The certain chain of events that lead to the realization I'm running out of patience.

Where can I get more of that? Because mine is wearing thin and I need some more.
Let me be perfectly clear. (A little Obama lingo there.) At no point during the unfolding of these events were any Senior Citizens harmed in any way, mentally or physically. I, on the other hand, well I have issues now, I probably need therapy but won't seek it.

1.) I went to the doctor's appointment that was almost impossible to get because the office workers hate me. The doctor thinks I'm funny and refilled my prescription and told me to come back in 6 months. I should probably start trying to make the appointment now, but I'm holding out hope that he fires all the bitches there and hires nice people.

2.) I have to pee. And so hungry I could eat the ass of a skunk.

3.) I'm just going to drop off the prescription at the handy dandy drive-thru. Those of us born after 1917 know how a drive-thru works, I'm just sayin'.

4.) There is a car in front of me, I wait. I wait through an entire U2 song. This is where the patience issue comes into play. I jester with the hands in the air.

5.) The car begins to move, then stops. I can't get my car to the drive-thru window, I can't do it.

6.) I raise my hand ready to slam on my horn, when the car in front of me door opens. A very feeble arm attached to it and a Senior Citizen gets out of the car. My jaw drops open and hangs there as I watch this woman slowly get out of her car, walks to the end of her car, waves to me with a big friendly smile and says thank you. Thank you? For what?

7.) Dear God she bent over and picked something up, waved it in the air and said, "Here it is." Still smiling, she returned to her car and drove away. I inched up to the window and the cashiers jaw was dropped as far down as mine. "I almost honked my horn at her. She'd have jumped out of her Depends."

This dear sweet woman, who I almost gave a heart attack, face is etched in my brain forever. I want to take her to tea, give her a hug and I don't know maybe pay her electric bill or something.

I blame my hormones, women can use hormones for just about everything. Mine have been misfiring for months now. But the patience thing, I think I'll work on that.

STELLA!

When Boy #3 had all four wisdom teeth surgically removed, he was presented with a prescription for Vicodin. I'm not sure how to spell it but who cares really. The family can't handle the drug and they are fun to watch when on it. I pretty much moved Boy #3 around the house like a puppet that weekend he was hopped up. I left him on his own when he went to the bathroom, I just waited outside in case I heard a thud. I was willing to help as much as I could but we have to draw the line somewhere. I didn't cross over the peeing line or the feeding of the leopard gecko. You have to touch crickets to feed Sid. Boy #3 insisted he could do it. "I can call your brother."
"I got it."
So I stood there holding him steady while he tried to grab crickets. I hadn't suppressed laughter like that since I was a kid sitting in church and Erv and I tried to make each other laugh. Those crickets were 3 steps ahead of him and he thought they were in his hand. We laugh about it now, well I do, he doesn't remember it.
The husband a few years ago got shingles, pretty sure that's an old person ailment but I kept my mouth shut. He was bestowed a prescription of Vicodin also. Thanksgiving Day getting ready to go to his sisters house I yelled down the hall, "Are you ready shingle boy?" No answer. "Did you take your Vicodin?" I turned the corner with a crock pot of mashed potatoes in my arms and saw him at the end of the hall with a stupid grin on his face and he yelled, "STELLA!"

Well that's just unheard of

Ordinarily I don't drink my piping hot mocha cappuccino from McDonald's with a straw. Actually I think there might be a law against that sort of behavior. You just don't mess around with hot beverages. The pre-printed cups tell us caution contents is hot don't drink with a straw dummy or something like that. So you can imagine my surprise when I got to work, put down the precious liquid some of you call mocha cappuccino, opened my McDonald's bag from the drive through window and found my beloved egg McMuffin, some napkins and huh, a straw. The hell? I don't see the correlation here. What the hell kind of a world does the girl at window #2 live in? She was of middle eastern decent, those are the one you have to watch out for, them and the Russians at the pool. When she handed me my hot beverage straight from heaven she said, "Mocha?" Like it was the first time in her life she's ever said it, which make me sad to think that middle easterners have never had the pleasure of sipping a mocha cappuccino and they have no idea whether to use a straw or not. I thought I had my hands full keeping an eye on the Russians, now I have this McDonald's girl to watch.

Crisis in the Driveway

You should probably read my last post before you read this one, it's kind of a continuation but not, sort of.

Now that I have the Russians where I want them here at the pool, I can write my original post I had planned for today. It's a good thing to continue to write anyway just to keep the Russians guessing.

So imagine if you will Boy #3's car in the driveway with a dead as a door knob battery. Boy #2 has been summoned to help, girlfriend #2 tags along and me in my bathing suit with my pool bag trying to decide if I should leave the 2 hot heads and the nicer than nice even tempered girlfriend in the driveway without a referee. If I stay I'll lose my spot at the pool for sure, but this girl is probably going to have a huge part in picking out my nursing home, since she's a nurse. I stayed. Jump starting this car is not as easy you think. First you have to get the hood open and that involves 2 to 3 people, a screwdriver and a flashlight. Isn't it funny how Boy #3 just started to make payments to us on this car and stuff keeps breaking? A screw driver flew through the air, some swearing took place. "I'm selling this car." He's made 2 payments. The girlfriend tried to introduce calm, logic into the scene and I worried about my spot at the pool.

Let me take another glance at the Russians. I really want to point at my eyes and then to them but I'm not that brave.

The hood opened, the jumper cables didn't reach from the truck so Boy #2 drove the John Deere over and Boy #3's bucket of bolts started right up. I'm going to have to make sure that car has a survival kit in it, screwdriver will be on top of the list. This is about when the husband decided to see what was going on in the driveway. You might ask why I didn't get him involve earlier, easy, he's the original hot head. Three hot heads in the driveway is too much.

The Russians are here

Well it just doesn't get any better than this. I got to the pool minutes before the woman that takes my spot did. Minutes! In your face pool spot stealer. HA! I was still setting up when she walked in. This has been my spot for years, I don't know who the hell she thinks she is. We have had an unspoken fight over this spot all summer. She's even brought a friend of hers into this, some muscle, if you know what I mean. Today is a small victory for me, hooray for me and my awesome timing.
And if this wasn't enough fun, the Russians are here, speaking Russian and everything. They could be talking about me right now and I wouldn't know it. Hell they could be talking about world domination and I'd be clueless. So as I write I keep looking over at them. My reasoning is they'll think I'm taking notes. These Russians will not take over the world on my watch. They talk funny. They have the same house address as we do just a different street. I found this out a couple years ago walking the dog. I suppose getting their mail by mistake would be a post just waiting to be written. But if you are a steady reader of my blog you know that I have foreignpeopleaphobia. I would probably make one of the boys take their mail to them and Boy #1 would do it, he has no fear of foreigners. Catch him in the right mood and I could get him to knock on anyone's door.
Jeez, I wish I could catch some of these words that are coming out of their mouths, it's just a bunch of ishkabibbles. I haven't heard them say vodka yet, they like that right? I'm going to go swim some laps and see if I can catch anything that sounds like, "Our plan is coming along very nicely Victor."

............................

Back....... I got nothing to report to the Feds.

An open letter to all office workers in a doctors office

I'm naming names. Hey guess what? I just snapped.
First of all let me get this out of the way. There are angels that work in doctors office's, I've met them, Cindy comes to mind. That woman worked past closing hours to find me an appointment ASAP when I was dazed and on the verge of tears. So being nice to patients - do-able.
Julie, you can kiss my ass. Thank you so very much for letting me run out of my prescription. We are patients, not a sack of potato's to schlep around at your convenience. We call when we are sick, when we need medicine, when we're ready to cry, when we are trying to get our kids taken care of, when we need advice, help, a caring voice on the other end of the line. Let us talk to our doctor damn it.
Hey you, I forgot your name, when I call you and make an appointment for my kid and tell you he's going to run out of his prescription before this appointment. Don't you dare piss on me and tell me it's raining, bitch. "Oh just call it in and they will see he has an appointment, they'll refill it." Then you leave me a message on my answering machine at home so I can't get a hold of you because it's after hours when I get home. I can't wait to call you tomorrow on your Saturday hours and if you think I won't call the doctors answering service and insist on talking to him to tell him how incompetent you are, think again. I've done it before.

I feel a little better now.
Debbie don't read this to mom.

Try to keep up!

"It's a ten year old car, stuff breaks." This said by me to Boy #3 who is slightly freaked out that his rear-view mirror is dangling from his windshield.
"I think they sell a special glue just for rear-view mirrors, pretty sure, yeah they do, let me call your father."
Yeah they do.
Since we were heading to the WalMarts anyway, we stuck that on our list. Along with "stuff to eat and drink after 4 wisdom teeth are surgically removed" and Pepsi. We went straight to the automotive section for the glue first, but along the way I grabbed three 2 liter bottles of Pepsi. "Why didn't we get a cart, we just walked right past them?"
"Here's the glue aisle." Most of the time he just ignores me or he thinks I'm talking to myself, because I do that.
We glanced over the array of glues. "I'm going to go ask that car guy over there if he knows about special rear-view mirror glue, you continue to look." Really, I'm not going to spend anymore time in the automotive section than I have to.
"Can I help you ma'am?" What a nice guy.
"Yes, do you have special glue for rear-view mirrors that fall off the windshield?"
"Yes, let me show you." And we walked back to Boy #3 just chatting away like we were best friends. "I saw some of that glue yesterday, I hope we're not out of it." he said. "You know it has a funny name, maybe that's why you can't find it."
"Really?"
"Yep, you'll laugh when you see it."
We met up with Boy #3, he was still perusing the glues.
The car guy says, "Ah, we still have some, see here, isn't that a funny name?"

REAR-VIEW MIRROR ADHESIVE

We all had a good laugh. "I can't believe we didn't see that."
"Either can I, hey I got a joke for you."
Two jokes later Boy #3 and I broke away from the WalMart comedian and headed off to the Popsicle aisle.
"I should tell you the joke Grama told your dad and me."
"Grama?" He looked worried, and for good reason.
"It's not that bad."
"Here's the Popsicles."

So there's this little girl and she has her dog on a leash ready to take it for a walk.

"What kind do you want?"
"Grape."
"Grape? They don't sell just grape, they have grape with orange and cherry."
"I'll just eat the grape ones."

So this little girl, she asks her mom if she can take the dog for a walk and the mom says, no she's in heat.

"What else do you want? You need cold stuff because your throat will hurt too, these will really help. Oh the red, white and blue bomb pops. I love those."
"I don't like those, I want fudgesicles."

So she says the dogs in heat you can't take her for a walk and the little girl pouts and insists on taking the dog for a walk.

"Not those, they're fat free. You need all the calories you can get. No, those are sugar free."
"Just for get it. I don't need fudgesicles."
"Would you just wait a minute, I know there are regular sugar filled fudgesicles here somewhere. Fine, just walk away, we have to get your dad's pop, go to the pop aisle."

So the mom says to the little girl, go ask your father. The little girl finds her father in the garage and says she wants to take the dog for a walk. She's in heat honey you can't take her for a walk. But he looks at her sad face and says wait a minute. He gets a rag, pours a little gasoline on it, rubs it on the dogs ass and says there, you take her around the block once, just once, okay?

Boy #3 and I now have six 2 liter bottles in our arms and a box of Popsicles and I say, "We should get Gatorade."
"Mom."
"What?"
"I just want to go."
"Where is this coming from? We were just laughing with the car guy and now your popping an attitude."
"Can I just say something?"
Oh, he's jumping up on his soapbox. I looked around and we were the only one's in the Gatorade aisle. Both of us with our arms full, why didn't I get a shopping cart? "Go ahead."
"Why do I have to suffer because people can't put their forks down? Everything is fat free or sugar free. I want a fudgesicle full of sugar." This is coming from a kid who, with a darker tan and a distended stomach, would look like a starving Ethiopian child.

Okay so the little girl takes her dog for the walk. She comes back to the garage alone. Uhh, honey, where's the dog? Oh daddy, she ran out of gas about half way around the block so another dog is pushing her home.

WalMart's making me retarded, big surprise

It's the out the entrance, in the exit thing again. Seriously people, the doors are clearly marked with an EXIT sign and an ENTRANCE sign. They use capital letters and everything. When I'm pushing my shopping cart full of provisions and trying not to slosh my mocha, because losing any of that precious liquid would be a crime, get the hell out of my way. Today on my way out, the EXIT, I had to wait for a steady stream of people to enter the exit. I put on my best very aggrevated face and kept glancing at the EXIT sign. None of the retards caught on.
Then I got my chance to leave, finally. I grabbed my keys and started for my car. I'm so blogging about these morons when I get home.
Pretty sure my car was up this row.
Can't these people read?
Maybe if I use my key chain button I can hear my car beep.
It's common sense, one door is in and one door is out.
I hear faint beep, where is that coming from?
I guess I should be use to it by now.
I'll lift my hand in the air and push the button several times.
It happens every time I'm hear, which is, I hate to say, more than once a week.
Where the hell is it?
I forget stuff I need and have to make a return trip.
That beep is coming from the left.
"Ma'am, your car is over there."
"Thanks." Oh God.


That guy is probably blogging about the Walmart retard wandering around the parking lot pushing her cart, holding her mocha and frantically pressing her key chain button in every direction because she can't find her car.

A new encounter with the Scary Asian Dry Cleaning Dude

Boy did the Scary Asian Dry Cleaning Dude and I go way off our weekly routine, holy crap. First of all I'm hurt, he forgot my name, he forgot our special little, unspoken bond we had. How can this happen? I'm there every week. To make matters worse, we had to communicate with one another. This never goes well.
With his Vietnam prison camp guard in a Chuck Norris movie grin, he said, "Nine dollah."
I already had my seven ah twenty on the counter in exact change, they like exact change there, in fact they almost take it out of my wallet. They like singles. Perhaps they like to avoid the bank, communication problem going on there too maybe hmmmm?
"Huh, nine dollars?" I'm so finding a new dry cleaner pal, I'm not scared of you.
"You drop off 5 shirt, not 4. Nine dollah." He showed me the receipt where they wrote 4 and then added a +1, didn't refer to the shirts hanging next to me but the doctored receipt, like a paper trail will convince me the error of my ways. I glanced at the shirts and he proceeded to count them out for me, still with the Vietnam prison camp guard in a Chuck Norris movie grin.
I wasn't 100% sure they were all the husbands shirts but was not going to check them in front of the Scary Asian Dry Cleaning Dude. Coming off a week of vacation and getting back to work, I was slammed with piles of stuff to do on my desk, interrupted more times that I can count so next week will be a repeat of this week, my eggs hurts, I was starving and I didn't want him to get his numb-chucks out and beat me senseless. I am scared of him. I gave him a ten so he had to cough up one of his precious singles and I left.
They are all the husbands shirts or we inherited a new one, not sure.
And yes, I said my eggs hurt.

I don't know dear

When the husband told me our brother-in-law feed his black lab a bowl of chili, I said, "What was he thinking?"
"I don't know dear."
"I can't even imagine the smell, don't even want to think about it."

When the husband left about a dozen beef jerky sticks out on the table next to the couch last night, I said, "What were you thinking?"
"I don't know dear."
"Has she deposited any of it yet?"
"I don't know dear."

I found out the answer to that question on our walk tonight. I try to plan dog walks right after I know she's taken a crap. But a dog full of beef jerky is unreliable, that's a fact you have to face. I went on the walk anyway. Had my plastic bag in my pocket after careful inspection for holes on the bottom. None. I laugh at people that walk their dogs, leash in one hand and bag of poop swinging in the other. Yet still off I went on a long walk to my parents house. Not even half way there, "Oh, you gotta be kidding me, damn it, gambled and lost big time." And I continued to mutter. "Now I have to pick up your poop, you know food in a plastic wrapper is people food, you didn't have to eat that. Oh my God, do you smell that? Don't you moved, let me get this bag, sit."

We continued on our walk, leash in one hand and the other swinging a bag of dog poop. Why do I still smell it? I tied it up in a tight knot. Oh, I see, there's a small hole in the top part of the bag and the poop smell with a hint of beef jerky is escaping through that very small hole. Wonderful. There has to be some place I can get rid of this. My eyes darted around the neighborhood, too risky, too many people out. Son of a bitch.
We made it to mom and dads for our visit and mom got the dog a bowl of water and me, two more plastic bags. One for on the way home and one to double bag the poop. Mom did not offer to let me dispose of the double bagged and knotted poop, so I walked home with it. She was mortified I came over with the bag in the first place, there was no way she was going to take possession of it even if it was put in the garage and trash day is tomorrow. Go figure.

Got home and told the husband that his dog pooped out his beef jerky and I carried it home. "You know she ate it and you still took her, what were you thinking?"
"I don't know dear."

Apparently Bernie's new girlfriend is a little thick.

Go ahead, have a one sided cell phone conversation within earshot of me and see if I don't blog about, I dare you. You loud talkers crack me up.
Innocently soaking up the sun at the pool today, without a book because I decided to lose myself in my thoughts. In other words, try to nod off. But my ears perked up when Bernie's mom walked into the pool area yammering away on her cell phone.
Names have not been changed to protect the innocent:
"You have a new girlfriend?........... Is she pretty?....... A pretty face, good. How's the body?"
Huh? This is when nodding off became moot.
"Oh, a little heavy? What would you say like fat or just thick."
Oh.....

My.....

God....

The most I've ever asked my boys about girlfriends are their names and where do they live. Because 1. they don't introduce me and 2. my concern for them getting lost is great as they have inherited from me, Boy #2's girlfriend put it best as, the directionally retarded gene.

"Thick, well that's okay they can lose weight, they can always lose weight. They get a nice looking, well built guy like you Bernie and they get incentive to look their best."

The husband has a compass in his big brain. Like one of those black car compasses our parents use to have on their dashboards. It kind of rolls around in his head and the settles on the direction he needs to go. "We have to go North." "Really, how do you know that?"
"Because I feel it."
"You feel North?"
"Well yeah, can't you?"
"I feel like we should stop for a Mocha, but I don't feel North."

"Are you bringing her to Becky's tomorrow, so I can meet her? I know it's Doug's birthday and you have to go there too, but you know how he gets. Come to Becky's first."

One time one of the boys friends got lost and called the husband for directions. She was panicking and the husband was trying to bring her in, finally he told her to pull over, she did. "Now," he said, "Tell me where the sun is, look in the sky and tell me where the sun is."............"You need to turn around, you're going West, you need to be going East."

"Then you can go to Doug's later and not have to stay long. He'll be all over you and you're new girlfriend will feel out of place...... What's her name?..........Dee Dee? Oh."

Hmmm, the thick girl has a name.

"Seriously, come to Becky's then go to Doug's. Remember when I lost all that weight, I was huge and now look at me, she'll lose the weight."

Bernie's mom will have Dee Dee anorexic in no time. Run Dee Dee run!

You Anti-Dentite Bastards

I don't know why the jokes about dentists not being real doctors runs rampant on television and movies. Exhibit 1 this Seinfeld clip. Dentists give shots, you know the ones that feel like they're going up to your brain or out the other side of your mouth. And they prescribe drugs, good drugs. They even give you drugs in their office and those are the ones for which you need a designated driver and they take you with your prescriptions to pick up more drugs, they have to do the talking for you.

I watched The Hangover for the third time, I find myself with a huge crush on Bradley Cooper, which is okay because the husband says if Meg Ryan ever knocked on our door he'd kick me to the curb. That's a good picture of him................

Oh, dentists. In The Hangover the made fun of Andy from The Office who played Stu and they said he was a dentist not a real doctor several times. Good movie though.

Anyway I guess I'm sticking up for dentist because I have to go back after the appointment I had Tuesday, and then again. Hey if I want to drink mocha's without pain I gotta do what I gotta do. And since I have to go back and forth to the dentist/doctor, I plan on sending out good karma points to all the dentists out there that have to put up with you Anti-Dentite Bastards.
Really you only get that anti-dentite bastard line if you're a Seinfeld enthusiast.

Stay the hell out of my neighborhood when you get out of jail

I don't know anyone in this car, this kind of stuff just happens in front of my house a lot. And that's not my tree, it's my neighbors. Story below:

I can blog about this in a humor blog because amazingly the two intoxicated morons are fine and they didn't run over any of the millions of neighbors we have that push their babies in strollers, walk after their young children that still have training wheels on their bikes, the kids and adults alike that ride their bikes, the dog walkers, or the older couples that like to stroll hand and hand on a lovely summer evening before the sun has set. Before frigging 8:00 pm.

So to the two idiots that entered my development in such a manner that they took out a mailbox two doors down from my house, clip the next one, almost hit my kid who was talking to his friend at the end of our driveway and then crossed the street into my neighbors yard uprooting and cracking her pine tree in half:
Stay the hell out of my neighborhood when you get out of jail.

I saw the car go by and the look on Boy #3's face, heard the crash and saw him take off. He ran to the car and his friend called 911, I was right behind them. An off duty police officer ran over and took charge. But the cell phones came out and several pictures were taken. And we all got to watch the driver take her sobriety test and then watch the handcuffs go on. She got to sit in the back of the police car and watch her totaled car get towed away. The "OMG is this chick for real" passenger strolled over to the onlookers side of the street and struck up a conversation with Boy #3 and his friend. These two were under police orders to keep quiet until their statements could be taken. But I wasn't. "What were you drinking."
She rolled her eyes because she was in the middle of hitting on a witness to her BFF's crime. Seriously.
As the tow truck maneuvered around the wreckage "OMG is this chick for real" darted into the street, almost getting hit because she left her CD's in the car. I really don't think she knew what day it was and I really wish they would have threw her in the back of the police car too, really a lot, in fact I should have volunteered.

What did my 18 year old learn? He saw first handed, in living color, live, what happens when you drive drunk.
What did I learn? Boy #3 almost got hit my this idiot but was the first to the car to see if they were all right, never even hesitated. I told him, "You know what kind of person you are when an emergency happens and you are a wonderful, kind-hearted soul. You know that?"
"I think I got some glass in my foot."
He ran to the scene in barefeet, I stopped to put shoes on when the husband fell off the latter and broke his hand.

The Mammogram, yep I'm blogging about it.

My first boob reconfiguration. So Erv, shut your eyes real tight and get the wife to screen this post, this is one you might not want to read. In fact just don't read it.

My overwhelming sense of urgency when visiting the doctor was my uterus. I'm done with it, don't want it anymore, it's more trouble than it's worth and I was there to state my case to the doctor at my yearly, paper gown wearing checkup. I yammered away as the doctor started my examine until I saw her eyes widen.
"What's that, do you know that's there, that lump? Let's get you that mammogram you've put off for too long."
"Okay." I remained in a sedated, confused state of mind while the office tried to get me in as soon as possible. And my uterus was again put on hold. I'm convinced I'll be stuck with it forever.

I'll tell you now that the lump was just a cyst. But for three days I kicked myself for putting off my health. Besides being worried about breast cancer, I was also concern for my nipples. I'd been told the stories of the mammogram and for the life of me could not see how they were going to get my boobs to stay in a machine when I could barely find a bra I don't swim in, I'm not what you call well endowed. I was convinced my nipples would be pinched off. After the mammogram technician removed the large tray and replaced it with the small boob tray, it was go time. And yes, the list of exercises to do to prepare for a mammogram that has been floating around the internet for years is true:

Exercise 1: Open your refrigerator door and insert one breast between the door and the main box. Have one of your strongest friends slam the door shut as hard as possible and lean on the door for good measure. Hold that position for five seconds. Repeat again in case the first time wasn't effective enough.

Exercise 2: Visit your garage at 3 a.m. when the temperature of the cement floor is just perfect. Take off all your clothes and lie comfortably on the floor with one breast wedged under the rear tire of the car. Ask a friend to slowly back the car up until your breast is sufficiently flattened and chilled. Turn over and repeat for the other breast.

Exercise 3: Freeze two metal bookends overnight. Strip to the waist. Invite a stranger into the room. Have the stranger press the bookends against either side of one of your breasts and smash the bookends together as hard as she can. Repeat for the other breast. Set an appointment with the stranger to meet next year to do it again.

The good news, just a cyst and I still have my nipples. The bad new, I still have my uterus.

Usually my alcohol comes in a plastic cup

Erv and I convened at his house to try and put together the pieces of LOST, for about 10 minutes, then we decided to drink and play corn-hole. I was a little disappointed he and my sister-in-law hadn't mixed up a batch of adult punch, but I guess they still remember the last time I got my hands on the punch bowl.

"Are they going to heaven by way of that church? Over half of them killed at least 1 to 3 people and Michael has to stay on the island with the whisper people?"

Instead my sister-in-law handed me a wine class. I looked at this foreign object in my hand, usually my alcohol comes in a plastic cup, I'm not a wine person. I try, but I don't like it. So when my mom and sister-in-law start talking wine I quietly sit munching on cheese-its until I can jump into the conversation again.
"I think I found a wine you'll like." She's desperately trying to include me, she's so sweet. After unscrewing the cap she filled my wine glass, I felt so classy, and then dumped in some crushed ice. She and my mom waited with anticipation as I sipped a sip. "I think I like it, but will it give me a good buzz like the adult punch?"
"Just drink it."

"If they are all moving on, all dead in LOST, why are they taking baby Aaron with them, he was already born and three years old when last we saw him?"

"Let's play corn-hole."
"I'm going to refill my wine glass first, let's be on the same team so we don't have to stand next to each other."
"Yes, we should separate."
Corn-hole has become our families obsession. Erv and I against our 74 year old father and my boy #3, the geek. We were going to try not to embarrass them.

"How did they, when did they all decide to meet in the "sideways world" once they died?" I shouted.
"Stop taking about the sideways world, you lose people when you talk about the sideways world, they look at you funny." This coming from Boy #3 who also hung on until the end of LOST and was on my side of the corn-hole game.

"Hey! Anytime you want to turn on your corn-hole mojo would be great." Erv yelled at me from the other side. We were getting our asses kicked.
"You need to get that bag on the board or we're out of this game." He yelled at me again.
It was something like 21 to 5, you need 21 to win, I had the last bag to throw to cancel out one of their bags, to stay alive. That's pressure. I had somewhat of a buzz but not an adult punch buzz, I had LOST zapping any brain cell that dared to come out of hiding and I had to get that bag on the board. I took a deep breath, got into position, brought my arm back, was ready to release the bag. And right at the point that my hand and bag were ready to separate, Boy #3 says,
"I'm gay."


Not that there's anything wrong with that. (Different show, but effectively brought me out of my LOST coma.)

I watched LOST for 6 years and all I got was this lousy t-shirt.

Son of a bitch. A month or so ago I wrote a post explaining how I would get my brain back after the epic final season of LOST was complete. Six years of mystery, intrigue, smoke monsters, polar bears, the almighty Jacob and how very special Waaaaaalt was, would all be clear as day and I could continue on with my life, growing smarter day by day because LOST wouldn't be taking up my precious brain cells any longer. Instead LOST made me retarded. No one's going to be calling me Einstein any time soon.
Expecting to be blown away with revelation after revelation, questions answered in such a way that I'm in awe of the TV show, my beloved LOST, expecting, yes, it to be better than the Newhart ending. I was that stoked.
Six years, for six years I was a faithful Lostie so was Erv, he's pissed too. We both had our families watching with us in the beginning, but one by one they dropped off, Erv and I stuck with it. I talked Boy #3 to start watching again this season, he hasn't talked to me in a week. I'm going over to Erv's for my nephews birthday today and hopefully Erv knows to have the adult punch ready. We can then console each other or never speak of it again, I'm not sure.
So I bought the T-Shirt and in 8 to 10 business days it will arrive. I'll wear it and everyone will know I'm a moron with no answers.

How could you not like oysters, really?

"Let's try raw oysters."
This sentence came out of the mouth of the husband.
At our 25th wedding anniversary dinner.
The guy who gags looking at a cooked clam.
The love of my life.
The father of my children.
Mr. Adventure.

"Seriously, you want to eat a raw oyster?"
"Yeah."
"Huh."
Our waitress stopped at our table and the husband proceeded to discuss oysters with her. "We've never had them, what do you suggest?"
I never knew the extent of the oyster world until that night. She lost me half way into her conversation, probably less than half way. I was going to eat a raw oyster, really didn't care to hear about it's family history. Besides, I was trying to figure out if the guy in the corner was wearing a toupee. The husband and our waitress decided on what was basically "beginner oysters." She left for our order of oysters and I started to regret volunteering to be the designated driver.

The plate was put down in the middle of our table and the waitress pointed out that we had horseradish sauce, cocktail sauce and some sweet and sour goo. She left, we sized up the plate before us. "Umm, how do we..... what do we?"
"I'm not sure."
"Okay," I said, "I got this. Look but don't look, there's a couple that has the same plate we have over to your left." I pointed with my eyes. "Oh there he goes, he's picking up the shell and slurping down the oyster. So they come in their own little bowls, you first."
He put all three sauces on his and slurped. "Not bad."
"Really?" I one upped him and slurped one down without any sauces.
"You have to wonder," I pondered. "Who was the first person to look at these uncooked blobs and say, Boy does that look good, I'm going to slurped that right out of it's shell."
"The same question goes for the first guy to see something coming out of a chickens butt and said, Yum, I want to fry that up."

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I have been honored with an award from one of my faithful blogging friends Leeuna over at My Mind Wandered. It's a Sunshine Award. I've been telling people for years that I'm a ray of sunshine, finally someone noticed. Thank you Leeuna my wonderful blogging buddy. This award originated with 00dozo at When I Reach. It comes with a list of rules which I won't follow, but sincerely appreciate the award.

Don't put Dad in a coma

The damn diabetic tried like hell to get someone to make him brownies last night.
Ummmmm.....
A. It was 9:00 ......... pm, I've never turned my oven on that late, I'm not even sure it works that late. I probably won't bake anything until Christmas anyway
and
2. No one wanted the responsibility of causing a diabetic coma. It's a little rule I have in the household, "Don't put Dad in a coma."

The husband has phases, right now he's in the "I know more than that guy that has a, I'm a doctor, I have a degree and everything, see it on the wall there?"
So Mr. I don't want all my toes anyway, made them himself. I left the room, I had people to ice in Mafia Wars. The oven works at the ungodly hour of 9:00 pm, because I heard him rattling around in there. Amazingly he found everything, huh, that is brain cell I need to activate, the husband does know where stuff is in the kitchen. He definitely slipped up there, it's in the vault now.

He used the wrong pan and blamed the the unevenness of the brownies on that pan and the fact that it is a gas oven. Gas ovens suck according to the Iron Chef.
I've been asking him for 12 years to even out the oven. Everything I bake is uneven. I take a 9 x 13 to any one's house for dinner and they know it's mine ...... because it's uneven.

At 11:00 I got ready for bed, in the kitchen I said, "Got your brownies huh?"
"Yeeees, I'm still alive and if you will notice I didn't eat them all."
"That's great babe. Would it be alright if I turned off the oven now?"

My uplifting, everything is sunshine and lollipops post

When I pulled out of my driveway this morning and saw the goose standing on my roof like he owned the place, I laughed out loud, LOL'ed for those of you that forgot how to spell. My new U2 CD was cranked up and "Stuck In A Moment You Can't Get Out Of" blasted me awake. I sat at the end of my driveway laughing at the goose and listening to the song.
A goose on your roof has to be the start of a great day, a day that when you start to think about the crap you went through the past couple of months can easily be disguarded by thinking, "Hey, there's a goose on my roof."
Last weekend when Boy #3 dragged me to the video store I perused the used CD's and grabbed "U2 18 Singles."
This is my new favorite song:

Today I dragged myself out of my pissy mood, unstuck.

Send me sedatives

I white hot hate, with the intensity of a thousand suns, teaching a teenager to drive. Boy #3, who is now 18, is just learning to drive. This is because I kept grounding him from driving to put off my 19th nervous break-down. But now we're kind of tired of driving him around. Send me sedatives, the instructions have begun. I spent the entire day having "my driver" as I started to call him, driving me from errand to errand.
We bought him pants, stopped at the Scary Asian Dry Cleaning Dudes, got me a mocha, headed off to the WalMarts (I go there once a week to make myself feel smart) it's easy all you have to do is walk in the entrance and walk out the exit, the rest of them can't do it. Really I should get a video of that one day, just prop up a lawn chair and watch the confusion as they try to decide which door to use.
By now I've had enough of the passing of my driving wisdom on to another teenager but he wants to go to the video store.
"The one with the weird parking lot." I ask, "I have trouble in that one and I'm an excellent driver. Police pull me over to tell me what a great job I'm doing on the road."
"I plan to pull into McDonalds next to it."
"This is the last stop. Next to the last stop we still have to get the new propane tank."
We're going on three hours of me pressing an imaginary break and a death grip on the door handle. It's time to go home or time to ground him again, I'm not sure.