jason and I in real life, then you know what amazing dorks we really are. We take dorking out to a new level. The really good news in my life is that my husband and I have souls that are wrapped firmly around the same tune. Our insides move to the same beat. We are dorks of a feather.

While we wait with anxious hearts for the new Depeche Mode to come out, ignoring that it has leaked all over the world, we planted ourselves firmly in the Joy Division camp.

We have a nearly nightly viewing of 'Control', where we sit and point out all the intricacies that only dorks would know. We discuss and debate. We toss about theories and suggestions.

In essence we are total freaking dorks. We own our dorktitude.

Last night, I watched and I talked. I pointed out what I'd not noticed before and what I had just read about to Jason. And then I looked at him and said, "I know, shut up, right?" He smiled and said, "No baby, I'm right there in the hole with you."

And indeed he is.

And indeed our son is as well.

Yes, we are the dorks who named our son after the lead singer of a band. A man who was weak and took his own life. That man was a poet though. And the tragic part about being such an artist and having the beauty of pain flow through your whole being is that how long can you truly live like that and deal with that? How lonely must that be?

Our almost two-year old asks for this song every day, over and over again. He sings it and he dances along to it.

Why?

Because he's got fucking dorks for parents.

Let me know if it does a thing for you.

I'm entirely captivated.

UPDATED: Also? I'm using the word 'nards' as much as possible today. It's getting weird. No one will join me.

I'm An Asshole And It ACTUALLY Is News To Me

2009-04-08T06:48:00.000-07:00

A little over a week ago I swore I would never guest post again. And I meant that. Because it's done not much more than bite me in my fat ass. But, then I was asked and of course I did.

I was asked to do another blog review and here's the thing about those reviews. They tear me up inside. Evidently, I'm way too kind of a person to love tearing someone a new asshole.

This time around, I wanted to love the blog. And when I clicked over and saw that the reviewee was sarcastic and funny I thought I went to freaking heaven.

Not so much.

In the course of reading every single post on her blog I discovered that not only did she liken Democrats to child molesters, but she nary went a day without making fun of overweight people.

She was coarse and shallow. She's spoiled and rotten.

And fuck!

I liked her.

Do I truly like her? No, probably not. I just don't give a big enough shit about how I look, what I wear or what anyone around me is wearing. I don't think calling people fat is a fucking riot nor am I concerned when said fatty wears a bikini.

I don't think that making fun of your Asian manicurist's grasp on the English language is funny because, hell, can you speak her language? Like at all? No? Right, she speaks two languages and you are making fun of her.

You are an ass.

So, at first I was torn up because I laid into her and called her a spoiled twat.

Which I stand by.

Wholeheartedly.

But then? Then I kept reading and reading and reading. I read the whole fucking thing.

And I liked her.

And that tore me up inside even more.

I would have a beer with this broad.

Because, evidently, I'm an asshole.

So This Good Friday Thing Is Overrated

2009-04-06T14:00:00.000-07:00

There are a lot of really hard pills to swallow along the way when it comes to being a Royals fan. I blame almost all of them on the Yankees, who have solidly ruined baseball. I cannot blame all of it on them though. I have to place a lot of the blame with fickle, fair weather fans as well as a baseball club that knows how to blow a lead most of the time. Oh and that baseball strike thing. Like hockey - strikes ruin things.

I am not easily deterred in my fanaticalness though.

When my boss announced that a good portion of our office would be out this Friday in our Monday morning meeting, I excitedly bounced around in my chair...

Me: "For opening day, right? Freaking awesome!"

I was met with blank stares from all but two of my co-workers.

Me: "Whut?"

Boss: "Uh, it's Good Friday."

My turn to meet them all with a blank stare.

Me: "Whut? Seriously? Does Good Friday have beer?"

Boss: "Betsey..."

Me: "No! Does. Good. Friday. HAVE BEER?"

Boss (patting me): "I'll explain it later."

And then? Then! They all started in on the jokes about the Royals and how they LOSE!

Me: "No! Stop! They are on top this is their year! They are picked to win!"

Co-worker "Win what?"

Other Boss who is a Royals fan: "Betsey, give it up, it's not worth it. They don't get it"

Me: "Seriously? Good Friday? Good Friday doesn't have beer and signs. Good Friday doesn't have hot dogs and cheering. There are no peanuts and camaraderie for Good Friday! Good Friday doesn't have the crack of the bat and the sense of belonging and brotherhood with thousands of other stadium dwellers! I'll wait until Sunday!"

Co-worker: "Why wait until Sunday if you don't care about Friday?"

Me: "Seriously? You don't know me! Because I'm a fucking fan man! Besides, Sunday is way better! It's Jesus was a zombie day! There HAS to beer involved with that, right?"

***

And this is where I tell you that I didn't say that last part about the zombie.

Because I'm a puss.

And Then Just Like That, 22 Years Vanished

2009-04-06T06:27:00.001-07:00

As I turned to look into our dining room, I saw him sitting there. The radio on. Like a little old man he listened.

Slightly hunched over, his pen went to work, scribbling stats and scores. I laughed as I looked and I saw what he would be in 30 years.

Then? Then he tipped the bill of his hat back and scratched the top of his head in that way. That way that makes my heart melt. The way that is only second to the move where he rubs his eyes when he's tired.

In that moment, 22 years shed away and my heart nearly split in two as I saw him as a little boy. A little boy listening to baseball. A little boy writing down swings and hits. A little boy doing what he loved.

And then he picked up his beer and took a drink and I was propelled back to the here and now.

With that? I turned back to my zombie movie and my own beer.

Time travel wreaks havoc on my heart.

Radio, Transmission: She's Lost Control Again

2009-04-01T22:44:00.000-07:00

I met him when he was just 19. He was skinny and hungry. He'd been mugged for his winter coat just a week earlier.

His dwelling was a basement studio apartment. It wasn't even the size of our basement room at this moment.

It was small, dark and dingy. You had to walk through the mildewey basement and the laundry room to get to his front door.

He seemed hungry. Hungry for food. Hungry for love.

I loved him instantly. The second I saw his ashey, pale blonde hair. His cold, blue eyes. So longing, so hungry.

I was touched. I was touched by his poverty.

Only later would I learn that his mother was in prison, his father? Later his father would be homeless.

Nights were spent holding his skinny frame. I taught him my comfort. My comfort. He held me, I taught him that when we didn't have each other, you simply put one pillow under your knees and you hugged the other.

Pillows were the mothers that didn't want us. My nights were spent thinking of the highest building I knew that I could jump off of. Instead? I waited for his call. The call that would inevitably end with me rushing to his door.

Tonight I watched Control. A film by Anton Corbijn. Ian Curtis. A lost soul. Had no one to guide him. No one to hold him... truly.

He had people around him, but no one understood the imbalance in chemicals. The brain, the thoughts, they didn't sleep. Warm arms around you don't always mean comfort.

Sometimes the pillow under your knee can be enough. Teaching the use of the pillow can be enough.

I held a shaking, skinny boy in my arms. I knew all he needed was love. If someone, anyone just truly loved him.

Twelve years later...

Two sons.

One living.

One dead.

He knows. He knows I love him.

Isolation.

She's lost control.

Transmission.

He knows.

And So It Was Decided That We Will Just Be Naked For A Week And Then I'll Totally Have This Thing Covered

2009-04-01T07:24:00.000-07:00

The result of the case study that involved only myself is that I have determined that the Zombie Virus' worst side effect was the lack of drive to do anything other than drink beer and eat Mexican food.

There was the small issue of hacking up hairballs that looked like tiny alien spawn and the nose irritation from the constant blowing, but more than that, there was the unexpected wall of laundry that didn't even take the initiative to wash, dry and fold itself while I was suffering through the worst of the infection.

And because the Zombie Virus finally decided to release it's grip on me, and also because at about 6:15 yesterday I realized that half my household was naked and the other half were only wearing wrinkled t-shirts and mismatched socks, I decided it was high time to get my diseased ass in gear.

Imagine the horror on the faces of the CDC crew that is inevitably going to show up, when all they find are our zombified remains wandering around the house with red, raw noses, hacking coughs and our ass cheeks hanging out of stained, wrinkled, ill-fitting free alcoholic beverage t-shirts.

Finding sick ass zombies is one thing.

Finding naked, sick ass zombies, peddling Jameson and Moosehead Beer is another.

Jason and I have an agreement. I do the laundry. That's it. I do the laundry. There really isn't much else to the agreement. I mean he does all the yard work and I do the one chore that unless you are naked when you do it, it is never done.

He made the agreement. With himself. I think I nodded and said okay.

I also think I was drunk.

And possibly naked.

After an hour and a half that consisted of me doing absolutely nothing that was not folding and hanging laundry (and eating a bowl of cereal), I finally came up for air and asked him to please put his drawers in the drawers. He complied and I also think that he sighed when he realized I had washed only one pair of khaki's but not the "comfy" pair of khaki's.

I say that I think he sighed because, brilliantly, he didn't say a word. He just put the other pair into the laundry room instead of wherever it was, that was not the laundry pile, that they were hiding in the first place. Mr. Booms was alive and able to tell the story this morning because he was so wise.

Unfortunately, as he stepped out of the shower, he stepped around yet another pile of dirty clothes. Wrapping the towel around his freshly showered body he said, "How is it that you did all that laundry yesterday and we still have a pile of dirty clothes sitting here?"

With that, I moaned "GRAAGH", ate his brain and then ripped off his arm and ran, half naked, in a stained, XXL Carlsberg t- shirt over to the neighbors and beat them with Jason's still twitching arm.

I'm pretty sure he forgives me though.

He had clean boxers in his drawer.

People Are Such Babies About Being Coughed On

2009-03-30T08:34:00.000-07:00

My kid, "the carrier", has pretty much recovered from his mutant viral strain of malaryia, tuberculosis, the plague, shiv in germ form and leprosy.

His father and I? Not so much.

I'm positive mine has morphed and mutated further into some weird typhoid/zombie like thing. I refuse to acknowledge the leprosy mostly because I look horrible in rags, nothing has fallen off or doubled in size yet and I hate Mother Teresa. Besides, leprosy is just zombie in a less cool form.

And with that, I locked down my place in Heaven. Look out Heaven, it's going to be a special kind of party when I get there. Mostly, because I'm anti-social and drunk a lot.

Evidently, when you are coughing a lot and have strange colors of phlegm evacuating from your face at regular intervals, your dentist is a little iffy about digging around in there. Also? People don't like it when you sit next to them in the weekly staff meeting. So I coughed on every chair around me and made myself comfortable.

Let me drop some science on you, right here. Some remedies that apparently have no effect on this particular strain of death on wheels would be Miller Light (I refuse to type LITE seriously), tacos, fajitas, shrimp nachos, Dayquil, Nyquil and Robitussin. And in regards to the Robitussin, Jason displayed some crazy mixed martial arts madness to get that shit down my throat. Robo-nasty.

Actually? I'd rather swallow something called Robo-nasty. It sounds robotic and honest.

So I'm thinking that the person who left me the love note, wishing that I would die, just might get their wish, which is what I get for being such a fucking people pleaser.

You're welcome.

My Best Review Yet...

2009-03-26T13:54:00.000-07:00

Posted anonymously, G. has this to say:

Yes god please die. Your value doesn't even amount to a urinal filled with drunk's piss. If life was fair, you would simply hang yourself from the nearest lamp post instead of blogging, you inbred banjo-pickin' hillbilly.

In the meantime keep typing. Maybe, someday, you'll randomly type something semi-intelligent.

Was this post a conclusion or simply the place where you got tired of thinking? Well, you're certainly thoughtless; I just wish that you were keyboard-less, too.

Fantastic! I hope you got the attention you wanted. Thanks for your well thought out and crafted note.

I'll cherish it always.

PS - If by chance you get one from me? Uh, it wasn't from me, we've got a hack in the works.

You Know How You Do Someone A Favor And Then They Turn Around And Treat You Like An Asshole?

2009-03-26T07:11:00.000-07:00

Sure you do. If not, then meet Rassles.

So yeah, I should have learned my lesson when I guest posted last week. Click on over and read the last guest post I'm ever going to write.

Sometimes you just have to know when to Never Say Die* and other times you just have to know when to fold them**.

I'm totally shanking her when she gets back to the mid-west.

*Teen Wolf
**Mr. Kenny Rogers.

This Is Being Written By My Left Lung, Which Has Developed A Mind Of Its Own

2009-03-25T06:59:00.000-07:00

The plague has fully set into my chest now. I fear that this may be my last transmission from this desolate place. (Except for my guest post over at Rassles that will be up tomorrow).

"The Carrier", the original infector, is climbing all over my still partially animated remains, with his off-kilter equilibrium.

If you don't hear from us again, please send the CDC and that crew from E.T. that was lead by Peter Coyote. You know, the one in the awesome suits that tented the house and scared the hell out of everyone. Oh, send Reese's Pieces too.

The plague has started to set into our mental capacities. The Carrier is repeatedly hitting the dog over the head with a pillow and screaming like a tiny manshee. I fear it's only a matter of time before we are completely lost.

Warn the others.

The end is near.

The apocalypse came in the form of a really cute, blonde-haired, blue-eyed toddler.

Of course it did.

PS - The Carrier is super cuddly and still managing to find books for me to read over and over again even though I swear I hid every single one of them. Also? He is playing with cat balls and we don't even have a cat. Which reminds me, at the doctor's office we read a book about a bear that draws and his berries and I don't even think that "berries" was supposed to be code for his balls or anything. I now have to go and watch Yo Gabba Gabba or freaking AFV for the 800th time.

Basically My Kid Is Tormenting Me By Messing Himself Up As Much As Possible

2009-03-24T06:54:00.001-07:00

On top of having like infected lungs and weird mutant viruses that only bad little girls who don't belong to me would carry, my kid is tormenting me. I'm even typing this with one hand. Mostly, because my lap is the only seat in the house to watch Nemo from and he even tried to rip off my right tit while climbing up into my lap.

I didn't really need it anyway, because I think he has also infected me with his mutant germs which are going to cause my right lung to swell and it then can take the place of my boob that he just ripped off without a second thought.

So I'm coughing and administering breathing treatments to "the carrier" and he's doing things like making me read this asinine book about brown bears with blue balls and he's seriously wiping out like every two seconds. He completely crash landed in our hallway giving himself a goose egg and a bloody nose. So now he has snotty blood all over his face which makes me feel just horrible for him. And then he does things like hits me in the face with the moose book again so that I will read it to him for the 80th time. Seriously.

Basically, what I'm saying here is that we are just going to sit around all bruised, bloodied and hacking until it's time to go to the doctor again.

Because the co-pay wants to tell me to suck it just one more time before this is all over.

Updated! - My Kid Just Coughed Up Something That Looks Like Joaquin Phoenix

2009-03-23T10:44:00.001-07:00

Crazyman Jones has been sick for days now. Shortly after I discovered that he had coughed until he threw up a half-crazed, bearded actor this morning and started calling himself "Young Wheezy", I too developed a hacking cough. Jason spent the better part of the morning in and out of the doctor's office and then the hospital when it was decided that the wheeze wasn't just an affectation that Crazyman developed to set himself apart from other toddlers and sky rocket his career to stardom.

Nope, it's just a case of bronchiolitis and possibly hairballs. And that knowledge dashed my dreams of Casey Affleck following my son around with a video camera while he launched his rapping career and beat down hecklers. Which is a shame, because my kid is mad awesome at beating down hecklers.

Instead? I just get to hook my kid up to a nebulizer everyday, but already I'm working on getting him to say, "Luke, I am your father." It sounds just a little like, "Wuke, amabada fawda."

Close enough.

All of this might explain why my kid had taken to calling me Mandy all weekend long.

Or maybe not.

*** Just realized, this does not explain why his dad called me Mandy all weekend.

So the lab just called and RSVP'd and I was all, "The hell, I didn't even invite you and besides, I never expect anyone to actually RSVP because I never do, I'm THAT person." As it turns out, they weren't RSVPing at all. They didn't even want to come over for a beer. Jerkoids. Instead? They were telling us that Crazyman has RSV. Which is not nearly as much fun as an RSVP - not even close. It's mostly just a virus he got from kissing some kid at his daycare. That kid's mother, never took her to the doctor. Oh and yeah? All the kids have been sent home for the same thing we were just the first to take our kid to the doctor, and a hospital, oh and a lab too. See the cool part about being responsible is you get to find out the really bad news before anyone else and when you think it means that you are throwing an awesome party that you forgot about, it's even more disappointing.

I'm Pretty Sure Billy Idol Knows Who I Am And Probably Thinks I'm Awesome

2009-03-20T08:18:00.000-07:00

Sometimes when you profess your love for air-punching gods you get noticed. My righteousness is now a part of Billy Idol's history.

Billy? I'll be expecting a phone call.

And a signed picture.

Oh and lessons in air-punching.

I know this isn't a real post, but I'm sitting at home with a sick kid, watching the other guy who calls me his muse, Bruce Campbell, waiting for Joaquin Phoenix to call and tell me that he wrote the best hip-hop song that a hairy white-guy who has no business even saying the words hip and hop in the same breath has ever written and it is about me. And probably buying whole foods in bulk and firing his housekeeper because what else would he write about? Except maybe being a train jumping, breakdancing hobo. He's totally got that going for him.

My musiness knows no bounds.

Also? My kid has wiped his nose on every flat surface of the house this morning. So you know, I have that going for me.

I'm A Total Hack

2009-03-19T06:50:00.000-07:00

And that's basically because I spent the duration of yesterday with not a single thought in my head.

It turns out that lack of things like caffeine and chocolate really plays a huge part in my ability to form thoughts and complete sentences. Hell, it really hinders my ability to just, you know, come up with words.

I spent most of the day grunting and falling asleep whenever the mood struck me. This pleased my bosses to no end and I'm pretty sure they're going to promote me really soon. I guess what I'm saying is that if I were a semi-delicious, breakfast "pastry" that you put in the toaster - I would have been a dust poptart. No delicious, gooey center of s'mores or cinnamon or strawberry. Just the dust from the cardboardy outside. And I wouldn't have even been the good frosted kind. I'd be the dull kind that just had holes that made you groan, "mawwwwwm, ugh, I hate this kind!" at your mother when you opened them. Hopefully, she would have smacked you and called you an ungrateful little shit. Because parents could totally get away with that back in the day and let's be real, you are an ungrateful little shit.

So here's the thing about that, that's fine for this crap pot pie of a blog, but then Rassles wrote me and asked me to guest post for her while she is in the Big Easy. I may or may not have called her a dicknose in the process of telling her I would do it. But the point is that I told her that I would. And she totally forgave the dicknose thing, mostly because I'm pretty sure she would have done something similar and she just may have written me on a weekend night and if that happens you just never know what the response is going to be. Oh and anything that was written on a shirt that Stiles wore is fair game for us to call each other. Plus? She sent me a picture of a monkey with a nose that looked just like a dick.

Turns out Rassles is a like a crazy deadline giver and wants me to actually give her something before she leaves for her trip. So I may stick with the dicknose thing because she's forcing me to do something today.

My hacky ass is hopped up on Diet Dr. Pepper and mini chocolate donuts because it also turns out that edamame and fucking yogurt just doesn't cut it. You can't write like a manic freak show if you're half dead from healthy eating.

You just can't.

PS - I have a banana in my lunch bag that is getting all sorts of ripe and now my lunch bag smells like the one I had as a kid.

Well minus the warm bologna and slimey American cheese on crap bread smell.

Dry Roasted Edamame And Why They Are Going To Kill Me

2009-03-17T06:33:00.000-07:00

Yeah, it seems kind of useless to devote a post to St. Patty's day. Mostly? Because the whole point of the day is to get drunk and piss green.

I'm totally for those things. I mean, really, I live like every weekend is a tad St. Patty's like. And, I've learned over time if you actually piss green, it's not always cause to go to the doctor. Not until like the tenth time or so.

Chance are most of you are going to be drunk today and doing things like wearing too many cheap plastic beads, stupid hats and maybe even showing your boobs. Also? Donning shirts that dare people to do things like Kiss You Because You Went To Some College but if anyone really kissed you, you'd be all freaked out and then might spend an hour in the bathroom crying and heaving. So you won't be reading this, you'll be reading bathroom quotes and scripture scribbled with a Sharpie on the walls of a stall that no longer has a door and toilet paper all over the floor, but not a single usable square on the actual roll. You'll want to throw your shoes away at the end of the day, because really? Do you know what you've stepped in?

Oh and if I eat one more dry roasted edamame I am going barf my brains out. I just can't stop. And they taste like shit. Not just shit, but like they just might have been sitting in your grandma's basement forever and you just found them and were all, oh here's a good looking snack, sort of reminiscent of dried up bug bodies but more soy bean like. And if you put them with Light, Fat Free Lemon Cream Pie yogurt it's just fucking sick. But it didn't stop me. And here am, doing some weird variation of slurping and crunching and my stomach is yelling at me to stop, stop, stop! And then I tried to wash it down with a Diet 7*UP and it's like a big stew of diet nasty in my belly.

With that, I'm off to find some place that 20 people can walk to, sit outside, eat lunch and drink beers in a city that hosts the third or fourth largest St. Pat's parade in the country.

I'm Going To Be A Toothless Old Hag...

2009-03-16T08:14:00.000-07:00

This morning I went into the dentist's office and I was all, "hello world, lets dig and scrape at my teeth this morning. I cannot think of one single, solitary thing I'd rather do. Other than perhaps poke myself in the eye or better yet? Prostate exam!"

I know, but I would rather have someone dig for my imaginary prostate.

So when they asked if I had any concerns about my teeth, I offered up that I had a huge gaping hole in the middle of one of them. Oh and I had broken off more than half of the tooth as well. "Should I poke myself in the eye now? No? Wanna see my prostate?"

"What is that you ask? How long ago? Oh about two-weeks." Because December totally was two weeks ago. I remember it being two weeks.

And then the dentist went at my face with a shiv and I wasn't even excited. He scraped and hacked. He dug and poked my gums, who didn't even see that shit coming. Then asked me the questions he always asks about my wisdom teeth that I have not yet given up, because you read me, you know I need that shit. The wisdom, that is. Teeth are kind of optional.

And as it turns out, they really are optional. Early this morning my dentist made me weigh out the pros and cons of teeth having. It's not something that I ever really pondered before that very moment. Honestly, there really isn't enough caffeine to make that feel easy or even normal. I had the option of dropping a ton on a crown that MIGHT last 5 years or having it removed. I could pay for a filling in a wisdom tooth that is useless or I could have it removed.

In the end, my dentist was very sad to hear that I would have the uncrowned tooth yanked. He said they like to save teeth. However? I was totally not fooled by his pouting face. Because have you seen the difference in cost between a filling and crown and just having a tooth pulled? No? It's the difference between a robot that pours you beer, cleans your toilets, makes cheeseburgers, BACON CHEESEBURGERS and looks like Teen Wolf and the Omnibot 2000. I mean the Omnibot was righteous in it's time, but a complete let down.

It was apparent when his dollar sign shaped eyeballs went crashing to the floor that I had just omnibotted his cha-ching dreams. Oh but you should have seen the glow return to his eyeless face as he spout out the joys of bridgework and better yet! Dental Implants! Yeah, we're having fun now, kids.

I spent the entirety of my ride to work smiling into my rear-view mirror. And, unless I smile like a freak (shut up) there is nothing to worry about. I won't be flashing my hole at people.

Not even if you ask.

Weirdo.

PS - My husband is super stoked at the idea of having a toothless wife. He said we can drive through trailer parks without weird looks now. And when we want to go to pawn shops or swap meets, people will stop asking us if we're lost. Also? The DMV and Wal-Hell will now accept me as one of them.

Please Joaquin, Don't Hurt 'Em!

2009-03-14T06:26:00.003-07:00

Sometimes people don't listen when you warn through awesome artwork.

But I said it and he ignored it:

And then this happened.

All I can say is that I'm a little psychic. Also? Where was his shiv?

My Radio And The Car Guy Thought I Was A Jerk

2009-03-13T07:20:00.000-07:00

Disclaimer: I'm pretty sure this is how this call went yesterday.

The rad thing about owning a Honda is that when your battery dies, you have to reset a code or you don't get the privilege of listening to your radio.

The rad thing about working in the Honda service department yesterday was talking to me.

They got to do it twice.

Me: Hey, uh yeah. So I have this car and it died. And now the radio is just looking at me like I'm a jerk.

Honda Guy 1: What?

Me: My radio, looks at me like I'm a jerk. Am I supposed to have some kind of code? You know, I had to jump start my car now the radio does not work!

HG1: Oh, well yeah, there's a sticker in your glove box with a code on it.

Me: That's negatory.

HG1: What?

Me: No sticker.

HG1: Well lady without that sticker I can't help you much now can I? Besides, we don't give codes over the phone.

I knew this was total bullshit and this guy was just annoyed.

HG1: Are you in your car now?

Me: No.

HG1: Can't really help you.

Me: Can't really like you.

He didn't care.

Yeah, so I go out to my extremely moody car that just looked at me like what now? Haven't we been through enough? And I flip open her glove box and she was all, "Really? We have to do this now?" And there is a freaking sticker with a number in there that I guess Jason couldn't find the last time he needed it.

So I called Honda back. They were stoked.

Me: Yeah, so it's cold, I'm sitting in my car. It's screaming at me for a code and I have this code so what do I do?

HG2: What?

Me: My CAR! It wants some kind of a code, I have a code, you tell me what to do with it?

HG2: You push it into the presets.

Me: Right and how do I do that?

HG2: YOU. PUSH. THE. BUTTONS. If it says six, you push six.

Me: Thanks Honda Guy, but here's the thing, there are like nines and eights. How do I make that magic happen?

HG2: What?

Me: Nines and EIGHTS! They come after seven and before ten. My presets go up to six.

HG2: Where did you get the code.

Me: I can't help but think if you were a robot this would be easier. From the sticker inside my car.

HG2: Oh, that's something else, I put that number into my smart box and it spits out a code.

Me: Is the smart box a robot?

HG2: No?

Me: Is it smarter than you or me?

HG2: Possibly.

Me: SEE! Robot. Watch out for that thing it's going to take over the world.

HG2: Uh... the code is blah blah blah.

Me: Okay, pushing it in and nothing.

HG2: Nothing?

Me: Okay, error message.

HG2: Lady, this isn't hard you just push the buttons.

Me: I can't push the buttons any differently. I push buttons all day long, these buttons hate me. Can you even imagine the devastation this is causing my very vulnerable psyche? I can't imagine that you and your smart box do.

HG2: Okay, yeah, I can't help you right now. You have to pull the fuse or the battery. If you want help with that, come on in.

Me: If I come in will you be happier and more robot like?

Click.

So it turns out that I just entered that code one more time and it worked. I wanted to call Honda Guy back to let him know.

Honda Guy didn't answer the phone.

UPDATED! My Car and Wednesday Conspired Against Me - Jerkoids!

2009-03-12T09:18:00.001-07:00

Last night my husband came upstairs and said, "You know you are going to end up on one of those shows on the I.D. channel because you killed me, right?"

PS - Last night at the end of my work day, I sat in my car, put the key in the ignition and all I got was the middle finger and a heavily Japanese accented voice that said, "Fuck You!"

I yelled back, "This wouldn't happen if you were a fucking robot."

Jason picked up my prescription on his way home.

PPS - Seriously - I've been told this might not be entirely clear. Let me clarify:

My husband thinks I should kill him. Or that I'm going to, I'm not sure which. He yelled something else about life insurance.

My car wouldn't start. I'm not sure how that wasn't clear when I said it gave me the finger and talked to me.

If it was a robot it might do the same things but it would take me where I wanted to go. It's a car robot, it has too.

Meds people. The crying, they help the crying.

Why do I feel like I will have to explain this again?

UPDATED!!! Tuesday, Bloody Tuesday

2009-03-11T06:29:00.000-07:00

Here's the thing about yesterday? Yesterday was bitch. Yesterday was the kind of bitch that could make a girl face plant into a bag of mini candy bars and come up for air only to complain that there was not one single solitary drop of bacon grease to be found in that fucking bag.

Yesterday left me with two choices.

Get drunk
Eat a lot of shit.

This morning came really fucking early and found me feeling hollow - well except for the bacon covered peanut butter cup that I could be making up. But am I?

So this jerk face, ass wipe Tuesday also found me laying in bed, sobbing hysterically because I ended up watching one of those Dateline shows where they put actors in horrible situations and then watch mankind fail miserably at being anything close to human. And when they had the homeless actor, lay dead on the sidewalk and not one asshole stopped to help because he was homeless I decided I no longer wanted to be human.

The good thing that happened was when Sunday, Bloody Sunday came on the radio, for the first time in 3 years I smiled at the song. Mostly, because I had this entire Twittersation with someone that I'm just going to go ahead and put in the same category as knees that belong to bees, about how Bono is totally her imaginary husband and how Michael Hutchense makes your soul ache and bleed with his beauty. So when that song came on I smiled instead of feeling the pointy little bitch dagger that usually just turns itself inside my bruised and broken heart.

The thing about that song is that it's forever burned into my being and is simultaneously on my highlight and lowlight reels of life because when I hear it, when I feel it, all I can see is the night my husband swayed and danced with my now dead son around our tiny little living room while this video played behind him.

That's a total bite, isn't it? I know, fuck me and my sadness today. As a matter of fact?

Fuck you sadness.

But that wasn't about sadness right? It was about new found goodness.

Yesterday's big suck factor was mostly due to this really insanely stupid meeting we had with our financial planner that made me want to gouge out an eye, kick a shin and then just made me cry like a baby. And here's the thing about crying, I hate it and try to not do it.

This morning, I might have said something to Jason about how buying Depeche Mode tickets might not be our best plan of action and that left a big gaping hole in my belly. Then I stopped to get a Diet 7-up (which is my new crutch in life) and stood there, grinning like a jackass when the guy in front of me plopped to tall boys down on the counter and started to count his pennies to pay for them at 7:30 in the am.

Because hell? Life could be so much fucking worse, right? I waited patiently because no matter what, I wasn't doing that and I knew if I saw that guy laying on the sidewalk, with his can in hand, I wouldn't hesitate to call 911 and check his pulse. I'm a hella good person, I know it. And then? Then I reached in my pocket to pull out the dollar and some change I had to pay for my drink and all I pulled out in the first handful was a few pennies, a partial Kleenex and a mother fucking button.

I pulled out a button.

Like Charles Fucking Dickens was writing my bacon lacking life story.

Fuck you, little street urchin button!

I found my dollar and clutched the cold bottle as I walked into the cold air and got into my car. I looked at the car with the broken window next to me, smiled, again thinking, look, worse, right? Look at my pleasure over other's misfortune. Oh and maybe I should consider moving.

As I reversed my car, I turned up the volume and this is where I just wonder what the hell I've ever done because the haunting drum of Sunday, Bloody Sunday started tearing into my ear drums and I burst into tears.

So you know what? Fuck you, Wednesday. Fuck you hard.

Hold the Mah'fucking phone. My day just got better. I found THISSSSS!

Or even better? Huey Mah'fucking Lewis!

Thank you cracked.com

UPDATED: Without Butter And Chocolate, What Is The Point Of Living? And Why Does My Office Smell Like That Jerkface, Bacon?

2009-03-10T06:51:00.001-07:00

I pretty much understand now that my entire existence is made up of those two ingredients.

Butter
Chocolate

There is a whopping side of kick ass and awesome thrown in there too, but kick ass and awesome's two main ingredients are also fricking butter and chocolate. Oh and maybe beer and bacon. Because you know there is nothing NOT awesome about beer and bacon. That is pretty much a breakfast you could live on. Not for very long or with any sort of quality of health, don't be picky. And right at this very moment, my office smells like bacon and I'm licking the walls. Not the windows (you know who you are), just the bacon scented walls.

Sigh.

If I had a topic, I should try to get back on it but this is what I'm telling you. There is no topic. Just food swirling around, oh so deliciously in my brain. That? And someone thinks I'm hot, which blows my mind. So much so, she made me Miss March. True story. Which you know, in turn makes me think she's awesome if not just a little under medicated. I'm really glad that I did her that favor and sent her a really good picture of me. I'm just a constant giver.

Also? There is another blog that you should really check out. So let's just keep this pimp train rolling. Wouldn't you picture the pimp train to be a lot like the soul train. Dancing and singing it's name in a high pitched voice, half dressed people dancing on either side of it while it got it's groove on? But would it be in the boy's dance line or girl's? Hard to tell. Oh so click on this:

Yo Mama's Blog

Miss Yvonne at Yo Mama's is funny. Like really freaking funny, she's rented part of her house out to some freaks, has a teenager and still finds time to watch Star Trek based porn. She has some weird obsession with Pee Wee's Playhouse, which oddly, I find more endearing than make me run-away freakish.

Let the stalking commence. Just do me a favor and stalk her gently. Or slowly. Stalk her gently and stalk her slowly.

I know, I KNOW. Just shut the hell up already. I need a cheeseburger.

And if you do me a favor and keister stash a cheeseburger and a shiv for me, I just ask that you wrap them up really, really well. I'm hungry. I'm not THAT hungry.

Well....

Okay - No, no I'm not!

PS - Jason just spent like 20 minutes sending me emails that made sure I knew he does not, in anyway, think that I am a funny person.

I'm pretty sure he's right.

How To Feel Like The Walking Dead In Two Easy Steps, And Not The Awesome Zombie Dead, Just The Dead Dead

2009-03-09T06:37:00.000-07:00

"With Fervor!" is how I would describe the way I bit into a piece of moldy bread this weekend. In my defense, I didn't notice the giant, green pond of mold until after I had thoughtfully chewed and swallowed. (It was so not thoughtful at all. It was a feeding frenzy, if you could have a feeding frenzy on one piece of bread.)

That first bite? Delicious, yet nearly vomit inducing. I noticed I had a fraction of an inch between my teeth marks and the penicillin packed punch of moldy fantastic that I had somehow failed to notice.

None of this is the point though, so I should really move on. The reason I was shoving whole grain bread down my gullet like it was something ten times more awesome than bread (like Cool Ranch Doritos, Mutha) is because after my pants declared that I'm an asshole and that they couldn't stand to be around anymore, I put myself on this crazy, no bitch ass calories, fuck you processed foods diet that has made me reclaim my prized Calorie Nazi title.

I'm not going to get into details. Mostly because I know I'm not alone in finding it annoying when bloggahs go on and on about their awesome fat fighting wars.

What I'm trying to tell you, in a really wordy and less than intelligent way, is that if you are going to go on a mad crazy detox diet, don't start on Daylight Saving Suck Ass Weekend (DSSAW - which I'm also going to refrain from rattling on about because everyone on the net is pissed, we get it).

Otherwise? You might find yourself, standing in your office on a Sunday, devoid of all life sustaining energy, shoving moldy carbs down your throat just so you can muster the energy to scrub a toilet that may or may not have other people's short and curlies thrown about it like confetti (seriously? These people lose underhairs like mad, wolfen freaks).

Really, I think the only way to end this is with an illustration. You are most freaking welcome, my little Love Cats:

Also? I'd give away someone else's left testicle for some cheese right now. This? Is going to piss "someone else" off and I don't care.

Suck it, someone else, suck it.

PS - I watched Gangland - Aryan Brotherhood this weekend, rather listlessly but still I watched. Oh the shivs I saw. It was shiv heaven. You know, if shivs were in anyway at all heavenly and not creatively crafted mechanisms of death.

My fascination with shivs has got to end but I'm just all amazed at the inventiveness of it. There is no place on Earth that the phrase "necessity is the mother of invention" is more relevant than in prison.

I didn't know I could write disappearing messages in my own urine.

Now? You are excited for tomorrow's blog post, I know. Boss Urine Messages!

Updated: Me Or Dooce, You Choose...

2009-03-07T19:34:00.001-08:00

So I always said if I was up for one of these awards I would probably not say a word and lose gracefully, drunk and with little or no dignity.

But then I found out that someone nominated me and then I saw that I was up against Dooce. And not only that but seriously? Dooce only has 73 votes at this moment.

And really? I'm hotter than Dooce right? I mean, I'm not hotter than Guy Kawasaki, but Dooce is pregnant. I'm totally not pregnant. And if Guy Kawasaki is pregnant, vote for him. Except that he's not even nominated in that category and you'd have to, you know, actually nominate him and everything and that probably seems like a lot of work for some guy who may or may not be hot and may or may not be pregnant.

Go and vote for me.

Because I might just be nominated for being hot AND for being funny. I'm also up for parenting (snort). And the thing about that is I'm sub-par in every single category. A vote for me is a vote for mediocrity.

Do it... or I'll shank you, prison yard style.

PS, I rock an orange jumpsuit. Word.

On second thought? Don't vote for me... This is the most unattractive thing I've ever done.

And on third thought? I know you're going to be all lazy and whine about the fact that there is a registration form involved, ahem. And I get it, I really do.

I wouldn't vote for me either.

My Pants Hate Me

2009-03-06T06:44:00.000-08:00

I don't have a lot of time today because I've wasted a good portion of my morning sobbing and pulling every. single. clothing. item. out of my closet and throwing it back in.

I was the girl that I totally hate this morning.

Moving on, I'm going to keep this really short and bitter.

To my pants I just have one thing to say. Fuck you pants.

PS - Oh and to the cupcake that I ate at 10:30 last night...

You were delicious, you mother fucker. That's why I gave your twin brother to my daughter this morning. I'll show you, asshole cupcake.

Robots And Why They Are Awesome

2009-03-05T06:41:00.000-08:00

Awesome Disclaimer: I am going to abuse the word awesome today like Sean Penn abuses the cool asshole stereotype. I will use the word awesome so many times you will never want to read the word awesome or excitable variations like kickass or even just good again, you will however, want a freaking badass robot and you will never question just why a robot MIGHT be cool. Swear it.

Oh and I might be exaggerating.

Today is going to be a breathtaking 78 degrees. I love March in the Midwest. With the words of, gasp, sunshine and warm air still clinging to my local meteorologists lips, I sprung into action.

Crazyman was going to rock his mega kickass robot shirt and plaid shorts today. When I pointed out what was on his shirt, he screamed "Bot!" with glee and off he toddled to show his dad, who was in the shower, his awesome Bot-wear.

Poking his head out of the shower, Jason looks at me frankly and then uttered six words I NEVER thought I would hear, "What is so cool about robots?"

I actually gagged. He did not just say that. No way in hell. Oh but he did. I was all, "seriously, did you not grow up in the 80's?" And this conversation should have ended with, "Mork and Mindy totally did a robot episode and that = awesome. End of discussion."

And really it would have because he would just look a me like, "how did I not notice you getting drunk this early in the day?" But I was deeply disturbed by this sudden awareness of how NOT AWESOME my husband thought robots were.

I started to explain how when we were kids we completely thought robots would be ruling the world right now. We would just be able to be all, "Robot Jeeves, do my laundry. Rosie, make my breakfast. R2D2 make me a drink!" Robots would alert us to "Danger, Danger!" Our cars would be robots and we could just sit and listen to the entire 'Violator' CD on our way to work while sipping some drink from the future we don't even know about yet and it would all be good. And when things happened, like that Mustang that didn't see that traffic was entirely stopped and put the skid on his brakes so scary hard that the car in front of him had to move to the shoulder to avoid getting his ass end handed to him, that would not be my problem. It would be Rhonda the Honda's problem.

It's all so obvious right?

Jason just looked at me, shut the shower door and said, "I'm a robot." And that's when I said, "You totally would be a robot, they are devoid of all emotion. Oh except anger. They feel anger and then turn on the humans and REALLY take over the world in awesome hateful ways. Hello Matrix, right? Terminator??? " And I may have been wrong on that, but ssssshhhhh. It doesn't matter.

In the end, unless a robot has a vagina he totally doesn't care. Or boobs. Robot boobs.

Baseball Will Be The Death Of Me

2009-03-04T08:03:00.000-08:00

I know this because my kid went to bed last night with his glove and ball. He also woke up screaming like a mortally wounded werewolf at some point, I'm pretty sure they aren't related but one can never be too sure. And for the record? That ball went with him to daycare this morning under the awesome advice of all who commented yesterday. How about a little passive aggressive what what up in here?

This picture is a direct result of my most masterful mothering skills. Give it up.

But this isn't about that little baseball loving freak. It's about another freak all together.

Jason.

Today, Jason and I scored tickets to Opening Day. Opening Day has become a grand tradition for us. Admittedly, one we can barely remember from year to year because of crazy tailgating goodness, but a tradition nonetheless. Drunken traditions are sometimes the stuff legends are made of. Or ESPN SportsCenter clips as it were.

Because I won the ticket lottery, we were able to score mad kickass seats. And by mad kickass (as if it weren't obvious) I mean 24 rows from third base, behind the Vistor's dugout.

This will be nothing but trouble. And the definition of that trouble lies solely with who will be inhabiting that dug out.

Not only is Opening Day on a Friday, giving us the weekend recoup that will be necessary after pizza burger, canned beer out of a cooler madness, but we will be playing the... Yankees.

I hang my head now in shame of my husband's impending behavior. Oh but it will be a magnificent masterpiece of awesome tacky derogatory slander, that I can promise you. The Yankees are synonymous with ass canker in my house. We hold a firm belief that Derek Jeter drinks wine coolers and that ex-Royal Johnny Damon is truly Johnny Demon... he sold his soul when he shaved his beard for Yankee dress code. How does it feel to be souless Johnny? Or do you even feel? A-Rod wears frilly, day of the week panties. You know it!

Wow. That really just happened.

The good news is that our financial adviser has offered to pay Jason's bail if he throws his beer on A-Rod in the seventh. And that's a really good thing, because think of all the beer money that frees up for Jason to get his arm into shape.

Somehow? I know this will only reign down on me.

May the Lord have mercy on my baseball loving soul. Amen.

Let us not forget this after-game fun:

Or this:

Love you Sistah!

Here's to a hobo-humping good time!

Satan Speaks, I Listen

2009-03-03T06:22:00.000-08:00

Last night, Crazyman's daycare provider sent home the monthly newsletter. I have now dubbed this newsletter "Satan Speaks."

This month's issue tells us all about how this week is Dr. Seuss week and that he will need to wear his crazy socks on Wednesday and bring his favorite stuffed animal on Friday.

The she tells us about the freaking two weeks she will be taking off this summer with one of them being paid. Paid by us. Fantastic. No really, that was one of my favorite parts. I get it, everyone needs a vacation, but two weeks back to back. Oh the convenience of that is unspeakable! (Bartender - another round please, this is a red letter day!)

But that wasn't my ultimate favorite part. No, the part that I will be highlighting, reading, re-reading, making a collage out of, printing on t-shirts, taking out billboards and carefully cutting out, gluing to a little doily heart with glitter, oh so much glitter and putting under my pillow at night so I can have sweet dreams about those fun little words - is the part where, even though she admits it won't be popular, the kids are no longer allowed to bring personal objects and toys.

I get it. I really do. But do you know who does not get it? Who is not at all reasonable about it? Who would actually prefer to tear off my face, rather than hear the very rational words I'm uttering, words that sound very much like, "you cannot take the ball with you today"?

The first attempt at explaining the new policy this morning resulted in him not brushing his teeth. I saw the logic there. Perhaps if he just handed me the toothbrush back then he could take the ball.

Makes total sense. (Yes, I'll have a Bud Light, please.)

Until he threw himself on the floor and ended up in his bed until I was done getting ready. Somewhere in that mix he managed to half undress himself as well.

Then he came down the hall, ready to go, with a baseball glove and not one ball, but two. Sensing the challenge I manned up and actually got him to put the glove and the ball in the toy box.

The BALL, not BALLS. (Yeah, just leave the bottle, there's a big tip in it for you.)

At this point, I actually see no sense in going any further. All I'm going to say is that the results were AMAZING and complete with my kid tossing himself into a snowbank, sans coat, minus hat and the newly created policy being repealed JUST FOR HIM.

I compensated for the whole thing with ironic music selections for the drive into the office. I let Dave Gahan's voice swirl around me and encourage me to Enjoy The Silence. And then? I went straight into this.

Because it truly is a fine day.

UPDATED: Do you ever do something stupid and with little thought and THAT is the thing you get noticed for?

All the time.

Dancing With Myself AND Complete Abandon

2009-03-02T06:18:00.000-08:00

I have absolutely no idea what it means when you find yourself air-punching with abandon, tears flowing from your eyes, dancing with yourself, letting the soulful sounds of Billy Idol flow over your entire being without care during Monday morning rush hour traffic, but that was exactly the situation I found myself in this morning and I liked it.

It was like the father of all that is air-punching crept into the back seat of my car and said, "Do it. Let yourself go!" And I did. I was air-punching and swaying. I was truly dancing with myself and I didn't care who saw me or what they thought. Drive on stuffed shirts, with your blue-tooths and crazy long to-do lists, it's just me and Billy in this car and we are making big things happen!

It felt reckless and dangerous and holy and religious all at the same time. I was in the temple of Billy and all that is Billy.

Last week I found myself in the Cradle of Love. After I was Dancing With Myself this morning, I was cruising the stations, trying to find something that would bring back what I had only just found. I found a moment of solace with Siouxsie Sioux and her Banshees going all Peek-a-boo on me and then it happened. Billy and I were having our White Wedding.

So here's to you Mr. Idol. You are victorious. You are all that is right in this world. You are truly the king of air-punching. Without you, my Monday morning would be just that. Another Monday morning.

Rock on, Billy. Rock on!

Sweat, sweat, sweat, sweat - AAAAAAAHHHHH!

PS Billy - If I ever find out you are locking love slaves in your house ala Rick James and Boy George, I will be highly freaking disappointed in you!

I'm Totally Freakhogging Out Over Here

2009-02-26T13:19:00.000-08:00

My sister just texted me to find out exactly what it is about her niece that prompted my "Oh Gawd, Not Puberty!" freak out.

And in texting back my response I T9'd the word 'freaking'.

My response was this:

I am freaking out. And why was freakhog a word in my phone but freaking was not?

She had the same issue and my English teacher sister told me she was not even aware that freakhog is a word. Are we the last people to realize that freaking isn't a word but FREAKHOG is? Apparently so, because the Urban Dictionary totally has already worked it's magic and made it real. The first definition looking very much like one my sister and I may or may not have created.

1.	freakhog
	Perhaps the finest word ever invented by a cell phone. While trying to write freaking on my phone in its t9word mode, I was blessed with this fine nugget. There were no options, just freakhog. Sorry I didn't call you earlier, I've been so freakhog busy.
2.	freakhog
	verb, noun. 1. to throw a major tantrum, usually unjustified. To spazz out in anger without violence, but with verbal aggression. 2. someone who is "freakhogging" can also be referred to as a "freakhog". Dad, don't freakhog on me. I apologize; my father is being a freakhog.

Which is ironic because I was being a complete spazzmatic freakhog about puberty. Monkey could be all, "My mom is such a freakhog." I also would have called it a "wolf nugget" and not a "fine nugget", but whatever.

My sharpie and drawing hand are getting an itchy trigger finger. I feel "The Adventures of Freakhog" coming on. Please know Freakhog will have some other weapon other than my tired-ass shiv. He may or may not be on a mission for the church of LL Cool Jesus. You have to wait to find out. Just when I thought I was uninspired, in stepped FREAKHOG!

Also? I think that Joaquin's name may be changed to J.F.H. Phoenix. That's what I picture a freakhog to look like.

Illustrations to come.