Annabelle, John and The Stranger Walking Around My House

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.

The Squirrels In Our Family Tree

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.

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

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.

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

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.

Now UFC Me, Now You Don't...

Jason and I spent Saturday night watching UFC fights and drinking beer. This happened mostly because I'm a guy with boobs. I had watched pieces of the fights here and there but had never really invested my time into watching it. Now I realize just what a huge mistake that was!

First thing I noticed was that the lightweights fight just like teenage girls, out behind the school, by the tree at 4:00. With the exception of hair pulling, I'm pretty sure I used half those moves in the gravel road in front of my parents house after softball practice when I got my shirt ripped off and ended up scrapping it out in the street wearing shorts and a bra. I know, I'm just a walking wet dream, aren't I?

By the end of Saturday night I was positive that I could be a UFC fighter. I mean, I can take a punch just like a good Irish beer brawler (just like my dad) and you show me how to do a rad knee bar and I'll get any bitch to tap out (just like my mom). Yeah, you like that? I'm all like official and stuff. I'm not totally down on the weeping head wounds or the fact that some sweaty chick would be holding me down, blowing her bad breath in my face but really? I've had worse nights. It was called Friday.

So when the re-broadcast of the Couture/Lesnar fight started first I told my husband how hot Randy Couture is, which I know could have been the booze talking since the guy looks like he ran into the back end of a semi, repeatedly, but no, I Googled and still that boxer nose is righteous. I then spent the rest of the fight trying to ignore the fact that my husband supposedly watched this very fight at his friend's house and crawled home bombed in the early hours of the morning but yet, he couldn't remember how a single one of them turned out. But I was able to put that aside when I decided it was time to try some moves on him. The thing is? I didn't kick his ass at all, I didn't get him to tap out and there was no TKO - Unfortunately, my husband is just really turned on by a chick trying to wrestle him to the ground and yelling "Take that, MOFO!" He didn't even mind my weeping head wound, sweaty chest or bad breath. He then asked me to re-enact the bra/shorts scene from the 8th grade girl fight and I knew I had lost.

But still I was riding high on the adrenaline and the visions of my future as a bad ass, cage fighting mama. I grabbed some of the beer bottles off of the coffee table and headed out the garage to throw them out while still reflecting on the bitchin' smack down I just laid down. I stopped and emptied them into the garage drain and chucked them into the garbage can and then turned to go back inside and lay another round of the Betsey Booms Punishment on Jason. Realizing the floor around the drain was wet and super slippery I went to jump over it and in a fantastic show of grace and agility, my foot slipped in the frothy brew on the cement floor and down I crashed onto one knee.

I sprang up only to limp into the house. As I shamefully climbed into my bed with the ice pack I realized my UFC fighting days were over. But for one glorious Saturday night, I kicked some major ass.

Even if it was just my own.



By the way, I took this shot using the "CUISINE" setting on my camera. Not just because it was totally appetizing, but because there was no "Drunken Wound Incurred While Acting A Fool" setting. Also? I didn't scrape my knee at all. That is just what happened from the sheer impact of kneecap on cement.

I'm awesome.

VH-1, Here I Come

I came home to the wrath of Year-End Accountant, which I was actually expecting but I guess somewhere in the back of my mind I had some small little glimmer of hope that I would get paroled. So during the few hours that I got sleep last night I think the serial killer team that had been chasing me the night before morphed from my husband and Scott Baio to my husband and the IRS. Which really isn't that far of a cry from Scott Baio. I'm pretty sure there was a whole league of women that spent a better part of the 90's trying to avoid both of them.

And here's the thing about getting to sleep-in two days in a row last weekend, I paid the price. After Bret Michaels and Bill Kurtis ruined an entire night of sleep for me, Crazyman made it a point to carry on the good fight last night and ruin another one. I finally relented and turned on the television sometime around four AM, and boy was that kid all sorts of pissed when the only thing that I would let him watch was Forensic Files. I figured it lulls me to sleep, it should have the same effect on the short guy wearing footed monkey pajamas, right? Wrong. The good news is that my son will never leave his cigarette butts floating in the toilet of the person he just strangled. I mean, he knows that will surely get him busted now. He may not sleep but he will be a stellar criminal with that kind of schooling. He even roughly resembled Nick Nolte's mug-shot this morning.

Finally, what I'm about to say should become law. After a holiday break all companies should give their employees what I refer to as "Methodone Week" Look, you don't rip heroin addicts off the stuff cold turkey. I'm saying we should have abbreviated days for the first 10 days back. We can slowly increase each work day by an hour until we are back up to speed. I have a monkey on back, man. I'm chasing the vacation time dragon. I tried to mug an old lady on my way into the office. Wild-eyed, I grabbed her pocketbook and yelled, "Give up the vacation days, you old bag."

Pretty soon, you're going to see me on TV calling Dr. Drew Pinsky from the roof of the rehab and suddenly I'll be going by the name "Shifty" and Gary Busey will be spouting weird acronyms in my face and telling me that he knows where I'm coming from, but I won't know where he's coming from because I won't know which one of his eyes I'm supposed to look at while he talking and it will all be ugly, real ugly but I will successfully have launched my VH-1 reality TV career because shame has no place on that damn network. And apparently you don't even have to have been a real celebrity to be on Celebrity Rehab. I figure if I can get one good video of me getting arrested by the cops while I'm naked and screaming for more vacation days shown on the national news, I'm probably set.

And if you'd like to sign the petition to have my television taken away from me, just let me know.

I'm Slowly Being Swallowed Alive

For those of you that have shown concern for Crazyman's face, thank you and please know that just like a lizard, his bottom lip grew back overnight. I mean, his lip didn't grow back like a lizard, it grew back like a lizard's tail. No, wait, it grew back like a lip... oh who cares, I'm lying anyway.

Last night I found out that there are a couple things I should refrain from doing, especially on a Sunday night after I've had 12 days away from the office.

First, I should not drink caffeine with dinner when I did not get up until 9:00 in the morning. Secondly, I should not eat peanut butter cups in bed while trying to fall asleep. Mostly? I should not watch a weird combinations of shows that include Bret Michaels, Scott Baio and shows that include forensic evidence proving some dude killed his wife.

Because what that culminates to is me freaking out because 30 minutes into the new season of Rock of Love (which is on a tour bus, seriously) I realized the show was on and had to change over from 48 Hours Hard Evidence. And because I came in late and seriously? The girls are freakier and skankier this season (who knew THAT was freaking possible) I had to wait until it re-aired an hour later, because come on, like I was going to be able to sleep if I didn't know. So I laid there awake through Scott Baio's new show "Confessions Of A Teenage Heartthrob" or some crap and numerous commercials about a show called "Tool Academy" or something like that that features shirtless guys acting like every slimebag that hangs out in dance clubs and during all this I totally hated myself, but I just stayed awake, watching.

When I fell into a fitful sleep it was ravaged with completely frightening dreams about a serial killer team that was comprised of my husband and Scott Baio, whom had already killed one of my baby sitters and was now after me. And in my dream, I awoke from the dream to find out that I had been so scared that I smeared peanut butter all over my bedside table (freaking PB cups at night) and I kept telling my husband how scared I was and then I REALLY woke up and I was really, really scared because my alarm (that I never use) went off and it was blaring "Papa's Got a Brand New Bag" and you know that is jacked up.

When I walked out to grab this morning's Diet Coke only to realize that we were still down to one bathroom and that my toilet was still sitting in the dining room, I was extremely relieved to be going to work. Which is where I'm sitting right now being swallowed alive by the pile of complete crap that is sitting on my desk and the list of totally weird shit that I'm working my way through. And I think it's the stress of thinking about that pile and that list that made all of that happen in my mind last night, ALL NIGHT. Because I assure you, I have no fear of my husband and Scott Baio tracking me through a cemetery and into a church going collectively by the killer name of "Mr. Marshall" (WTF?) to hack me into little pieces.

Come on, that's just crazy talk....

Right?

Right???

Why Being Home With The Kids Rocks - Day 6

So far today, Crazyman has been smacked in the head twice. Once, I did it by accident, taking away the tunnel toy he was chasing the dog around with and then again when he got mad at me and smacked himself in the head with a block. The instant crying and welt that followed pretty much guarantee his head smacking is done for the day. Unless the dog gets wise to the ways of head smacking.

I would totally whore my holiday loot for you except that I left my cable for my camera in my desk at work so I can't load any pictures. As usual, it's obvious how I'm always thinking ahead.

However, I did put my camera phone to work for you to showcase the horrendous crime that was committed.

First let me introduce to you to the perpetrator:

That's right I'm the most mature candy eater ever. And for my immature pallette that caused me to run with the wrong candy crowd, I was punished in true crime story fashion. I imagine Bill Kurtis will have a hay day telling you this tale of woe. The victim:

That hazy picture is a snapshot of the chunk of matter that is now missing from my tooth. I'd show the gaping hole but alas, camera phones don't capture dental crime scenes very well. While the DNA evidence is still be tested in the lab, the sugary dusting and sour gelatenous coating pretty much seal the deal and those little bastards are going to be serving a life sentence in the local dump.

And yes, I've been falling asleep every night to episodes of Forensic Files and Dateline on ID.

Sigh.