Hello, my name is Sue and I watched America's Got Talent

Just about from beginning to end, I watched it, not counting the commercials and when David Hasselhoff spoke. You see I had to record the episodes because the husband white hot hhhhhates it. Nothing entertains him on TV except World War II documentaries and Sports Center. It's a right brain versus left brain kind of thing we have going. He has absolutely no imagination what-so-ever and I watch Kookamonga television shows.

The advantages of recording America's Got Talent are as follows:
1. I can't say enough about the Fast Forward function, let's break this down.
a. I can't get past this David Hasselhoff picture and video. When he speaks, "Hoffatizes" everything and criticizes an act, I just want to say, "Shut up, you ate a cheeseburger "hoff" the floor." It's much easier to fast forward through his self indulged babbling. I think he even sang on the show, maybe even danced too, but I fast forwarded so quick it was just a blur and I covered my eyes partly too.
b. Commercials, except for the e-trade babies, who wants to voluntarily watch a commercial?
c. The sob stories, if you make it to the big show, semi-finals, finals, whatever, there's a certain amount of crying involved. Too much crying you blow your chances, not enough and you're done. So fast forwarding through that crap saves brain cells. None of them have ever made me cry and none of them have ever made me vote. But for some reason America's Got Talent entertains me and drives the husband crazy, it's a win/win.
2. That pause button, it gives me the ability to yell at a teenager at will and never miss a thing. Barking orders from my recliner with my fingers on the pause and fast forward buttons while the husband contemplates sticking a fork in his eye, now that's one hell of an evening.

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How off do you have to be with your spellin' when the spell-check says "no suggestions"?

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My mother-in-law is recuperating in a nursing home now and doing much better! Thanks everyone for your kind comments and wishing her well!

Apparently I have mad ironing skills

"You look nice in that white shirt."
"Thank you."
"Did you press it yourself?"
"Uh yeeees."
"It looks good."
"Thank...... you?"

So along with my charming personality, friendly disposition and my ability to get along well with others, I can wield a mean-ass iron. This conversation was with a Marine, they know about pressing. My resume is complete.
I'm guessing they call ironing, pressing in the Marines, right?

So I asked the husband.
"Did he mention your gib line?"
"Huh? Give line? The hell are you talking about?"
"Gib line, the line of buttons from your neck to your crotch."
"He never mentioned my crotch."

So I searched google for gib line, nothing.
"You don't know what you're talking about, gib line, there's no such thing on google or wikipedia."
"Are sure he wasn't hitting on you?"
"I.... no.... I just have mad ironing skills."

Isn't it about time we had our flying cars already?

"They have the road to the hospital down to 2 lanes because of their endless construction this summer." The husband says to me. "But I know an alternate route that will take us around it." And he says this with an all knowing, I'm all over this traffic thing look on his face. The kind of look that made me think he spent most of his day contemplating our route and probably was on the Internet and everything.
We were breezing along the alternate route, windows open, radio humming and discussing the boys and where we went wrong with them, when we turned the bend in the road and saw a gozillion red brake lights at a stand still ahead of us.
"Huh. Looks like people are on to your alternate route."
And since I try to maintain a PG rated blog I won't mention what he said next.

So we sat for awhile lost in our own thoughts. That's when I wondered what the hold up was on the flying cars.

If we learned anything during our childhood while watching The Jetsons, it was that in the future we'd all be driving flying cars. I took a sideways glance at the husband and knew that it wasn't the time to bring that subject up. I knew I had to mull in over on my own.

You can't just give a flying car to anybody, I thought. Flying cars needed to be doled out carefully. Someone with an excellent driving record. Which then had me switching gears to my loaner car mishap, how was I going to make that go away? If that gets in the way of me getting a flying car I'll be pissed. I had an excellent driving record before that incident.
You can't just give a flying car to a dumb person either, there's going to have to be an IQ test for flying car ownership. Which I would pass with flying colors, I'm sure of it.
Probably in the beginning stages of flying cars we would have to wear helmets, something I would have to someway get around. I spend too much time on my hair in the morning to have helmet head all day.

Yes, I had that much time to ponder flying cars in the traffic jam.

"Hey we're moving." We made it to the hospital in time to see mom, who looked so much better than she has in days. The hospital staff was making an exception and letting her great-grand children visit, she was beaming.

It's what I get for wearing white after Labor Day

Gulping down my beloved mocha yesterday in between phone calls at work, I got a little careless and spilled. This sent me into a frenzy. My favorite white, long shorts, with the embroidery and beads at the bottom of the legs had mocha spots on them. Damn. Damn it.
Risking unemployment, I left the phone unattended and ran to the ladies room. Constructing a story as I went. The office is primarily men so any mention of tampons shuts them up quick. That was going to be my story if needed. I don't like to use the tampon card unless absolutely necessary, one doesn't want to reduce it's effectiveness, you know?
Vigorously I pumped pink soap out of the dispenser in the ladies room onto 1-ply C-fold paper towels and scrubbed my mocha spots until my entire left leg was soaked. Away from the phone as long as I dared, I soaked more 1-ply C-fold paper towels and brought them back to my desk. This will have to do until I can get to the Shout and scrub brush, I thought.
I spent the rest of the day obsessing over my mocha spots and smelling like pink ladies room soap. This event re-enforced the law of never wearing white after Labor Day for me, never again will I throw caution to the wind and break fashion rules. My tampon card remains intake for now.

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My mother-in-law is doing a little bit better. Thank you everyone for wishing her well!

Nut-tastic

Boy #3 did his grocery shopping yesterday. Living with a diabetic has taught us all to hide sugar. That's why he does a little light shopping on his own. If I locked him in his room, I'm guessing he could survive about a week in there. I asked him to buy dog bones, we were dangerously low on them and I don't want to have Nooter report me to doggie social services. He came home with Nut-tastic dog treats.

Nut-tastic. That name is so fan-effing-tastic.

The husband came home and saw the jar, picked it up and said, "Nut-tastic!"
Boy #2's girlfriend blurts out, "They're for the dog."
The husbands eyebrow went up and he looked at me, "Huh." I said, "She's known you less than a year and she's figured out you're a moron."
"I see the dog on the jar, I know they're dog treats."
"Oh, then maybe she overheard some diabolical plan to put them in a candy dish and watch you eat a few before anything was said, maybe."

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My mother-in-law's initial diagnosis, Stevens Johnsons Syndrome has been changed to Bullous Pemphigoid, equally as awful and has begun to progress aggressively. We call the husband a moron in fun, we know he's hurting, he's worried about his mom.
Thank you all for your well wishes.

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Oh and there's less than an 80% chance that I'd ever lock Boy #3 in his room.