She Loves Me After All

My little sister, Jamie, was born the day before my third birthday. My mom has a picture of me at the hospital, beaming from ear to ear, and she says the reason I look so thrilled is because I believed Jamie was my birthday present.

My parents divorced when I was five, so for most of our childhood, it was just Mom, Jamie, and me. Mom and I had a very close relationship, almost more like best friends, while Jamie was like our baby. My poor sister, having to grow up with two mothers. And one of them (c'est moi) wasn't very nice to her.

Take our favorite pasttime, playing Barbies. I guess it's pretty obvious what we enjoyed spending our allowance on: we had several Barbie dolls, and TONS of Barbie clothes and accessories, but only two Ken dolls. The "old" dark-haired Ken, though at one time was more handsome, had become a naked amputee, while the "new" blond Ken had nothing but a pair of swimming trunks in which to wear. Every time we played, I'd be a good big sister and let Jamie use the better blond Ken, you know, the one with arms and legs. However, and this is where you can just maybe kinda see how having the knowledge as a child that your father was a womanizer can mess you up, her Barbie could only be married to the good Ken if my Barbie could steal him away from her. My Barbie was always the mean, manipulative, slutty, husband-stealing bitch. I was a Desparate Housewife at the ripe old age of 10. Yeah, you think I had some issues? Sweet little Jamie would always let her mean big sister have her way, though, even when it was just plain wrong. And, sweet little Jamie got her revenge eventually. I just happen to recall a certain Barbie doll belonging to yours truly who got into the hands of an angry little sister who chopped all her hair off Sinead O'Connor style and scraped the tips of her plastic boobies off on the sidewalk. Boy, you sure did show me, Jamie Elizabeth.

And then there was the fighting, good grief did we fight. Jamie played the part of little sister perfectly, picking, picking, picking, picking, until I would explode into a terrible rage. After I calmed down, she'd be in her room crying, and I'd go in and apologize and plead with her not to tell Mom. And she wouldn't. Of course, being the mean manipulative bitch I was, the minute she'd lay a hand on me, I'd waste not one second before running to Mom.

It wasn't all bad, though. We were both afraid of the dark and afraid of sleeping alone at night, so we'd often camp out in each other's bedrooms, one sleeping in the twin bed, the other in a sleeping bag. Or, on school nights, with our rooms next door, one of us would knock on the wall to let the other know she was still awake, and then if the other was awake, she'd knock back, just as a way to reassure one another we weren't alone. And despite the evilness with which I'd conduct my Barbie playing, we would have her entire tiny bedroom (we always played in her room, for some reason) decked out as one ginormous Barbie castle and we'd play for hours upon hours upon hours. And boy, did we master Mario Bros. 3 together on the Nintendo!

If one thing can be said about Jamie, it's that she definitely has a forgiving heart. After everything I've done to her, and believe me that wasn't even the tip of the iceburg, my little sister yesterday asked me to be her matron of honor at her wedding. Part of me feels overwhelmed that my baby sister, my lifelong birthday present, who is freaking getting MARRIED, wants her big sister by her side during this huge step in her life. Then there's the mean, manipulative bitch part of me who is pissed that I'm going to have to give a toast at the big event. Gosh, Jamie, don't you know public speaking is like, one of my biggest fears? Seriously, it's right up there with the fear of needles!

Really, though, I am honored. And I am scared. I don't know what the hell I'm going to say. It'll probably be some sort of rambling nonsense similar to this post. I do know what I'm giving to Jamie after the toast, though...

Read more...

I Heart iPoddeus. (Finally!)

Yet another example of how I'm always the last one to jump on the bandwagon...

Stephen bought an iPod two and a half years ago. Although he claimed it was "our" iPod, it stayed in his car (because, well, he spends his whole day in his car and a man's got to have something decent to listen to during all those hours) and primarily had "his" music on it. But, since I'm not a big technology girl, I really didn't mind not having one. Or being the last person in this country to not have one.

A few months ago, Stephen received a Zune through work, so he cast iPoddeus aside like an old pair of underwear. Because I knew it would be such a time-consuming project, I left all of his music on it and, because I left all of his music on it, I had little desire to listen to it much. Stephen's taste in music isn't bad by any means, which is the problem. There are many, many terribly awful songs out there that I love for some sick reason, and for an even sicker reason he didn't have them downloaded.

With crappy weather on my side, I spent the entire weekend in my pajamas and robe glued to my computer, cleaning out little iPoddeus' playlist and filling him up with all my music, my glorious, glorious music! Coldplay, Tori Amos, Fiona Apple, Dave Matthews Band, Sarah McLachlan, Radiohead, Fischerspooner, Beth Orton, Air, Jack Johnson, John Mayer, Keane...Oh my! (Okay, and also an assortment of guilty pleasures, like Erasure, Elton John, Mariah Carey, Pet Shop Boys, Tears for Fears, Phil Collins, Queen, Duran Duran, and BeeGees. My project just won't be complete until I have some Debbie Gibson and NKOTB to throw in there, though.) Now I just need a cute little Coach jacket to wrap him up in.

If there is a lack of postings this week, it's probably due to iPoddeus' feeding schedule. His tummy's only full of 2064 songs, and mommy's got a lot more to cram down his throat.

Read more...

Maybe I Should Give Up Talking for Lent

Stephen calls me at work this afternoon and asks how things are going. I reply, wonderful, because my attorneys are out of the office and it's so quiet and peaceful. So quiet and peaceful, in fact, that I don't want to waste it by polluting it with my radio. I have to keep it pure and heavy. It's so quiet, that all I I'm listening to is the hum of the fluorescent lights.

He asks me twice to repeat myself. I do both times.

My whore is a wife??

Then, on our way to dine at the almighty Boston Market for my weekly feast of sweet potato casserole, we drive past this park in which a couple of bell towers were built last year. These remind me of the Bell Tower on Purdue's campus. So I point toward them and say, look, we're at Purdue!

He says, huh? I repeat myself. He looks all around with a confused look on his face.

Combat Purdue??

I may need to enunciate more and speak LOUDER, or someone really needs to clean his ears out. Either way, sometimes I swear the Mexican cleaning lady at work who speaks only five or six English words would do a better job of communicating with my husband. Not to mention, she also keeps the toilets much cleaner than I do, so I think that would probably be another big plus for him.

Read more...

A Valuable Lesson To Be Learned

This evening, Stephen and I met Laurie and "the girrrrls" (as Stephen, in his Montgomery Burns voice, refers to Laurie's daughter, Sloan, and her best friend, Greta) for dinner at a new Mexican restaurant at Keystone. Afterwards, we went to Borders for coffee, book browsing, and chatting.

Other than finding a David Sedaris hard bound book for only $5.99, the other highlight was all of the freakshows we had the pleasure of admiring. First, there was the older lady who looked like her neck was trying to slowly swallow her head, who I probably really wouldn't have given a second glance at had she not done one of my biggest pet peeves - stepping into my personal space to look at the exact same thing I was looking at. ONE DAY I WILL SNAP, PEOPLE. Seriously, I'm one of the most impatient women on this planet, but if there's something I want to look at that's within a ten foot radius of what someone else is looking at, when the store isn't crowded, I wait my turn. I may tap my foot, sigh heavily, and mutter "you slow bitch" under my breath, but I will very patiently wait. After awhile, we finally found a small table that was open in the cafe area, but there was only one chair. This weird guy, who must have had a super-sized case of the crazies, was sitting at a large table with three extra chairs. Stephen waved at the man and mouthed, "can we use a chair?" The man appeared to look directly at Stephen, grinned, and nodded. Laurie went over and took a chair, came back looking a little weirded out and said, "I didn't even ask, I just took it because he creeped me out." Stephen shrugged and said, "It's okay, he smiled and nodded when I asked if we could use one." I looked over at the guy. Stephen, he's STILL smiling and nodding, not to mention also ROCKING IN HIS CHAIR. And he kept smiling and nodding and rocking while reading the latest issue of Modern Psychotic magazine the remainder of the time he was there. Between us and Mr. Cuckoo was the poster family for the Broadripple hippies. There was the unkept-bushy-curly-haired dad who looked like the older and uglier version of Rupert, the mom with a goiter on her neck with long, unbrushed gray hair parted down the middle, and their teenage daughter, who looked fairly normal despite her hippie clogs and unwashed, slightly dreaded hair. Finally, we saw the lady with hair down to her tooshie with poufy bangs circa 1989.

I'm not a total snot; I'm completely aware of the fact that I'm nowhere near being the most considerate person on earth, a beauty queen, or a trendsetter, but come on people. Laurie recently made the wisest statement I've heard in a long time: we aren't judgmental; we're merely pointing out the obvious and discussing it.

When I got home and looked in the bathroom mirror, I noticed three or four of my bottom teeth had spices from dinner jam packed in them. I don't know how on earth Laurie & Stephen didn't notice the bright red pepper and dark green parsley flecks covering the gumline and in between my teeth. Stephen is, admittedly, not the most observant person and does not easily detect things (I told him to look at one of the cats the other night, and I kid you not the first place he looked was up at the ceiling), so I believe he very well could have sat across from me all night long and not have noticed my speckled teeth. Laurie, however, is quite observant, but I know if she had noticed she would have told me because I highly doubt she would have wanted to be caught hanging around with Toothy Spice.

Anyway, I like to imagine the hippie family had a good laugh at my expense at the same exact time I was trying my hardest not to envision what the dad's breath must smell like. Because, I'll admit, I totally would have deserved it.

Read more...

It's a Major Award

I was very pleased to see how well my father-in-law is doing at his job - it appears that after only having been working there for approximately half a year, he's already received an award for his flawless, hard work.

In the kitchen, that is.

Apparently, Joe has been deemed the Most Excellent Brownie Maker. In the office? In the city? In the state? Possibly in all lands near and far, but I'm not sure; it doesn't exactly specify. Also, I don't believe I've ever had the pleasure of eating Joe's brownies, so I can't yet fully endorse this claim. (I need proof, Neener.) He did, however, make some very tasty lentil soup for dinner on Sunday, so I do believe it is quite possible he could have sweet brownie making skills, as well. But, I primarily want to know what the heck was in those brownies that inspired someone to create such an award, and to give out the title of "Most Excellent" Brownie Maker. Is it possible that Bill & Ted are working in this office?

Read more...

Why We Can't Get Anything Done Part V: Attack of the Colonel

On Sunday afternoon, I finally got to meet Stephen's youngest feline brother, Colonel George Longstockings.

Stephen snapped a couple of shots of George making a bed out of me while I was stretched out on the sofa attempting to watch "The Glenn Miller Story" with Stephen's parents. Maryann says this is how George likes to sleep on her at night - basically, by first attempting to strangle her by laying on her neck, and then when that doesn't work, trying to smother her in her sleep with his body on her head. If smothering doesn't work, he could cause deafness, at least, with his super loud purring right in your ear.

Luckily, our cats don't do this to us, but they do have their own unique methods of nocturnal torture. Sophie like to alternate sleeping next to me and sleeping next to Stephen, stretched out horizontally across the bed instead of vertically like us, so she can take up the most amount of space possible. It's always nice waking up in the middle of the night, pushed into the center of the bed with the other person teetering on the edge, while Sophie is stretched out and looking back at us like, um, could you possibly spare another inch, I'd really like to fully uncoil my tail and you're in the way. Sometimes, however, she'll give us a break and instead opt for sleeping on top of our exposed side when we're sleeping in the fetal position. This often results in very pleasant arm cramps and side aches. Charlie is notorious for sleeping on top of our legs, pinning us into weird contortions for who knows how long. Sam usually leaves us alone until around four or five in the morning. Then he jumps onto the bed, purring so loudly it wakes us, and then will usually do a variety of things to torment us, including, but not limited to: licking and biting Stephen's hands, arms & shoulders, head-butting me in the back in the attempt to roll me out of bed and then biting me on the back when his attempts fail, and crawling on top of the pillows and kicking our heads to push us off.

Sleeping is hard when you have kitties.

Read more...

For the Love of Ketchup, Just Give Her Some Already

During the last visit I had at Mom's, I noticed that Ella has mastered yet another skill in her communication development: the ability to emphasize. Of course, she's always been able to RAISE HER VOICE, but usually that would go something like, "MOMMY I WANT chocolate" or "Brown stinky in my PANTS!" She is now taking annoyance to a whole new level as she learns to express herself, and it's probably all our fault.

Take the conversation we had recently. Mom asks Ella what she wants for dinner. Ella thinks about this for a moment, and then replies, "Old McDonald's." Mom asks what she wants from there. Ella says, "A cheeseburger. With ketchup." The instigator I am, I question whether she wants pickles. "No, Aunt Kimmie, I do want a cheeseburger with ketchup, I do." Perhaps she wants onions? "NO, I do want a cheeseburger with ketchup, I do, I DO!" Stephen then joins in, because maybe she doesn't really want a cheeseburger at all; maybe she wants chicken nuggets? "NOOOOOO," (And you'd swear you were hearing the voice of Satan at this point.) "I want a cheeseburger with KETCHUP, I DO, I DO want KETCHUP on my cheeseburger. I want cheeseburger with ketchup from Old McDonald's, I do, I DO!" Poor thing, she was starting to throw a tantrum, all because the big dumb flippin' idiots she has for relatives couldn't understand the simple request of a cheeseburger with ketchup from Old McDonald's. She apparently isn't yet old enough to understand the concept of teasing, and this makes it all the more enjoyable for us evil bastards to taunt her.

Now she tends to communicate in this matter all the time. "I do want to wear my Dora shoes." "I do want to go shopping." "I do have to pee." "I do want to eat chocolate." "I do want you to play toys." You know, just in case we were ever doubting her.

Fortunately for her, this method of expressing herself seems to be working out well for her. The adults in her life seem to find her firm declarations very cute and adorable, and tend to cave to her desires more times than not as compared to when she simply throws a fit or whines. Seriously, kids, it's amazing: when you're well-behaved, people seem to respect you more, or something. We went to Wal-Mart, and Mom asked me to take Ella to look at the toys while she finished her shopping. I took her, rather reluctantly, figuring she would want every single toy she saw and would throw a tantrum when I wouldn't get them for her. Surprisingly, she latched onto just one toy. It was an Aquadoodle that played "Old McDonald Had a Farm," which seems to be her current favorite song, and she just stood there mesmerized, until it stopped singing, and then she'd press it again. This went on for about 15 minutes, and in the course of this time, bored out of my mind and going crazy from the robotic moo moo here and the moo moo there, here a moo, there a moo, everywhere a moo moo, I asked her numerous times if she wanted to go look at the other toys, or if she was content staying here looking at this one. To which she replied, "Content staying here looking this one." When Mom arrived, I told her what Ella had been doing, so Mom asked her, "Do you like that toy?" Ella nodded and quietly but passionately said, "I do like this toy, NeeNee, I DO!" Needless to say, she was so darn cute and calm about the new love of her life, Mom just picked it up and put it in the cart.

I wonder if Ella would be available to accompany me when I request a promotion during my upcoming review...

Read more...

My Funny Valentine

This is my Valentine's Day gift from Laurie. I about peed my pants from laughter when she gave it to me. If you are a Simpsons fan, you may recall the episode when one of my favorite characters of all time, Ralph Wiggum, gives this valentine to Lisa and says something like, "I choo choo choose you! Get it? It's a picture of a train!" Seriously, there are very few things funnier than that. Also, we sometimes call our cat, Charlie, "Choo Choo" (Charlie=Char Char=Choo Choo) and I'll carry him around saying, I choo choo choose you, Choo Choo, I choo choo choose you!

Laurie is the best.

Read more...

My Husband, the Romantic

Stephen gave my Valentine's Day gift to me a week early. This isn't uncommon; when it comes to gift-giving, he's like a little kid and can't wait until the appropriate day. Normally, I find this endearing, but...

Last Tuesday, we had a snowstorm that wasn't as bad as yesterday's, but it was snowing heavy enough to make driving conditions pretty awful and prompted my boss to send us home 2 1/2 hours early. Stephen picked me up from work, and we decided to stop by Kroger on the way home to return a movie we had rented from the nifty $1 rental machine we recently discovered. Pulling into the little shopping center's parking lot, we were appalled that there had been virtually no plowing done. Between knowing our luck and the crappy condition of the lot, you'd think we wouldn't have been surprised when we ran completely over a cement parking lot divider slab thingy. Nope, it still managed to scare me enough to cause me to duck and then frantically search the rearview mirrors for the bloody remains of the midget or dog I was positive we had just run over. Either there were no bloody remains, or it was just snowing so freakin' hard that it masked the evidence from my eyes, but either way I was relieved.

As always, relief is only temporary, and moments later Stephen's bout of rage began when he concluded he had demolished his tire. We pulled into a "space" and got out to find a perfectly flat tire with its sidewall blown out. Our Hyundai has a lovely 60 month roadside assistance feature, where they'll bring you gas if you run out, tow your car for free, change your flate tire, etc. Unfortunately, it was going to take three hours for someone to get to us to change our tire. Did I mention we were only about a mile from our house? It seemed silly, to me, to sit there, a mile away from home, waiting in the car for three hours for someone to change the flat tire. Granted, I'm a girl, and if I'd been alone and had no one else to call, I sure as hell would have waited that three hours for flat tire assistance. Not because I'm lazy, though I totally am, but because I'd have absolutely no idea how on earth to change a flat. I know the spare tire is usually kept in the trunk, and I know you have to jack the car up before changing it, but that's about as far as my knowledge goes. But anyway, since my husband is, duh, a boy, why couldn't he just change it himself? Easy peasey, I thought!

We had no shovel with us because, well, who keeps a shovel in their car? I came up with the brilliant idea to use the ice scraper/snow brush to clear off the area around the car and the tire. This is when the F-bombs started flying out of the mouth of my sweet, sweet husband.

"What the f**k do you think you're doing?! Get your f**kin' ass back in the f**kin' car!"

It's okay, sweetie, look, it's working!

"I said to get your ass back in the car! Damnit! F**K!!!" (Jumps out of the car and slams the car door.) "F**KER!" (Did I mention we were in the Kroger parking lot? Could this explain why not one of the dozens of cars that drove by us stopped to offer assistance?)

*blink, blink* Did you just call me a f**ker?

"NO, I didn't call YOU a f**ker! I hate my f**king job! I hate this f**king car! I hate carting all this f**king sh*t around in my f**king car I f**king hate for the f**king job I f**king hate!!"

Sweetie, let me help. Just tell me what to do. I know I can't do much between the several inches of snow on the ground and the HEELS I'm wearing, but let me do something. Can I help clean out your trunk so we can get to the tire?

"HERE," thrusting a few things into my arms, including a tissue-wrapped package. "AND HAPPY F**KIN' VALENTINE'S DAY!"

I just want you to know, anything you say at this moment, I'm completely disregarding because of the situation. (And because I noticed the Coach tissue paper surrounding the package. Call me a f**ker again, I don't care. As long as I get a f**kin' purse out of the f**kin' deal, I could care less.)

So, although celebrated early, I had a memorable Valentine's Day. I got a fabulous brown leather Coach purse to add to my collection, a tire changed by my ever-so-manly man, and a new nickname. (F**ker, in case you forgot. I haven't.) I just wish he'd said those heartfelt words in a card so I could cherish them forever:

HAPPY F**KIN' VALENTINE'S DAY, F**KER! Love Always, Stephen

Read more...

My First Adult Snow Day

It's unbelievable. At 6:30 this morning, I received a phone call from my boss stating that, due to the weather, he was closing the office. This is a huge deal to me; I work for a very large insurance company that prides itself in never closing. Just last year, in fact, I was riding up the elevator with a woman who said she'd worked there for seventeen years and they'd never closed the office once since she'd been working there. I was so excited I couldn't even go back to sleep. Well, not for like at least another 15 minutes.

On top of that, we were watching tv in bed and saw that we've now been bumped up to a blizzard warning. A BLIZZARD! My very first blizzard, and my first snow day since high school. Today is a good day. Especially for my blog, seeing as I doubt I'll have anything better to do while sitting on my snowed-in butt.

Since we live in a townhouse, we don't have a yard, and since we live in a new subdivision, we really don't have any nice scenery of which to take pictures. Perhaps when (read: IF) I get dressed, I'll venture out in my huge marshmallow coat and pink boots and find a pretty snow capped evergreen or something. Until then, here's a breathtaking shot of our back patio, which now looks more like a giant bucket of snow, and a shot of one of our bushes next to the snow, so you can get an idea of the depth we have so far. It's still coming down pretty hard (it's supposed to keep snowing until this evening) and it's getting pretty damn windy.

Come on, Old Man Winter, keep it coming...mama wants another snow day tomorrow...

Read more...

Wired and Not Tired, so I'll Post an Angie Update

At around midnight we got home from taking Angie back to Chicago, after she had spent a week and a half with us while she recuperated from a very bad infection she had obtained following her recent appendectomy. She is doing a hundred times better than she was when we brought her down here; she still has a rather large gaping wound in her side for which she has to care, but she is mobile and able to function on her own again. I think I'm already experiencing a little bit of empty nest syndrome from her absence in our home, but I'm so relieved that she's healthy enough to go back to her independent life. Unfortunately, she still has a lot on her plate right now - aside from her own health problems, her dad was just admitted to the hospital yesterday due to an illness he's been struggling with for the past few weeks. When it rains, it pours...and Angie is experiencing a freaking monsoon right now. It was really difficult to leave her up there, knowing all of the stress she's having to deal with, and if it weren't for our darn cats who think they need to be fed or the darn jobs we seem to think we need to go to in order to pay the bills, we probably would have just stayed up there with her indefinitely. Like we could really do anything to make things better, but sometimes just being there for someone makes you feel like you're doing something.

On a positive note for her, however, she did get to reclaim her dog, Bailey, whose little nub of a tail I feared would fly right off of her with all the butt shaking (attempted tail wagging) she did at the very sight of her long-lost mommy.

During the drive home we stopped at Starbucks for some coffee. As usual, I opted for decaf, knowing that caffeine would keep me up through all hours of the night. And wouldn't you know it - I was up until 4:00 a.m., heart pounding and unable to sleep. I stayed up until two drafting this post, then spent an hour playing Sudoku, and finally another hour practicing the insomniacs' old fashioned method of tossing and turning in bed. Once asleep, I still managed to wake up about 150 times until I finally gave up on sleep around ten. Although my coffee was sweetened with the natural stuff, sugar doesn't affect me strongly enough to keep me up like that. Needless to say, I called in and am only going to work a half day this afternoon. Is a sugar buzz a good excuse for missing work? Probably not, so I'm going with the story that some punk kid barista at Starbucks spiked my supposed-to-be-decaf coffee with the real deal. Because you know, that's so much more an excusable reason to call in.

Read more...

Meet Colonel George Longstockings

Stephen proudly played the role of stork on Thursday evening by making a trip to the PetSmart in Muncie to pick out a new kitten for his parents. The PetSmarts in Indy offer kitties from local rescue shelters for adoption. The adoption fees from these shelters are usually higher, because they pay for the food, housing, and medical care that the non-profit shelters spent on the animals. The PetSmart in Muncie, however, offers kitties from the Muncie Animal Shelter. Knowing that these kitties are more likely to be euthanized if not adopted, because animal shelters tend to focus more on animal control rather than animal rescue, and the fact that their adoption fees are much less, Stephen and his parents decided to obtain their new pet from there.

Maryann informed Stephen this morning that they named their four-month-old kitten Colonel George Longstockings. "Colonel" I'm sure was chosen to go along with the military theme in Major Skiffington's name (though Major was actually named after Stephen's dad, whose middle name is Major). "George" was chosen because, as you can see, he resembles Sophie. Backstory: When we adopted Sophie from the Humane Society, she was accompanied by her brother, George, who looked like her twin. Unfortunately, George had developed a very bad infection while at the Humane Society, and he only got to spend a week with us before the doctor informed us his liver was failing and we probably ought to "do the humane thing." So, since he resembles George, Stephen's parents kindly named him after Sophie's late brother. (They are such sweet people.) "Longstockings," I believe, was chosen because he has long white "socks." I like a name full of meaning.

I'm sure Major Skiffington is thrilled to have a new little brother with whom to romp and play, and Joe is excited to have another kitty to cuddle in front of the fire while drinking red wine. And as for Maryann...she is probably praying over her rosary that Major doesn't teach George his favorite naughty game of tinkling on her comforter. We'll say a little prayer for your comforter, too, Maryann.

Read more...

Little Sister To Be Wed

My baby sister, Jamie, who is a whopping three years my junior, has announced that she is engaged to be married.

I'm feeling a wide range of emotions about this right now. For one, who the hell told her she's old enough to get married? Did I not mention she's THREE WHOLE YEARS YOUNGER, one day off from being to the day, than I am?! It's bad enough she didn't consult me before having Ella. Okay, I must admit that's one of the best things she's ever done FOR ME (and it's all about me, remember), so I shouldn't say she should have consulted me first. But those times she cut her hair and dyed it black...she really should have consulted me.

Second, the man she is to marry has yet to endure the scary side of her older sister. He has yet to meet "short bus" Kim or humping Night At The Roxbury-esque Kim (Jamie's favorite). Then there is the beloved gassy and nose-picking Kim; maybe I'll save her for him to meet on the big day itself. Seriously, Jamie - he needs to get to know these personalities. If he comes back to you after spending time with me in my raw nature, I'll know he must truly love you unconditionally. I'll try to keep overprotective Kim away, even though she really does mean well. She is simply having a tough time entrusting the care of her baby sister (who is an entire 1,094 days younger than she is) to another person. Like I'm her keeper, or something. And like we haven't lived an hour and a half apart for over three years. But that doesn't matter; it's symbolic, or something.

She has said, though, that the marriage will not be made in haste; they may not have their wedding for a couple of years. I think in that time, overprotective Kim will come to accept the fact that her "baby" sister is almost 25 years old; humping and gassy, nose-picking Kim will have plenty of time to frighten and gross poor Chris out; and short bus Kim will be excited at the prospect of creating a new "special" friend.

In other words, congratulations, Jamie and Chris. Jamie, I will try my best to "let go" and not embarass you too much in the process. Chris, I will try my best not to make you hate your future in-laws too much.

Read more...

A Sign, Perhaps?

Stephen frequently receives lots of packages full of freebies and overall crap for work from his employer. The other night he opened this box and was surprised to find it filled with at least a hundred squishy blue balls.

At first I had my typical reaction, which is annoyance and frustration that the back room of our home is constantly being filled to the brim with things such as this. I got to thinking about it, though, and realized the Superbowl is tomorrow, the Colts are playing, and the Colts' color is blue. Leave it to me to find inspiration in the strangest of places.

Grab your blue balls, Colts, and kick some Bear ass tomorrow!

Read more...