Can't Wait for This Week!

Why? Because it's going to be AMAZING.  Here's what's going to happen:

• Through the power of positive thinking, I will lose 8 pounds this week while eating whatever I want, AND my hair is going to look great everyday.
• My backlog of work, which would probably congest the administrative facilities of a small island nation, will yield to the slightest of efforts, falling away like a prom dress at 1:00am,
• The mountain of laundry on my bedroom floor will somehow magically wash, fold, and iron itself,
• Lighting bolts of positivity and enthusiasm are going to shoot out of my ass with the force of an intercontinental ballistic missile,
• Hell, I might even grow a few inches!!

Honestly, I'm pretty sure this week is probably going to be another marathon, and I have got to get a handle on my to-do list, which at last glance was one and a half pages long.  Unfortunately, it's college ruled paper, mind you.

Seriously, though, I am trying to be positive about the days ahead.  I have no idea how it is that I'm always behind, except that I must get some kind of thrill out of biting off more than I can chew.  The idea that I'm addicted to the martyrdom of all-nighter and work-life imbalance is surely not palatable, making me sound...well, imbalanced. 

I need therapy, don't I?  I'm pretty sure they must have some mystical analytical tradition in India that would help me overcome it (if not, I know for a fact they at least have scotch!).  Geez, leave it to me to fabricate a mental disorder out of simple disorganization, and use that as an excuse to go drinking in India.  No matter how I think of it, all roads lead to India. 

Get Busy Living

No news isn't always good news, is it?  Permission to speak freely, respected blog-o-sphere.

2011 has completely, totally sucked, with notably few exceptions.  What's more, the promise of lingering suckage through at least the end of the 3rd quarter is providing a kind of suspenseful dread usually reserved for slasher movies. 

But you didn't really think I'd bore you with a litany of complaints, did you?  Come on, I know it's been too long, but I'm not that kind of gal, am I?  Because if I am, I guess I should resign myself to a hell populated with similarly annoying people who stage endless monologues about their irritable bowels, mother issues, and cellulite.  Say it isn't so!

No, if I'm going to bore ANYONE under ANY circumstances, my topic of choice will be my travels to India and the incredible people, sights, shopping and food there.  In fact, in the face of a 2011 that (like the famous Dyson vacuum) "never loses suction", all I can think of is how much I want to chuck it all, pack my bags, grab my dogs and move to India.  Forever.

Ladies and Gents, this is not an easy sell to a man who loves Dr. Pepper, peanut butter, and beef.  Some days, he seems totally into the idea; other days, he acts like I'm mentioning for the first time that I want to amputate my right arm and replace it with a prosthetic carved out of cucumber.  Of course we'd have to sell the house, sell the business, figure out endless logistics (you know, like a job in India for yours truly), and generally jump backwards through flaming hoops to make this happen.  As if that weren't enough, we'd also have to adjust to a totally new lifestyle, social standards, climate, food, and procedures for doing every single damn thing that anyone does in daily life.

You know what?  That sounds a hell of a lot like learning, growing, and flat-out living.  Remember Shawshank Redemption?  My favorite quote of all time comes from Red, Morgan Freeman's character, when he tells Andy, "Guess it comes down to a simple choice really.  Get busy living, or get busy dying.".

Get Nailed

For those of you who live in Atlanta, this one's for you. If you haven't already, you've just got to go and get Nailed.

The Rusty Nail is on Buford Highway near Druid Hills, not exactly the culinary epicenter of the city, but do not be fooled by its location or humble exterior. The chow is this place is mouth-watering - literally. The menu has a good mixture of bar food like burgers and wings, but the real focus here is barbeque and the homemade side items that come with it. First of all, I SWEAR the Rusty Nail did not pay me to write this, but never in my life have tastier green beans or macaroni and cheese passed my lips.

In short, I'd eat here every day if it didn't mean that I'd be buried in a piano box and would eventually wind up on some humiliating Discovery Channel special so fat I would have to be draped in awning fabric and propped up with 2x4s. Plus I don't think the Rusty Nail delivers, so the key to keeping it coming is not getting too fat to drive. Anyway, I digress...back to business.

Having spent many years in Texas, I can tell you that the barbeque scene in and around Atlanta is decidedly weak with the exception of the Rusty Nail. Even the venerated Swallow at the Hollow doesn't compare to the incredible brisket and pulled pork, which is cooked inside a giant gun-shaped smoker in front of the restuarant.

Speaking of smokers, this restaurant does allow smoking on one side of the bar, so there is a slight odor of smoke when you first walk in, so unless you're really sensitive to the smell, it's not too noticable. Like all other establishments in the area that allow smoking, the under 18 crowd is verboten. Even though I don't like living under the laws of nanny government, I do like not having small kids around while I'm trying to relax, so it works out for me.

One last thing about the Rusty Nail, and this is one that only the ladies will be able to enjoy. In the 2nd stall of the ladies' room, there is some really amusing invective directed at, of all fictional paramilitary mariners, Cap'n Crunch. One clearly agitated potty-stall poet calls the Cap'n a rat bastard, and invites him to make love to himself in some very crude terms.

I love the Rusty Nail.

The Time Machine

Has it been long enough, or just entirely too long?

I feel like I've been in some crazy time machine, and it's almost impossible to believe that it's been 18 months since my last confession. Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.

Lots of things have happened since the last post. When I say a lot, I'm not kidding.

Jared has graduated high school and spent the last year and a half wasting every minute on girls, booze, chewing tobacco, and any other imaginable trappings trailer park opulence. He has also, in that time, joined the Marine Corps, and is currently enjoying his 2nd week on beautiful Parris Island. I understand the bugs are particularly juicy this time of year.

Tyler is a senior this year, and he's enjoying the easy schedule that comes along with it and looking for a job that suits his skills, which include arm wrestling, pie-eating, video gaming, and watching football. If you know anyone who would like to hire such a young man, please contact me. Immediately.

Garrett is still cool, and I'm still a trophy wife.

A trophy wife with a new job, that is! I started a new position in July and now I'm managing a team of offshore recruiters in India. I love this gig...and get ready for this...drumroll, please! I'm going to India in October for two weeks to train my troops, and I'm so very excited. Stay tuned for updates on my upcoming trip; I promise not to wait 18 months to tell you about it.

By the way, I still have that Effing Car, Auto Von Crapp. Auto is paid off and will continue to vex me until my desire to drive something other than rolling poo exceeds my desire to save my pennies. Keep waiting, folks....Garrett, that means you!

Now that we're all caught up, I'll resume the regularly scheduled silliness and observational humor in the next post. If you're still reading, thanks for hanging in there!

Vacation Day

Oh, the romance! The luxury! Who am I kidding? A day off from work can be a beautiful thing, even without romance and luxury.

Sometimes it's not the presence of swaying palms that makes the time special; it's the mere absence of the constant hassle and endless emergencies, even when those pressures are replaced by grocery runs, Costco trips, bank deposits, and laundry.

Case in point, I had no choice but to take a day off today, since I've gotten so behind in my household tasks and errands. Of course, the recent drama at work hasn't helped much, so on Wednesday I decided that a day off would be just the thing, and blurted out at the end of a meeting, "Hearing no objections, I'll be taking Friday off."

Response: "That's sudden. What's going on Friday?"

Me: "Nothing. I just need the day off to recover from recent employment-related threats to my mental health."

So, here I am, with a list of errands and a mountain of laundry. Strangely enough, it feels like a day on the beach.

King for a Day?

Not me, silly! I know I've been away for a while, but I PROMISE I'm still a lady and therefore could never be King.

J, on the other hand, came home from school and announced that he's been nominated for Prom King. Not only that...he intends to actively campaign for the position. There's no "it's an honor just to be nominated" philosophy here; this kid is making the full-court-press to win his rightful place on the prom throne. So far the plan includes t-shirts with his picture on them, a guest appearance on the morning announcements, and any other means of ingratiating himself with the senior population.

Sure, it's cool in a way, but it's also weird. Let's step into the kooky space-time continuum bending machine for a moment, shall we?

(Cue the fantasy-sequence music...)

Stepping out of the machine, you find Mother and Son in an alternate reality in which they're both in high school at the same time, a la Back to the Future. In this case, the Mom is a pasty, bookish social retard hurrying off to Academic Decathlon practice, and the Son is the handsome, happy-go-lucky flop-as-a-scholar everyone loves. In other words, he's that kid who never would have known I was alive if we had gone to school together.

I'm not sure why I think that's so bizarre, and I don't think I'll ever completely understand it. In any case, I guess having a kid who's nominated for Prom King does score me some vicarious cool points on that big scoreboard in the sky.

The Blog is Dead, Long Live the Blog

I know. I’ve been absent. I owe rants on a variety of topics, but in my typical self-indulgent fashion, I’m going to rant about something else. Right now, my freedom of choice has become scarce and precious, so I’ve got to exercise it when I can. The good news: I’m about as drunk as Cooter Brown as I type this. Now, if you’re from Texas, you know Cooter Brown, and you know that means I’m really, seriously, three sheets to the wind.

More good news: the pups are doing really well these days. Hoover’s fur has become soft as a bunny, and Bruno is turning into the world’s best and biggest snugglebug. Those pooches are really a bright spot for me. J & T are also doing pretty well, except that J has Mono, just in time for spring break, graduation, and prom – yay!

Even more good news: Garrett is still the bomb-diggity, and he’s made so much progress on the yard that it actually ALMOST LOOKS DECENT. In the intervening weeks since my last post, I’ve had no complaints on the G front. I have, however, had plenty to gripe about on the work front.

Now for your reading displeasure, I’m proud to present the Top 10 Reasons My Employer Can Suck It.

1. They laid me off from the position I liked.
2. After laying me off, they gave me a job I didn’t want.
3. Once I started the job I didn’t want, they gave me a promotion to a worse position.
4. The promotion didn’t come with a raise.
5. The promotion required me to perform, on average, 38 additional hours per week, raising my normal weekly hours worked to almost 80.
6. The number of hours I’m now working is sucking the life out of me.
7. They moved the office to a new space with NO cubicle walls.
8. I now have to stare at my colleagues all day.
9. I am now in a commissioned position, but still don’t know what my metrics are.
10. Today, I received an EMAIL stating that all U.S. employees will be taking a 2.5% pay cut. An EMAIL, people.

I could have easily made this a top 12, or top 15. The last thing I’ll say is that if ONE more person tells me that I’m lucky to have a job, SOMEBODY is getting bitch-slapped.

Xena's #1 Fan

It's been a while since I've posted an embarrassing story about one of my kids, and I'm prepared to remedy the situation. This story came to mind the other day as I was driving home, and I determined to relate the tale without disclosing the identity of the child involved, who will hereafter be called Mr. X.

When Mr. X was roughly four or five, a television show by the name of Xena: Warrior Princess exploded onto the airwaves with a burst of leather-clad girl power. Xena had a hottie side-kick, a signature banshee-call, a bustier, and skirt with flaps like a gas station car wash. It was as mesmerizing as it was mediocre.

Except to Mr. X.

To Mr. X, there was nothing mediocre about it. Mr. X wouldn't miss an episode of Xena: Warrior Princess if he had anything to say about it, but I didn't think this was too unusual.

I didn't realize how much Mr. X loved Xena until one evening, when I walked into the living room to find Mr. X, clad in his little footie pajamas transfixed by his favorite show. Not seeing me behind him, he suddenly rose to his feet, shuffled across the floor, wrapped his fat little arms around the television, planted a big, long, wet kiss on the screen, and whispered, "I love you, Xena."

Needless to say, he hates that story as much as I love it. Now if he ever brings a girl home who looks remotely like Lucy Lawless, I'm sure I'll pee my pants.

Update Schupdate

Crazy couple of weeks it’s been, which is why it’s been dead on the blog. I know, I know…borrringgg!

So, I started going back to the office two weeks ago to start working in my new role for my employer. Apparently, after almost three years of working from my home office, my immune system approximates that of a newborn kitten, and I got dreadfully sick with a fever within 4 days. Fabulous!

In other work-related news, I was actually pretty lucky to have been selected to take a training class that is the industry standard for my profession, and I’ve been able to get THE certification that goes along with it, which is cool. No sooner than I completed this hurdle, I was offered a promotion, making the skills and certification pretty much inapplicable to the OTHER new role I start tomorrow. Hell, at least I don’t have to go shopping again, right?

Enough about work, if for no other reason than I’m boring myself to death. I know what you want is confessions, and I have one.

I’ve been doing some outside writing. Outside the blog, that is.

Now, before you feel betrayed, I’ve been doing this writing on my breaks at work, and I can’t use my company network to get on the blogs, so I guess if I weren’t doing this writing, I’d have to take up crack or something to occupy myself in my downtime. What I’m doing is compiling some of my favorite funny experiences and character sketches. I’m not sure exactly what I’m doing this for, but it is an interesting exercise since I’m trying to distill the people and experiences into as few words as possible.

What else? Hmmm…well, Garrett and I actually have plans for Valentine’s Day, which may actually be a first. We normally don’t support what’s basically a greeting-card holiday, but it happens that we had a chance to go see the Dames Aflame show Showbiz What Sizzles this year. Like I always say, “Nothing says ‘I Love You’ like a burlesque revue.”. Ok, I never really say that, but I’m saying it now.

Speaking of Garrett, he’s still a superstar, and he’s really made tons of progress this weekend on the exterior front stairs. Yay!

On another note (and I almost forgot to add this), the weather has been FANTASTIC here, and I took advantage of the weather yesterday and took a little walk, during which my neighbor Mark informed me that yesterday was his 42nd birthday. His only disappointment, he said, was that he didn’t get his birthday spanking, whereupon he turned his little tush in my direction. So I did what anyone would have done; I spanked his booty right there on the sidewalk. I’m sure it wasn’t inappropriate because Mark likes boys. I know…I’m a good neighbor!

Anyway, that’s about it for now. I hope someone is still there to read this, and I’ll try to do better keeping this up in spite of my occupational incarceration.

Sunday Shopping

Today dawned with an awful realization. Beginning tomorrow, I have to start working from an office again, and that can only mean one thing: business casual.

Business casual is distinctly different from work-from-home casual, in many unfortunate ways. Business casual requires the all-day-long wearing of a real bra. Business casual forbids one from wearing T-Shirts emblazoned with slogans such as "REAL TITS" and "I'm a MILF". Lastly, business casual does not permit the wearing of pajama pants advertising Dr. Pepper or Guinness until noon, then switching over to jeans.

There was only one option for me today. I had to go shopping, and I had to buy stuff. This is really not how I wanted to spend my day, and I'd already penciled in the field trials for my Sunday amusement. But no, I had to go attempt to cobble together a work-appropriate wardrobe that wouldn't make me look like a hoochie or a Golden Girl, but something in-between.

I won't bore you with the details, but suffice it to say that I found enough mediocre crap to upholster myself for the next four business days, and thankfully, Friday is casual day, so I'm set for that. Although it's not really possible that this Friday will be anywhere near as casual as the many Fridays that preceded it. In any case, there's more shopping ahead in the coming days, a prospect I'm regarding with the sort of dread usually reserved for root canals and anal surgeries.

In other news, G spent the better part of this morning working on his brick-laying project, and made some visible progress. More disturbingly, he is now removing the ceiling from my former office to run cable for the purpose of re-wiring the downstairs television. My mantra that keeps me from going nuts during such initiatives is, "At least he doesn't chase women and gamble.", I just wish he'd take up cooking as a hobby instead of tearing the house apart at random intervals.

Serenity now. Serenity now. Serenity now.

Another First

Well, those of us with kids know how special some of those "firsts" can be. You know, the first word, the first step, or the first tooth. Then there are those firsts that aren't so celebrated, such as the first detention, first traffic violation, and of course, the first hickey.

Really, I'm not quite sure what says poor white trash like a big, purple, pulsating, thronging hickey right in plain view. Except perhaps having such a hickey while perched on the hood of a '82 Camaro, drinking a Pabst Blue Ribbon, sporting cut off jeans shorts, a wifebeater, and a mullet.

As the Mom of Hickey Guy, it's embarrassing for me, so I have no choice but to make it a little embarrassing for Hickey Guy and his girlfriend, hereafter to be known as Hickey Chicky. What the hell? I think I'll just sit them down for a nice little talk that'll start something like this:

"You know, guys, it's not that hard to make out without leaving any marks on each other. After all, Mr. H and I play some serious championship level tongue hockey and you don't see any boo-boos on me, do you?"

I'll improv the rest, but I can't promise it won't include a rendition of that old Toni Basil song Hey Mickey. Only in this case, of course, it would be Hey Hickey.

Rants By Request, Part 2

Lots more Firefly. Lots more rants. 'Nuff said.

Before we get started...go smell your dog right quick. Over the past few days, my kids and their friends have mentioned that Hoover smells like maple syrup, so I finally decided to smell for myself. I put my nose right into the fur on his neck, and sure enough, he reeks of Mrs. Butterworth's. Bruno has no smell at all, oddly enough, and neither of them has had a bath since October or November. I realize this is not a rant, but I would like to know whether other hounds smell this way, so please advise.

Now for the ranting. I'd like to begin with the weather, which, I'm pleased to report, has improved dramatically over the last couple of days. First, I'll say that cold weather can kiss every inch of my lily-white buttocks, which might take a while. Sure, I live in Hotlanta, but it does get cold here, and it's really not to my taste at all. I'm indescribably cold-natured, and unless the house is kept around 70 degress, I'm miserable from November through March. Sure, I personally have the carbon footprint of a multinational coal-mining operation, but I honestly can't stand being the least bit cold.

Actually, I understand cold-intolerance has something to do with low progesterone, which may very well be at fault. While that in itself is inconvenient, this is a great segue into talking about bioidentical hormones vs. the synthetic crap big pharma is literally trying to cram down our throats. Let's see...so my hormonal choices are:

a) do nothing medically, grow a beard and join a sideshow under the billing of Pygmie Bearded Lady Boy

b) take Premarin or some similar pregnant-mare-derived chemical estrogen and Progestin, which chemically resembles Progesterone to about the same extent that cotton candy resembles nail polish remover, or

c) find a practictioner who is open to prescribing BHRT, submit a bazillion blood tests to titrate the levels of estrogen, progesterone, testosterone, and FSH (that's follicle stimulating hormone), and arrive at a safe level of hormones that my body knows how to synthesize.

Lordy! None of those sound exceptionally fun, but I'll take C. Ladies, best to take note of this entire issue and take action, since the pharma lobbyists are working hard to take this option away from us.

Ok, enough on this. Let's crucify lousy drivers!! I've got to say, I'm fed up with idiots who don't understand a four-way stop. Is it so hard to understand that everyone who was stopped before you got to the intersection gets to go first? I can't stand it when someone decides to wave me on when it's not my turn, or when they jump the gun on their turn. Anyone who is too stupid to negotiate a four-way stop correctly should be forced to wear velcro shoes and a helicopter-topped beanie so they can be identified visually.

Well, I didn't expect to run out of steam quite so quickly, but it is what it is. Next time, less Firefly, more rants!

Meme Time!

I'm considering myself tagged by Alex of Hope and greyz, who posted this fun Meme. Consider yourself tagged if you want to participate.

1) Last movie you saw in a theatre? Iron man, I think. That movie was kick-ass!

2) What book are you reading? Branding 101 by Donald Trump

3) Favorite board game? Taboo.

4) Favorite magazine? Atomic ranch – fantastic resource & drool starter for mid-century-modern architecture loons.

5) Favorite smells? Napalm in the morning. Other things that smell like victory: peppermint, roses, fresh-ground coffee, fabric softener, babies (note: babies are not mentioned in my Favorite sounds!), clean dogs.

6) Favorite sounds? People who don’t mutter.

7) Worst feeling in the world? Not knowing where your kids are.

8 ) What is the first thing you think when you first wake up? I hope G turned on the coffee pot!

9) Favorite fast food place? Moe’s

10) Future child’s name? That’s easy…Vasectomy Miracle

11) Finish this statement—if I had a lot of money I’d hire a chef and never freaking cook again!

12) Do you drive fast? Only on the freeway.

13) Do you sleep with a stuffed animal? Not anymore, but I used to sleep with a stuffed hippo for years as an adult. I’m way too cool for that now; plus Hoover pulled all the stuffing out of the hippo’s butt.

14) Storms–cool or scary? Scary! I need one of those “storm defender” capes for dogs.

15) What was your first car? Toyota corolla

16) Favorite drink? Scotch and soda, or Firefly and water

17) Finish this statement - if I had the time I would make myself a pair of leather chaps and roller skate around downtown.

18 ) Do you eat the stems on broccoli? I don’t discriminate. I eat the whole thing!

19) If you could dye your hair any other color, what would be your choice? Copper

20) Name all the different cities/towns u have lived in? These are the ones I can remember: Albuquerque, NM, Woodbridge, NJ, Phoenix, AZ, Monterey, CA, San Angelo, TX, Ayer, MA, Killeen, TX, Huntsville, AR, Austin, TX, Atlanta, GA. I was born in Honolulu and have also lived in Korea and Japan before I was old enough to remember.

21) Favorite sports to watch? Hockey, but only in person.

22) One nice thing about the person who sent this to you? I’m considering myself tagged by Alex, and she’s a funny gal and a very talented sculptor.

23) What’s under your bed? Tons of super-freaky porn. Just kidding…I have a telescope mirror my Dad ground, polished and figured for me and Garrett. It goes into a Dobsonian mount Dad also made.

24) Would you like to be born as yourself again? I have to be me; no one else wants the job!

25) Morning person or night owl? Night owl, caffeine-crazed morning hag.

26) Over easy or sunny side up? Over medium!

27) Favorite place to relax? Bed

28 ) Favorite pie? Any fruit pie, but I just like to eat the filling and leave the crust.

29) Favorite ice cream flavor? This is easy…Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia. There’s not a care in the world that a ménage a trois with Ben & Jerry can’t cure.

Obstetrical Revenge

The previous post and the comments that followed brought to mind my favorite obstetrical revenge story, and I just couldn't resist posting it. Now, you're in luck since I'm not posting a picture with this one. I know, I know...I'm a real model of restraint.

Before I go on, I assure you that I will continue with the Rants by Request series after this small detour. I'll also say that if you menfolk (or ladies) aren't comfortable with some unvarnished vagina talk, you may want to find another way to spend the next five minutes. Don't say I didn't warn you!

Without further delay, I hereby present a special technique you ladies can use to make sure your gynecologist or obstetrician is giving you his or her complete attention at all times. I discovered this technique completely by accident, as I'm about to describe.

When I was pregnant with Tyler, I was still in the Army, and their policy is that when a pregnant soldier gets sick, she has to be seen by the obstetrician, no matter the nature of the illness. So about six months along, I came down with a fever and a brutal, violent cough, prompting me to waddle on into the OB's office.

I've never understood why, but the first part of my exam for my cough was a good old-fashioned-feet-in-the-stirrups pelvic exam. I was really less than thrilled, since I felt like death on a stick and didn't anticipate having to unlace my boots and take off my elastic-topped camouflage pants, but the Army was never big on giving me lots of choices, so I put on the crunchy paper gown and assumed the position.

In comes Dr. Peekupurcooter and the nurse whose whole job is to make sure the doctor doesn't try to strum your banjo, and the exam begins with the brandishing and insertion of an ice-cold speculum. As he's checking under the hood, so to speak, he's asking me about what brings me in today, how long I've had a fever, the usual questions, and I start to feel a coughing jag coming on that I just can't restrain.

Anyone care to guess what happens to a speculum that's stuck up your vajayjay when you're lying on your back with your legs spread and you cough violently? In case you haven't guessed, let me dispel the mystery: the damn thing shoots out of your nether regions like a rocket propelled grenade, right into the forehead of the guy who has his face inches from the launch site. And yes, it will leave a mark. Right on the forehead, exactly as you would have hoped.

Now, I'm not suggesting that you need to do this, but it certainly is very tempting when the doctor is condescending. Or if they don't validate your parking, right?

Rants By Request, Part 1

Today's post is brought to you by Firefly Sweet Tea Infused Vodka, in cooperation with the great suggestions for my booze-fueled rant post provided by you. I can't thank you enough, and I'll try to do you justice. You may be disappointed to learn that I'm going to have to break this into installments, partly because I want to give each topic full coverage, and partly because I'm so lit right now that within 30 minutes or so I may take my top off and sing Let's Hear it for the Boy.

For those of you who might like your blogs with a side of sugar, fair warning: here's where the nice stuff ends and the obnoxious, politically incorrect stuff begins. I'm sure I'll curse a few times before it's all over, and it's a certainty that I'll offend someone along the way. At least I hope I do.

I'm going to start with an issue near and dear to my heart, and that is being called Mom by people who were definitely cooked up in some other poor woman's uterus. I've kept very careful track, and there are only two people on Earth who can call me Mom. Anyway, if you've never experienced this, let me tell you that this is the most annoying, patronizing bullshit you could possibly imagine, and I don't tolerate it for a minute anymore. I can recall one dentist, Dr. Randal Rowan, who was seeing Tyler for the first (and last) time when he addressed me thusly, "Mom, you can wait right here. Tyler is a big boy and doesn't need his Mommy present for the exam.". I'm still kicking myself three years later for not saying, "Listen, you patronizing son of a bitch, I'm not your Mom, I'm a paying customer with a right to accompany her minor child anywhere she damn well pleases, and you can call me Adrienne. How does that work for you, Randal?"

You know, in general I think the medical establishment needs to be taken down a notch or two. My GP calls me Adrienne, and I call him Dave. He was a little shocked at first, but I'm not a big advocate of paying money to kiss someone's ass. Ok, you're a doctor, and it's a big deal, but I'm a big deal too. Do you even know who I am?

One more thing...I think any medical establishment that has the stones to charge for parking should be boycotted. I suppose it's not enough that when you go to the doctor you inevitably have your sovereignty as a human being violated in at least one way and pay richly for the privilege of doing so, now you have to pay to park your car. Bastards.

Speaking of what *holes doctors can be, I'll also go ahead and throw Dr. Michaeledes (formerly of Piedmont ENT) under the bus as the biggest jerk-face-doctor-jerk-guy I've ever met. As you may know, I have a condition that results in fluctuating hearing loss, so whenever I have to go to the ear-nose-throat place, I'm in dire straits and can't hear a damn thing. So here I am, deaf as a phone pole, trying to make my emergency appointment on the phone and I'm told that my original doctor had left, and had been replaced by (I thought) Dr. Michael Levy. So the doctor comes in and I asked him to clarify that his name was Michael Levy, at which he rolled his eyes and yelled, "It's Michaeledes. I'm Greek, and it's Michaeledes.", at which point I said helpfully, "You know, if you're sensitive about your name, maybe you shouldn't have chosen a profession that involves working with the hearing impaired." After a perfunctory, rudely performed exam, he prescribed me the wrong medication and sent me on my way. Then I paid for parking. Nice!

I recognize that I'm not doing a great job of staying on topic right now, so I apologize. Let's talk about cheap toilet paper, shall we? I'd like to think that only men are buying this crap, but I'm sure there are some gals out there who are guilty of this cruel false economy. If you're guilty as charged, you are hereby instructed to read the following statement out loud three times: We owe it to ourselves and one another to treat our most naughty anatomical parts kindly, even if it means parting with another precious dollar. Don't be cheap. Spring for the good stuff, and some lady's bits will thank you.

On the topic of ladies, I can't end this post without addressing what I like to call "Prosti-toys". If you're not sure what I'm talking about, think of those crazy Bratz dolls that look like promiscuous aliens. Isn't it great that some toy designer is out there thinking of ways to encourage preschool girls to be bratty and dress like whores? Trust me, by the time they're 12 they get the idea all by themselves. As if there aren't enough forces in play to teach girls to hate their bodies, deny their intelligence, and play to the lowest common denominator, we have these unholy dolls.

Oh, and how about thong underwear for itty-bitty little girls? At the risk of TMI, I think the whole thong thing is the finest example of sexist oppression since pantyhose, and I'm not effing participating. Don't like my VPL? Great! I didn't invite you to look at my ass, anyway, and I'm not paying $15 for a pair of underwear to have $10 worth of it up my crack.

Ok, folks, I'll leave it at that for now, but fear not...more rants by request to follow.

Audience Participation

You know what I'm in the mood for (besides ending a sentence with a preposition, that is)? A big, obnoxious, politically incorrect booze-fueled rant-post, that's what.

Here's the problem: I'm drawing a blank on what to rant about (another preposition!). So, in the interest of avoiding some boring radio silence, I'm taking suggestions. You name it, I'll rant about it. Trust me, this is better than the alternatives I've dreamed up so far.

Seriously, do you REALLY want to read a detailed treatise on why Otto Von Crapp's engine light is lit? Are you interested in my opinions on how drinking commercially prepared milk has contributed to 50% of 8 year-old-boys having titties like strippers? I'm warning you...it could get pretty boring.

So, let's make it simple. If you think of a topic that would be suitable for rant, be a pal and post it in a comment. Over the weekend, I promise to booze it up and get posting, and I'll cover every suggestion submitted by the end of the day on Friday. It can be anything, political, social, just so long as it's not BORING. I think that last post under the influence was a real humdinger, so I think this could be a win-win!

Come on, folks, help a sister out (look, I did it again!)!

Creative Mortgage Financing

Well, folks, the time has come for me to throw my mortgage company under the proverbial bus. I'd hoped it wouldn't come to this.

You see, I have my mortgage through Countrywide, and every month on the first, I send them a payment. Everyone is on the same page, and everyone's satisfied with the arrangement. Pretty simple, right?

You'd think it would also be self-explanatory that when the trophy shop completes an order for Countrywide Mortgage, that we'd get paid. On time. In full. Without incident.

Now, if I had declined to pay my mortgage since May of 2008, I'm confident that right now I'd be out on my ass wearing a barrel on suspenders in lieu of legitimate housing. Frankly, I'm miffed that Countrywide has failed to pay the $94.80 that is now 200+ days past due, and I'm considering my options.

Here's my idea: I'm considering calling Countrywide customer service and explaining to them that I'm going to be paying $94.80 less on my February mortgage payment. I'd offer to fax them the ancient invoice, and politely tell them that I'm even willing to waive the late fee.

Where the hell is a video camera when you need one? Wouldn't that be a great YouTube video?

Bruno's Special Day

I'd be a terrible hound Mom if I didn't take a time out to wish my boy Bruno a happy Gotcha Day. In some ways it's hard to believe a year has already passed since he joined our family, and in other ways it feels like we've had him forever.

When he first came to us, I'd heard from lots of sources that it really takes a year for a retired greyhound's real personality to emerge, and I know that's true of this special guy. Last year, I probably would have described him as aloof, quiet, confident, and gentle, especially in his first few months. He's come out of his shell steadily throughout the year, and he's become an outgoing, playful, and cuddly guy, and I couldn't imagine our lives without him. As a first exposure to greyhounds, Bruno sets the bar pretty high.

Happy Gotcha Day, Mr. B!

Luck of the Draw

Move over, Vegas! I’ve created my own game where the house always wins.

If you’ve ever been frustrated by your dusty furniture, funky floors, or nasty bathrooms, you may want to play the game, too. It’s genius, if I do say so myself. Here’s how it works:

Make a list of all the household tasks that need to happen in a week: vacuum, mop, dust, clean bathrooms, tidy under the kitchen sink, etc. In my case, I have 21 jobs.

Now write the tasks on note cards and place them all in an envelope marked “To Do”.

Create a second envelope marked “Done”.

Each day, 3 members of the household each draw a card and complete the task on the card. In our case, the 4th person is responsible for the dishes and kitchen clean-up for the entire week, so no one gets off scott free.

Once the job is finished, each person puts their card in the “Done” envelope.

At the end of the week, all the cards are returned to the “To Do” envelope, responsibility for the kitchen is passed to someone else, and the game starts again.

So each day, everyone does a chore that takes between 15-30 minutes, depending on the luck of the draw, and I get to wake up to a clean house every morning.

Oh yeah, the dealer TOTALLY wins.

Bitchin' Mohawk Creator

Add to my considerable list of awesome parenting skills the amazing differentiator of “Bitchin’ Mohawk Creator”.

Behold the splendor of Tyler’s new ‘do, which was his request, by the way. I realize that as a parent it’s my job to say “No” to such requests, but it’s much more in my nature to participate in the foolishness.

In my defense, it’s not like he wanted to get a perm, and as you can see, I cut a pretty mean ‘hawk. It was pretty fun to do, and if he would have let me dye the center part blue or green, I'd have been in hog heaven. Of course that was not to be...you all know I'm banned from home dye jobs since my gothic Halloween dye-baucle.

Anyway, if you’re in the market for an edgy new look that doesn't involve color, let me know. It’ll be on the house.