I Am So Lame.

I've finally taken the plunge. I joined MySpace.

Why? I honestly don't really know. My sister had joined it years ago during its infancy and she had then tried to get me to join, but I never felt a desire to. I could only think of five reasons people might want to be members, and at the time, none of them appealed to me.

1. Dating. I've been with my husband since we started dating at the beginning of our senior year of high school, almost eleven years ago. Therefore, I've been lucky enough to not have had to deal with online dating. I could, however, use the power of MySpace to rummage up the countless lurid online affairs I've been meaning to have...note to self...
2. Meeting new friends. I'm sure this works all fine and dandy for many, many people out there, but I've had some very strange experiences in meeting "new and exciting" people online. It's definitely quite possible that I'm just a distrustful fuddy-duddy (yes, I actually just used that term), but I just don't see the enjoyment in getting to know strangers online. Because, you know, there aren't a million crazy sickos out there fabricating entire personalities and life stories for extremely creepy and unexplainable reasons, or anything. Which leads me to number three...
3. Preying on unsuspecting MySpacers. All I can think about is the Dateline program, "To Catch a Predator." Enough said.
4. Spam. Unfortunately, I have nothing but cat pictures with which to spam people. And I don't think I'd gain anything other than pure hatred by doing that.
5. Reacquainting with old friends. I know I'm going to sound like a total bitch for saying this, but this is one of the big reasons I didn't want to join in the first place. It's not that I don't like my old friends, or anything. It has more to do with the fact that I'M INCREDIBLY LAZY. It's just what I'm good at. Catching up with people you haven't seen or spoken to in ten years is exhausting! And even more than that, I just know that every single person from my past has become totally fabulous. Well, I'm glad you asked me how life's treating me, Kim. I just earned my first bagillion dollars earlier this year when I discovered the cure for Ledinaklamahakaduhicky. I'm married to a Calvin Klein underwear model and have 2.5 beautiful children, a boy and a girl. We're vacationing this summer in our little villa in Italy. It's very important we get some family alone time away from home, because we're sooooo popular that sometimes we don't get to spend enough quality time together between all the galas we attend and host. How about you? I feel like I've got nothing of interest to say to these people. Um, remember that guy I used to hold hands with senior year of high school? Yeah, we're still together. Sorta got married after I graduated from Purdue. What did I study? Well, it doesn't really matter, seeing as I've been working as a legal secretary for the past four years. Oh! How could I forget! I've got three cats. Yeah, I know this is completely ridiculous, but this is how my ridiculous mind works. Sadly, you know what my biggest fear is? THAT NO ONE WILL REMEMBER ME. I was pretty quiet and shy back in the day - If I weren't me, I certainly wouldn't remember myself. Of course, I've also got the memory of a 97 year old woman.

I blame Angie for finally bringing me to the dark side. Since she's staying with us right now, I figured I'd use her MySpace expertise to help me set up an account. Thanks, Ang. You're the best at being a bad influence. Now if Stephen doesn't find me blogging, he can find me surfing MySpace for my next online affair with a very handsome 30 year old doctor named "Matthew" who, unknown to me, is actually being played by an extremely overweight, hairy 68 year old man named Gus who likes to do his online chatting naked.

Anyway, I decided to quit being such a retard and now I'm actually looking forward to finding out what my old peeps have been up to. I only have a handful of "friends" on there right now. A couple of people have looked me up, and I got brave and looked a few people up myself. Amazingly, no one rejected my friend requests! Whether their memories of me weren't too horrible or whether they just plain don't remember who the hell I am but approved me out of pity is not known to me. Either way, thanks, guys!

If any of the five people who read my blog are MySpace members, look me up. I'm in desperate need of people to stalk and am too lazy to find new people on whom to prey.

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Addendum to Previous Post: I Told You It Was Baby Season

If you will, please refer to the second paragraph of my last post, written only a few days ago. I have two additional sets of congratulations to extend!

This morning my mom informed me that my Atlanta-dwelling cousin, Kelly, gave birth to her third child, Alyssa Jean. She is Kelly's and Shawn's second daughter. They have the most adorable babies, so although I have yet to see any pictures of Alyssa, I'm betting pretty strongly she's a hardcore cutie-patootie.

And, just when you probably thought you couldn't handle any more baby news...

By coincidence, the very next day after I wrote my last post, one of my friends announced to me that she is just over three months pregnant. Yes, Dawn and Jim (see pic below) will be welcoming a baby into their lives at the end of September!

I am quite pleased that all of the people in my life love me enough to have babies just to keep that biological clock inside of me ticking. And, I think Dawn wants me to repay her by getting pregnant myself so we can have babies close in age and have playdates together. Dawn, I'm working on that. Just for you! When I say I'll do anything for my friends, I mean anything. But not creepy stuff. And getting pregnant just because a friend wants you to definitely doesn't qualify as "creepy" or anything.

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Hospital Blues and Baby News

It's been *gasp* an entire week since I last posted anything. I'm going through some serious withdrawal.

Angie's dad has been at St. Vincent Hospital in Indy since Sunday. He's doing better in some respects, but is pretty much overall not the best. I can't really go into specifics as to what's wrong with him, because to tell you the truth, it's all a little over my head. A very poor Cliff Notes version is that his platelet count is ridiculously low (Ang said it's supposed to be around 150, and his has been fluctuating between 5 and 16), which means his blood isn't clotting. They speculate that his spleen is hyperactive and that it needs to come out, but they can't remove it until his platelet count is up to where it should be because, you know, you don't want to operate on someone whose blood isn't clotting (like, duh), but yet his platelet count continues to be low because of his spleen....a vicious cycle. But, they're starting him on new medications, so hopefully something will work for him very soon. Anyway, Angie is staying with us for the time being and has been spending her days and much of her evenings at the hospital with him. We've gone to see him the past three nights, and it seems like he's getting better, at least in the respect that his spirits are up and he's looking better each time we see him. So, when you all say your bedtime prayers like the good little God-fearing people you all are, please include the Sellers family in them.

On a happy note, it appears to be the beginning of baby season. Stephen's cousin, Jordan, and her husband, Brian, welcomed their first child, a healthy baby girl, Tatum (Tate) Elizabeth, into their lives on March 3. Stephen's mom forwarded to me the link to their photographer's website this evening, which is where I pulled these photos. All of the pictures were absolutely beautiful and, let me tell you, seeing them definitely has caused my baby itch to flare up worse than ever. Now that Jordan has kicked off the season, our families have several other babies to look forward to this year, including: my cousin, Kelly, is due with her third child any day now; Stephen's sister is due in a month to have her first baby; Stephen's cousin, Cassie, is due in September (I think) with her first child. On top of that, I also have a couple of expectant friends, you know, just to make postively certain that I feel like the only woman not pregnant in the world. But anyway, before I start sounding bitter and you know I will because I'm so good at it, congratulations to Jordan and Brian on such a precious baby girl! We truly couldn't be happier for you both.

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The Truly Outrageous Molestation of My Cell Phone

I'm one of those boring people who prefers the ringtone on her cell phone to sound like - call me crazy - a ringing phone. My brain is just far too simple to equate the sound of JT's "Sexy Back" as an incoming phone call.

This afternoon at work I heard music playing, and even though it sounded as if it was coming from within my desk drawer, I shrugged it off, thinking the attorney around the corner from me must have his radio up louder than usual. A minute later, my desk phone rang, and it was Stephen wondering why I didn't answer my phone. After explaining I never heard it ring, he told me to get my cell phone out because he was going to call me again.

That music I heard? It was my cell phone. The song it was playing? The theme song to "Jem." (Yes, she's still truly outrageous; truly, truly, truly outrageous.)

Apparently, I now have the Meow Mix theme downloaded to my phone, too. Someone was bored last night, as evidenced by the latest post on his blog.

Have I mentioned lately how much I love my dear husband?

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Spring Fever's Bringing Me Down

As you may notice, I'm posting this a little earlier in the day than I normally would on a weekday, and that's because I stayed home from work. I don't feel sick, but I don't feel well. I think I've definitely got a case of the Mondays, but on top of that, I've got a serious case of spring fever.

Almost everyone we know takes regular vacations every year, but, for some reason, this year it's really giving us the yen to take one, too. Therese went to Las Vegas a couple of weeks ago to visit her brother, and is currently now in Orlando for the week visiting her father-in-law (while we're stuck behind cat-sitting for her [which I actually enjoy doing, because I'm weird cat lady]). Laurie is going to be going to Washington, D.C., for Sloan's spring break. Angela and Jeff recently returned from Key West and, I believe, they're currently in San Diego.

Not only do we feel like the only people stuck at home, but the changing weather is also trying to push us out the door. Thankfully, all of the snow from last month's blizzard is almost all gone, with the exception of a few dirty snow piles scattered around, and Stephen just informed me the temperatures are supposed to vary from the forties to the seventies this week. Hallelujah, I just might get motivated to dress in something other than sweatpants and fleece after work in the evenings. Maybe.

Having not taken a trip since our Toronto visit three years ago, Stephen and I are debating on whether to take a little weekend trip somewhere this spring with my upcoming bonus and/or our tax return. At the top of our list is going to New York City...actually, I don't know if there's even still any other options on the list, seeing as Stephen has been doing NYC hotel research like mad the past few days. We originally discussed going to Asheville, NC, because of some great deals Stephen came across, but I sort of shot that idea down since we've been to the Biltmore Mansion before. It's beautiful and I think it'd be great to go, but because we don't have a lot of money to play with, we don't get to take trips very often, so I'd rather go someplace new each time. I suggested doing something low-key, like staying at a bed and breakfast someplace south or in a cabin in Tennessee or even in Brown County (southern Indiana), but Stephen didn't seem too enthused about those ideas. NYC definitely sounds the most appealing to me, since I've been dying to go only for, like, forever and a day, but it's also going to be pretty expensive. We've been pretty money conscious lately, and I find it very difficult to spend money on something frivolous like a trip. Plus, we still have things for the house I'd like to buy, like our last two dining room chairs, a loveseat for the back room, a couple of barstools, or an armoire for our boudoir. On the other hand, I also feel like we need to get away, that it would be seriously good for us to take a break from our mundane lives for a few days. And, for Heaven's sake, WE NEVER EVEN GOT TO TAKE A HONEYMOON. Not that I'm bitter or anything (because what girl wants a stupid honeymoon anyway?!), but I should not feel badly for wanting to take a little road trip somewhere! And, if we can limit the budget of our excursion to just the amount of either my bonus OR our tax return, I can justify that we're still, at least, saving one of the checks and not blowing everything. Man, I am so flippin' good at rationalization. (Is it that obvious I have a serious unexplained guilt complex?)

It was so sad; we went to the Imax theater on Saturday night to see "Night at the Museum." It was a cute movie - a little corny, but definitely good for a family movie - and the theater was really nice. But, oh my Lord, you would have thought we had gone to the opera, with fine dining and dancing beforehand. We kept saying, why don't we do stuff like this more often, this is fun! And, who knew going on a date together would actually still be enjoyable! The last time we went out and did something by ourselves, other than shopping, eating, or hanging out at home, was probably last August when we went to see 311 in concert. It scares me to think how bad we're going to be when we have kids! But, with Stephen working Saturdays (up until recently, he was working Friday evenings and Saturdays), and with trying to be more fiscally responsible (whatever that means), it's easy to not go out and do things. Thank God for friends and family, or else we probably would have become a couple of hermits. (Hermits who like to go out to eat and shop, though.)

Yes, I think it's definitely time to get away and reconnect. Hopefully we'll follow through and, if so, more updates will follow.

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Charlie The Unicorn

Laurie forwarded this video to me the other night, thinking Stephen should put it on his blog, "The Flatulating Unicorn." Stephen has snoozed and losed - I'm posting it here, since I know he'll never get around to it. I cannot fully express enough how much or all the reasons why I love this video, so I won't even begin to try. Check out www.filmcow.com for a higher quality version and other funny videos.

If a liger is bred for its skills in magic, I wonder for what skills a liopleurodon is bred?

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How Normal People Store Their Underwear

I don't know which is more interesting about this picture: the fact that we have several boxes of men's underwear strewn across the office floor, or the cat who has made himself cozy by nestling himself in the midst of pictures of hunky tighty-whitey clad men.

Our office tends to be the junk dumping grounds of the house. One of my goals for the year is to get it cleaned up again. I did this last year, but alas, it's long since been trashed. I blame having too much stuff and not enough storage space, because I'm sure our laziness has absolutely nothing to do with it. Anyway, the year's only a quarter over, so I have plenty of time to accomplish my goal and, besides, if I clean it up now, chances are someone will just mess it up again before the year's over. Then, does the fact that it was once clean even count? Shouldn't the resolution remain resolved by the year's end to really qualify as accomplished?

(Seriously, I freaking need to clean this mess of a room this weekend before I completely lose it.)

On to the boxes of underwear themselves...Stephen is very particular about his man-panties. He's always on the hunt for the perfect pair. After buying like ten boxes and trying on a pair at home (because Heaven forbid he try something on in a dressing room or just buy one item in case he doesn't like it), he decided they don't quite live up to his high man-panty expectations and must go back to the store. So like all things we don't know what to do with in the house, they ended up in a pile in the office awaiting their return to the store.

As for Sam, who knows. Maybe he has big dreams of becoming a hunky underwear model himself one day. Or maybe this is just another example of his tendency for man love.

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Cookies and Internet Save the Day

So, the majority of the day today was pretty crappy for me. Nothing bad happened; it was just Monday and I must have really bad lingering PMS, which I like to think stands for pretty much shitty. During this time, my mood is pretty much shitty, my appearance is pretty much shitty, I feel overall pretty much shitty, and my social life is pretty much shitty because, for all of the above reasons, no one can bear to be around me. Anyway, I know no one wants to hear about my pretty much shitty time, but it had to be mentioned because there really was no other explanation for my mindset today.

I knew it was going to be a bad day when I couldn't get the wrapper off of my granola bar this morning at my desk. I struggled and struggled, and then finally used my trusty set of chicklet sized incisors to tear through the package. In the morning quiet of my office, that wrapper made the most annoying crinkling sounds. It was shiny, silver, noisey, hard to open, and contained about 2 1/2 bites of food that were supposed to satisfy my hunger for the next four hours. I hated it and all that it stood for. I gave that wrapper a full on stink eye, crumpled it up with my angry fist, flung it in the trash can, and muttered under my breath, f**k you!

Of course on top of my horribly wrong mood, I was extremely busy today transcribing my attorney's notes from the 18 pre-trial conferences and 4 hearings she attended last week. I really don't mind transcription at all; in fact, sometimes I actually enjoy it. But after two whole tapes, front and back, I was getting a little more than a little on edge. I called Stephen and asked him if he'd please go to lunch with me to give me a much needed break right after I went to the printer, heard someone sneeze and came this close to shouting F**K YOU to her, you know, just to put a twist on the traditional bless you, not because I'm crazy full of unexplained rage.

So anyway, that was pretty much my cheery mood for most of the day.

But! Things always manage to get better. I got home from work and checked my e-mail and the internet was surprisingly less sluggish than normal. Stephen announced he had called our crappy cable service and bumped the speed back up to what it used to be. He must have known that given my frame of mind today, I'd have lit the computer on fire and chucked it out the window within two minutes of turning it on. Oh, to have fast internet again. It's so fast. Like a marsupial.

Then after dinner, we went to Costco to buy my bi-weekly buttload of bottled water and saw MY COOKIES. Angela and Jeff just returned from their "babymoon" in Key West, and brought back these tasty Key Lime shortbread cookies for me because, well duh, they LOVE ME. I'm not usually much of a packaged dessert kind of girl - if it's not homemade, I can usually pass - and I typically am not a big fan of Key Lime whatever. But these cookies? I just can't fully describe how good they are. And, saying they are "good" is such a huge understatement. There is a price tag that was left on the box that says Key West on it, so I know they bought them down there; thank you very much, Stephen, they did not fly into Indy and say, crap I didn't get stupid Kim anything, let's go to Costco and pretend to get her a souvenir. So maybe these are a very popular brand that are sold in stores everywhere and I never noticed them, but since I'd never noticed them for all I knew they only existed there and I'd never get them again, or at least not until I'm 65 when we might finally get to go on a real grown-up trip by ourselves. But on my pretty shitty day, of all days, I discovered my "rare" cookies, a million of them, on a gigantic display at Costco.

Between all the cookies and fast internet, I'll end up huge, but at least my fat ass will be happy.

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This Is Why You Shouldn't Make Fun of Your Husband

Only a couple of posts ago, I wrote about Stephen's sweet misunderstanding skills. Wouldn't it figure, I totally pulled a "Stephen" today at work.

One of my co-workers walked by my desk this morning laughing and I could have sworn she said to me, "Kim, you can call me Big Tits, too."

"Did you really say what I think you said?" I replied, laughing back at her. Note I wasn't necessarily shocked, because (a) she does have and frequently has spoken about her big, uh, tits, and (b) she and I excel at inappropriate conversation in the office. Because work is dull and boring, and sometimes you need to talk about farts and sex injuries and weird weight gains in your boobs and ass just to keep yourselves awake.

She explained: Yes; she had just told another co-worker that she had snarfed down a Big Texas, which from what she said I think is like a large honey bun, right after she ate her breakfast because she was still hungry. So she said we could call her Big Texas.

Ohhhhhhhhhhh, now that makes more sense. I told her I was curious, not only why I could call her Big Tits, but moreover why the "too" was thrown in there, which implies someone else in the office was already calling her Big Tits. If you knew the people with whom we work, you would understand that would just be weird and wrong on so many different levels for so many different reasons.

She said if I really wanted to call her Big Tits, I could, though. I think that would be a very nice nickname to have; you know, it would surely make you memorable, or something. And, I think I would really enjoy having the opportunity to greet someone with "Good morning, Big Tits!" each day. But, I suppose I'll decline her offer, as I'd feel really badly and really grossed out if the nickname caught on with the rest of the office.

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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...

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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?

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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.

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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...

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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.

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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

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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...

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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.

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