Ouch, Stop! That's My Kidney!

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.

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.

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.

Ousting Hobos From The Back Alley Party Zone

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:

Light On The Vulnerability, Please

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.

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

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.

So This Good Friday Thing Is Overrated

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.

I'm A Total Hack

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.

I'm back... Mostly

It seems like I left for a week and my whole blogging existence changed. I thought I stayed up to date on my Twitter at the very least while I was on vacation, but while reading the written orgy that was going between those bloggers that I am closest to, I realized just how wrong I am.

Very, very wrong, but not nearly as wrong as they are. Heh.

I have a To Do list at work that reads like a list of Hugh Hefner's book of blonde conquests, neverending, but special in every way. Also? A tad ridiculous and ego inflating.

I even did a few scenes for an informercial and as it turns out, I totally missed my calling and I should be the next Billy Mays, only better looking and less facial hair. Oh and with smaller boobs. And Billy never had to tangle with an orange construction barrel like I did.

Which, I'm going to be totally pissed if that barrel gets best supporting actor, because it also turns out that I'm a method actor who had to really get in the zone to pretend like spray cleaning products suck a big one and I'm all about the disposable wipes, bitches. So to get in the spirit of it, I had to think of that commercial where the chick cleans her counters with the raw chicken because that seriously makes me gag in the most major way. Yeah, I totally turned that mother out.

We also have the cleanest microwave in the world at work now. Even though I nailed each scene in only 3 takes or less. So suck that construction barrel. Also? One of the partners in my company was running around in that very same barrel yesterday, while donning black tights because he was the smalles guy that would fit inside.

Who needs a raise when you have that mental image. Well, technically? Me, but whatever.

Finally, I thought I'd wrap up this next winner of the Caldecott Medal (yes, I know, it goes to picture books, my point exactly) with a few observations I made while on vacation:

If you stay in a hotel that is next to a tent revival that features a man named Leroy Jenkins, you are in for some of the finest people watching you could wish for.

If you think you have fat thighs, go to Disney World.

If you think your kid is sent directly from Satan and that no kid in the world could embarrass you more, then hang with my kid at the Magic Kingdom, sans nap. I've never received so much pity in my whole life.

Not even when I crapped myself at work one day.

Oh and finally, let me just put this out there, flying AirTran is for chumps and sadists.

Have you ever tried to name a company? Well, have you?

In the always exciting, rarely disappointing land of Booms, big happenings are going on. My ever-driven, hates working for The Man, wants to be The Man-husband is possibly launching his own company.

I, personally, think he's just sick of working with ass-faced whores.

In this endeavor he has acquired a partner and one of the first hang-ups they've run into is naming the company, so you know who they've turned to. Ahem.

With my offering of Zombie with a Shiv, LLC turned down, I came back with Teen Wolf Town and was again shot down. The hell? So obviously I'm dealing with some finicky mofo's here. That was my best stuff! I thought about busting out OLLCJ, LLC but that seemed kind of confusing.

Obviously, I was going to have to stretch my creative legs and get a little more, uncreative. In a moment of greatness I came up with Monarch Property Solutions.

Bitchin', right?

Wrong, so bitchin' it's taken. Well not the solutions part, but you know, the rest of it.

So this crap is keeping us awake at night and no one, I mean no one or thing keeps me from sleeping. Last night I tossed and turned, names spinning around inside my mind. Suddenly, I jolted awake and sat up in a flash of genius, I had it!

SugarPapas!

Wait, what? What the fuck is that about? SugarPapas? They are accountants not pimps.

Hmmm, I don't think I can convince them to start a pimp business, and Jason looks horrible in big hats with feathers, back to the drawing board. So back to sleep I went. I tossed and I turned, I flipped and I flopped and suddenly there it was!

Mo-Narch.

Man, that's just stupid. Maybe they could take up drug sniffing and be Mo-Narcs. Missouri's best drug finding freaks.

As it turns out, I really suck at this. I suck hardcore at this. Especially? When I'm trying to sleep.

On my drive in to work today, I thought of another one that just might work. However, despite how uncreative I am, I know that quite a few ultra-creative people read this.

If you have a bitchin' name for a property management company, throw it out there. And it has to be better than:

Radd Property Solutions. Which I thought of already, mostly because I just wanted to answer the phone that way.

But if you offer up a name and we end up using it or some version of it, we'll send you something reaaaaal niiiiiiice, Clark.

So, any thoughts?

Today is not yesterday

Today is not yesterday, mostly because I'm at home again. Crazyman's sitter took the day off so I'm at home with him and his fantastic sippy cup throwing abilities. As a matter of fact, I can feel his eyes burning a hole into my head as he is willing me to look at him so he can throw his cup again to alert me to the fact, again, that he wanted the orange one and NOT the blue one.

I'm so ill equipped to do this mothering thing the way he sees fit. I don't know how he copes. I'm guessing lots of cigarette smoking and complaining to the bartender when he sneaks out to knock a few back at the local hole in the wall.

My asshole dog decided to chew on the bathroom rug and eat a spot bald on it. She's protesting the fact that she has already eaten bald spots into her smelly stuffed dog that I won't let her keep on the couch today.

I'm regretting teaching her to fetch, because everytime I throw the half bald, stanky ass stuffed dog carcass down the stairs she brings it right back. Note to self: scrap the design for the dog carcass boomerang. It's annoying and nobody wants the dead dog body to come back.

Nobody.

Besides when you throw U-shaped dead dog bodies, parts tend to fall off. And I'm thinking of the liabilities of people getting hit in the head by dead dog testicles at the park. People can complain about ANYTHING!

All of these things are better than yesterday when some guy with a tiny dog came in with a bag of dog shit and slammed it onto my desk because the owner of the black dog (my boss) evidently didn't pick it up out of the dog park behind our office. He kindly wanted to return it to the rightful owner and my desk looked like just that person. I personally want him to prove that the shit didn't come from his dog and that it did belong to our dog. I'm thinking a taste test is in order. It would be much like the Pepsi Challenge of the 80's but with more of a need for breath mints in the end. Seriously, he doesn't have a leg to stand on.

I spent a good amount of time debating on whether this incident was better or worse than the time the hobo came in and accused me of having his shoes. He swore up and down that I had his shoes. My co-worker assured him that I did not have them and that it was best that he move on. He said he'd be back.

I'm really glad he never came back though, because do you know how hard it is to find a good pair of hobo shoes?


PS - I was really disappointed when I tuned in to see the 8 armed OCTOMOM on Dateline last night only to find out that it was a freakshow of a totally different kind. What a bummer.

Yeah, I'm having THAT day

So you know how you lay there in bed and you think about the day ahead of you and it becomes increasingly more difficult to get your ass in gear because as you lay there you realize that you are probably the LEAST creative person you will encounter in the entire day?

You realize that some run-on sentence that probably makes very little sense just might be the very best thing you do today and it's only 8:45. Wait, 8:46?

Then you realize that you really need to start working on doodles of conversion vans because if you are ever going to be able to pull-off a 1/2 arm zombie road surfing on top of a van in aviator sunglasses to the smooth sounds of Kenny Loggins while wearing a Teen Wolf t-shirt you are really going to need the practice. And by practice you really mean 4 years of art school. But because 2009 is the Year of Teen Wolf and you've already committed so strongly to 1/2 arm zombies you better get to work on making the two jive. And I mean a rockin' Teen Wolf Zombie/Kenny Loggins jive to make the world know you mean bidness.

Yeah, I'm totally having one of those days. I'm sure they have a book I can read to get through this though.

The only thing getting me through this situation is that I'm pretty sure with just minor effort I can top this:



Because if I can't top the beaver on a stick that my almost 2 year old brought home yesterday, I should just end it now, people.

And now I have to go write sentences that make sense and don't embarrass everyone who has ever known me. Although they wouldn't admit it now.

Reviewing My Performance and Other Things That Will Get Me Fired

Every year at this time I put together our annual employee performance review forms for the company.

Go ahead and let that sink in for a minute.

That's right. The one voted most likely to tell someone to "suck it, hard" in the office has a hand in reviewing other people's performance. I'm the angry little one that they pulled aside one day and essentially they told me that my slightly piss poor attitude let others know that I think they are all giant tools. I really thought my attitude at the time should have been a small indication that they were all a little sensitive and should change their soggy, droopy Pampers.

I call it ultimate, divine justice, they call it cause for Valium and increased monetary compensation. Whatever. Bunch of babies.

So this year's form looks just like they have pretty much looked every year. You know, what have you accomplished, how can we help you perform better, what are your goals, blah blah blah? The awesome part is that every year I get to write my own question. And this question can be just about anything my crazy little heart desires, like tell us about your best concert experience or tell us something awesome that you learned about in the last year. Totally not work related just something to help them understand their employees better.

Because they care. Ahem.

My ideas for this year's question were:

Give us one good reason why you should keep your job.

Why bother?

On average, how many mornings do you wake up and consider hanging yourself?

Do you have a drug and/or alcohol problem and if not, why? We do.

Do you dress in clothing of the opposite sex and drive around town? We know you do, the jig is up. It's okay, we'll let you keep your job, really.

You see where I'm going with this. Given that this was, you know, an actual performance review and the form itself could and probably should be used as part of my own review I figured I might not want to stray too far in the direction of accusations of drag queendom and hey? Did A&E contact you about being on Intervention yet, because if not, they totally will. We promise.

In the end I went with this:

If (Big Boss' Name) walked into your office tomorrow and said, “You know, you are the Master of All Things Rock and I’m going to buy you a new car." What kind of car would you ask for and why?

Come on, that is a totally loaded question. If you don't say that you'd ask for a Ferrari, sell it, feed a third world country, end prostitution and war, all while saving 8.5 lb baby Jesus from the hungry, flea-ridden dingos then you totally deserve to lose your job.

So I guess you know what my answer will be. But I'm going to throw in a bottle of vodka for myself. I think that's okay, I just saved The Messiah from a feral dog and all.

Word.

I'm Kind Of Funktified

I'm thinking it's mostly because it's Monday, but that just makes me a whiny a-hole, because seriously, if you do something like look at Twitter or even open your ears at work, everyone is complaining about this shit and really? Didn't complaining about Monday go out of style with Garfield? Lazy-ass cartoon cat.

It could also be because I spent roughly 2.5 hours cleaning floors in my office yesterday only to have them be covered with dusty little footprints again by approximately 8:05 am. And that is because I evidently work with a whole slew (not half a slew, but a whole one) of butt faces that were born in non-footwiping barns. And yes I feel inherently better when I say something as mature and role-modelish as butt face.

Truly though there is something that is probably contributing even more to the Funkitification of Betsey Booms (which you know I'm funky if I'm speaking in third person because that is for suckers). If you know me then you know I freaking love burritos. I would eat burritos every day of my life were I not already eating tacos or chocolate. Burritos are the food of the Gods and if there is one thing that I could eat every.single.Monday it's a farking burrito. Monday's bring on the weekend hangover. Monday's should be renamed Methadoneday (who knew I could reference Methadone so many times in a week? And if you say Methadoneday out loud, it's just fun and Spanishy sounding). The one thing I love for a hang-over is hands down a burrito. So when my boss sheepishly walked up to my desk and pulled the old "I hate to ask and it's outside the realm of your job description" bit and sent me on an errand to come back with freaking FIVE burritos in less than half an hour, I basically wanted to stab myself in the eye because not one of those FIVE burritos would be sliding down my sleepy, hating life throat.

I realize there are bigger problems and worse days, people, but this is MINE! And because of this I'm going to be a big, whiney loser and continue to butcher the English language with my mostly's, seriously's and poorly thought out run on sentences. That? And I'm rebelling by changing my blog design while I'm AT WORK.

So take my passive aggressive shit and move on buddy!

Yeah, I showed them.

Oh and PS - I would love to hear this post in a dramatic reading fashion, because then we'd really see how self-involved and ridiculous it is.

The One I Almost Forgot To Title

Here is a shot of my kid when he opened his pony on Christmas:



And here? Is a close-up of his face:



And it's because of that very face right there that when he wakes up in the morning I practically maul him with kisses all over it and squeeze him until he pees just a little bit more. And it's because of that face that I don't even care that all I can smell is warm pee wafting from his pj's as I squeeze or that I'm kissing a mouth that smells just like salty snot pretzels.

Because I've probably grossed you out with that I'll go ahead and continue on with the fact that as I was going to bathroom this morning I was reminded of the time I walked out of the bedroom and found my daughter unwrapping my tampons one at a time and then gleefully tossing them across the living room.

When I asked her what she was doing she yelled, "Parachutes" with a giggle. And it was ironic that I thought of that parachute moment right then because I was also contemplating jumping off the toilet and plummeting to my death but I figured the drop wasn't long enough and I'd probably just end up with a sore neck or a sprained wrist.

When I was getting ready for work my husband said to me, "Am I going to have to hear this every day this week?" And it was then that I realized that I was vocalizing the fact that going to work today made me want to take a header off the toilet.

So I sucked it up, kissed the crap out of salty snot pretzel boy and carried on.

After all, there are more things to be bought, like ponies so that I can see that face again and not the one I see when I'm squeezing his peebody. Which by the way, he smells like pee when he wakes up so often that today his blanket which he calls "BEE" was given the name "Pee Pee" and when I told him to go "rub his pee pee on his sister" I realized just how wrong my life had really turned out but not before my husband gave me a weird look and totally told me I really shouldn't tell him to do that.

Whatever.

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???

Exhaustion

I'm not going to sit here and whine about how tired I am, about how holiday prep, etc. has kicked my worthless butt. Mostly because I know that not one of you would feel sorry for me. And unless I can evoke some kind of sympathy, then really? Why bother?

Okay, I lied, I'm totally going to whine.

Actually, today kind of rocks because as of this weekend (where I logged about 6 hours sewing) I got the aprons made, my shopping done, the presents wrapped (5.5 rolls of wrapping paper later), Christmas cards sent and I cleaned the office for the last time this year. Woo-freaking-hoo on that one, I tried to think of a million different reasons to not come in and clean. None of them were good enough. Not even when my husband danced around in front of my face with a beer in his hand - shaking it at me, telling me how cold it was outside, could I justify staying home. Although his awesome dance could have swayed weaker people.

I did not get the laundry done, bathrooms cleaned, my hair bleached or my bedroom unearthed from the mass of Christmas "goodness" it has become. So if you come to my house you will not find any clean underpants (why are you looking anyway), you will be witness to urine spots on my toilet (you'll get over it), you can marvel over the inch of dark blonde roots (shut up!) and if you go in my bedroom, make the bed, would ya (thanks)?

This chick is pooped. You have to know that I was busy all weekend when my husband not only threw in a load of laundry but then didn't even complain when I had to retrieve his underwear and socks from the dryer this morning, only then to find he was totally out of undershirts and ended up wearing a Royals freebie t-shirt that said MUSTARD across the chest under his button down. Classy.

I also forgot to mention that you can throw in there that we had friends over for dinner on Saturday night. Jason put out the best spread of Mexican food EVER! (It's a good thing I NEVER exaggerate, isn't it?) However, on the way to our house, our friend made his wife pull over so he could toss his cookies on the side of the road. When he got to our house he laid on the couch and ate Saltines. She and their girls ate and an hour later they headed back out again. I don't know if they were the best dinner guests or the worst I've ever had. I decided on the best when I was in my pajamas by 9:00, drinking a beer and relaxing.

The whole weekend ended with my son head butting me with a football helmet and asking me why I was such a butt face.

Except that wasn't my son, that was my husband.

Happy Monday!

You Can Thank Me Later For My Awesomeness And Kind Greetings

Let me tell you about some things that suck a nut sack today (and yes, I kiss my mother with this mouth). First of all, my child decided to haunt my bed last night starting at 12:30. Randomly throughout the night he would just squawk and squeal and I'd have to remind him that I could easily put him back into his on bed and suddenly, like a Christmas miracle he was oh so quiet. Well, until he threw a giant baby fit and fell out of the bed. It was that point that I realized that I should have felt badly for him but I only managed to feel badly for myself. I'm just that fantastic. Okay, I did feel bad for him too. He's really cute.

After sleeping for 30 minute increments throughout the night I finally fell into a deep sleep, and I'm guessing here, at about 4:45 - 5:00 this morning. At 5:30 the phone rang (and rang and rang) until I hopped out of bed to get it. When I got to the kitchen and put my hand on the receiver, guess what? That's right, the bitch stopped ringing. So I grabbed my cell phone and went back to bed. I fell back asleep. 10 minutes later the house phone rang again. Mother bitch! So I flew out of bed and grabbed the phone, saying, "WHAT?!" It was Monkey's school, nicely letting us know that school was not in service today. And that, my honey children, is when I looked outside to see the snow falling.

Snow that was supposed to be a dusting this afternoon falling in mass at 5:30 in the morning. This is where I stopped and pondered how big of a shit I actually gave. Do I dutifully get going now or do I go back to bed and roll out later at a more human time?

And then that is when I realized it. Evidently, I just don't give a shit.

An hour and a half later when it took me 20 minutes to go 1.5 miles, I gave a big shit then. Two hours later when I got to work only to be told to book some flights for Las Vegas for OTHER people, told that one of our tenants had no heat, told that the front door keeps blowing open every 1.5 seconds, I was back to not giving a shit.

And now, me and my potty mouth are sitting here, half frozen, having forgotten to take my meds, telling you all of this. So you've been schooled on just what it is that sucks a nutsack today.

You're welcome.

So tell me? Anything suck for you today? Let it out!

Just So You Know...

Someday if you are ever sitting in your office one afternoon and you find that you are desperate for a snack. That familiar rumble in your tummy just won't let up. So you open your desk drawer and like an archeological explorer find a long lost bag of 100 calorie graham crackers. And you fully realize that those have been in there since you started your job over 2 years ago.

But hell, you're desperate, we already said that and you're maybe even a little adventurous - so you think, "how bad could they be? They're sealed up..."

Well they can be bad.

Real BAD.

Be prepared for the smell of someone's old moldy basement to come wafting out when you rip it open.

Consider this a public service message.

And if anyone wants to send me snacks? Please feel free. Basement smell not included.

Am I A Turbo Baby?

Or am I right in the fact that I think it's really fucking rude when the guys in my office leave the toilet seat up in our shared bathroom?

What do you think?

Maybe I'm just spoiled at home by a considerate husband?