Loser Tuesday 2
Current mood: blessed
Category: Life

I will eventually get to comments, I hope, for Loser Tuesday 1; however I figured I'd just do an update in the form of a new blog, since it's easier and I only have one bottle of wine to drink tonight.  Plus, I'll never get to comments, because Paul wants us to watch a movie, and he's probably going to sit here and wait for me to finish this.  He will probably look something like this while he does so: (Feel free to make bestiality comments about his gay-ass dog, even though he IS awfully cute, isn't he?  Paul, you dorks, NOT the dog)

After I wasted time blogging Loser Tuesday 1, I beat all the children and then got ready to take Wyatt to his Kindergarten doctor's appointment.  He was scheduled for a full check-up and all of his five year-old vaccines.  For those of you who are aware of my dental issues, let me say that I handle the doctor only marginally better.  I can usually restrain myself from crying hysterically or passing out, but the downside is that I'm more hostile than normal.  (I know, right?)  So, on the way to the doctor, I'm all worried about how he's going to deal with the shots, what if he freaks, what is the mandatory sentencing for second degree assault on a doctor, I can't remember if I wanted to know the shots were coming as a kid or if it was better to be surprised, I'm totally buying him a pony if he gets through this okay, hey…where IS the doctor's office?  So, I call My Baby's Daddy, (MBD) who is meeting us there and we arrive on time.  All my worries were for naught, the kid could totally give a shit about the doctor, shots, exam…any of it.  He just smiled and laughed and dealt with it.  Then he helped his mother to the car so she could vomit in her purse.  Jeez.  I need to seek help.  This is him waiting for the doc:

One of my worst fears is that I will pass these assheaded phobias that I have about anything medical onto my kid, but after today, I guess I'll just have to settle for giving him sociopathic people skills.

On the way home from the doctor, we stopped by the grocery store.  This is usually not a big deal, but Holy Wing Nut, Batman…

Here in the Pacific Northwest, we are blessed with a store called "Fred Meyer."  It's like a Super-Wal-Mart, but without all the trailer-park denizens roaming about, AND it has a kick ASS wine section.  This is where I loyally shop for my groceries.  We probably drop about $600 a month in that place, and I know where everything is, what day is best to get steak, what day is best for bread, and I work my rewards card like a pro.  I have favorite butchers; favorite stockers and I have actually offered to sexually please the wine purveyor if she will just order me some Razor's Edge Syrah, which she now stocks faithfully. (Yeah, I'm just that good, baby.)   I know the good cashiers most of all.  I know the ones that know their produce codes, I know the ones that know not to put my tampons in with the ice cream, I know the ones that bag my wine correctly, and I know the ones that are fast. 

Today, as I pushed my seven-metric-ton cart toward the checkout line (since we were out of everything and I'm the only one who can go to the fucking store for anything besides HOT DOGS) I scanned for familiar cashiers.  My very favorite one had a six person line, dammit all to hell.  My second favorite cashier (second because she calls Wyatt "little champ," which I find odd) was dealing with some sort of price-check fiasco, and I had only two options left.  First is a guy whom I have dubbed "Rico Suave."  He's about 4 foot 9, uses Brill Crème (I recognize the scent from my Dad,) and he is some sort of assistant manager person or manager in training, I'm not sure which, but he always wears a big shiny gold sticker on his name tag that says "CSM/Concierge."  (I told you this place is classier than Wal-Mart!)   He's not a good option because he likes to chat about what I'm buying.  He'll scan the pepperchinis and then hold them up and ask, "Are these any good?"  I'll say, "No, I just buy them to fight off the vampire bats," and then the conversation after that usually disintegrates.  My other option is an Unknown Cashier.  Ooooohhhh.  Do I risk it?  I don't know.  I survey the situation.

She's about 45-50 years old.  She is attractive and nicely groomed.  She is wearing appropriate jewelry and make-up (hoochie mamas NEVER bag wine right) and she looks, at first glance, reasonably intelligent.  She is smiling as she thanks the ONLY person in her line for shopping at Fred Meyer, and I cruise right up to her, nobody in my way!  I figure, hey, even if she's slow, I won't have to wait in line. This is what I like to call Mistake Numero Uno.  

As I start to place my groceries on the belt, I can see, from a closer-up view, that she actually looks a little stressed-out.  There is some sort of involuntary ticking going on under her right eye and she is visibly shaking.  I thought, damn.  This really IS too many groceries to buy at one time.  But, whaddaya do?  We're out of MAYO, for crying out loud.  So there I am; putting the stuff on the belt, putting the stuff on the belt, putting the stuff on the belt…but the belt ain't moving.  WTF?  I look over at her, and she is hunched over her register, trying to get the damn thing to "open" or whatever.  So, I pause and wait.  No sense stacking stuff on top of each other, right?  And I wait.  And wait.  She glances at me and says, (I shit you not) "I can't remember my number again."  Umm.  Okay.  Seriously, at this point, I'm still mostly congratulating myself on getting up to the cashier as fast as I did.  Half the groceries are on the belt, half of them are in the basket, but I didn't have to wait in line, and hey, so what if this is my cashier's very first day back from her lobotomy?  I'm a patient soul, right?  Riiiigggght.

Beep. Boop. Beep Beep Beep.  Boop. Beep Boop.  She's scanning, and she's scanning, and she's scanning….uh oh.  My eye makeup remover doesn't "boop."  She scans it again.  Nothing.  She grabs the scan gun.  Nothing.  She tries the window scanner again. Nada.  I'm waiting for the inevitable "price check" public announcement and thank my lucky stars I'm not buying some sort of lube or ribbed condoms.  No worries, she CHUCKS it behind her, where it knocks the service phone off the hook.  She takes NO notice of that, just huffs for a minute, then Beep  Beep. Boop. Beep Beep Beep.  Boop. Beep Boop.  NY Strip steak…no beep, no boop.  Uh oh.  Wyatt glances up at me worriedly.  I look at her, she glares at me.  "Is THIS on sale?"  

"Uhhhh.  I don't think so.  It's the same price as the other one."  I'm actually intimidated by this chick, she's about to blow a gasket.  

The steak is relegated to the area behind her, next to the eye make-up remover and the off the hook phone.  She gets to my wine.  Just two bottles, I swear!  One for tonight, one for tomorrow night.  She looks me dead in the eye, her eyes narrowed as if I might pull a fast one.  I look back at her.  Her eyes go to slits.  I waggle my eyebrows at her.  

Honestly, sweetie, just card me or don't.  You are scaring me.

"You got I.D.?" she snaps, still glaring.

Oh, shucks, you doll, of course I do.

I hold it up for her.  She motions for me to take it out of my wallet.  I roll my eyes, but I do it.  She inspects it like it's encoded with the logarithm for eternal happiness.  9 minutes later, she commences typing it into the computer.  She FLICKS it back at me and I dive for it before it slides under the candy thing.  Okay, now she's starting to irritate me a little.   But then IT happens.

Beep. Boop. Beep Beep Beep.  Boop. Beep Boop  Then the coffee.  The first of my seven coffee bags fails to register. It doesn't beep and it doesn't boop.  I know immediately that this is more than this woman is able to handle.  I was right.

She throws the coffee down SO hard that it bounces off the scanner thing, and then it bounces to the floor.  She KICKS it under the register and then grabs for the phone…but can't get it, because it's dangling next to the floor because she threw my eye makeup remover at it earlier.  She slams my grocery cart out of the way as she's bending down, then grabs the phone, presses a few buttons and yells into the phone, and she broadcast throughout the store, "Backup! Backup!"

Hand to GOD.  Backup?  I grab Wyatt and put him behind me.  I think about my cell phone and wonder if I can get a close up of the carnage, fully expecting her to yank out an automatic weapon.   She is literally panting in her stress, and she hasn't hung up the phone yet, so you can hear her breathing over the loudspeakers.  I figure this is a good time for me to exit, stage right, but just as I am about to abandon my groceries, Rico Suave shows up.  She burst into tears and cried "this scanner doesn't SCANNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN!!!"

I have to admit.  I stared a little.  I have never seen someone break down in public like that.  I felt guilty that it was MY groceries that caused her descent into crazy, and I didn't know what to do.  I said, "I can skip the coffee?"  That might have been not right…since…
it didn't help.  At All.

She wailed something and ran away.  Everyone surrounding her watched in silence.  Rico didn't say A WORD.  He put the phone back on the hook.  He scanned the rest of the stuff without incident and I paid, not saying a word.  It was completely bizarre.  I have no idea what the problem was, I have no idea what happened to her, I have no idea if she's okay.  I just don't know.

As we left, Wyatt reached up and grabbed my hand.  He said, "Did she get shots today?"

This is not a rant about grocery store clerks.  This is not a rant about people who work in grocery stores.  I have utmost respect for anyone who would work in these places and I believe that this in an isolated incident of a crazy person allowed to run free prematurely.

What's the craziest YOU'VE ever been in public?

Currently reading : Crisis Intervention Handbook: Assessment, Treatment, and Research (CRISIS INTERVENTION HANDBOOK)

4:09 PM - 39 Comments - 46 Kudos - Add Comment

Loser Tuesday 1
Current mood: aggravated
Category: Life

I have absolutely NO business at the computer right now.  None at all.  If I don't start laundry soon, I will have to wear the top part of a Halloween costume and ski pants today because that is all that is clean.  The house is a wreck, since I've been working for eight days in a row, and if I wanted to, I could build a new dog with the all the dog hair on the floor.  I am supposed to be filling out four trees worth of forms for Wyatt's school, one page consisting of really nosy-assed questions about my "emergency contacts." (Why on earth would the school need the marital status of my best friend in order to call her if I can't be reached if something happens to Wyatt?  It's a Christian private school, so I think I will put "Lesbian.")   I need to get my skanky ass in the shower soon, because I have to take Wyatt to get his vaccinations in two hours, so I can fill THAT form out, and I'm also busy freaking out about said doctor appointment.  Ack. 

Of course, just like a pack of coyotes, the children must sense that something is amiss, so they're acting like someone fed them crack cocaine for breakfast.  We've already had a talk about screaming, which consisted of me screaming at them for screaming.  I am about to have another "talk" with them about whatever thing they're throwing against the side of the house over and over and over and over again.  I'm pretty sure it's a baby doll, and they are "pretending" that its mom died and it can see ghosts, but it can also fly.  Unfortunately, it's blind, so it keeps slamming into the side of the fucking house.  This is what happens when you let them watch "The Ghost Whisperer," then read "Little House on the Prarie" as a bedtime story.  I have no idea where the flying came from. 

Oh, and I have to feed the children pickles and granola bars for lunch because no one else in this house is capable of locating a grocery store, picking out stuff to eat, paying for it, and bringing it home.  We are out of everything, literally. When I bring this up to the other adult in the house, a grown man who carries a gun for a living and is supposed to make life and death decisions without even breaking a sweat, I get a blank look.  "Did you do a list?" he asks.  Here's a LIST:  1.  Food.   Thefuckingend.  Christ on a pancacke, how hard can it be?

What I would like to do today:

1.  Wake up.  Say good morning to John Cusak and graciously accept the cup of coffee he brings me.

2.  Write a letter to the kids telling them how much I miss them and why I had to sell them to the circus for their own good. 

3.  Have the pool boy let the massage guy in so that I don't have to get up.

4.  Have the butler load the case of wine delivered by Greg Norman in the back of the Lear so that I have something to sip while on the way to my villa in Italy.

5.  Take a long nap in the shade at the villa while waiting for the hot gourmet chef to bring me dinner.

6.  Say goodnight to John as he tucks me in.

Sigh. 

I better go kill the children now.  I hope everyone is having a good day...I'll check back in later.  Much later.  After wine. 

Currently reading : Valium and Other Tranquilizers (Encyclopedia of Psychoactive Drugs. Series 1)

6:23 AM - 61 Comments - 62 Kudos - Add Comment

Rage Against the (Dentist’s) Machine
Current mood: mad
Category: Life

Prologue

I am in the middle of a raging temper-tantrum, and I only have a few outlets available to me right now.   I just re-discovered WHY I went to part-time at my job, and I also reinforced the nagging thought that taking on more hours this week would probably further damage my psyche.  BUT, as Deanna Banana has pointed out, these blogs CAN be used as evidence, so I better not blog about my work, until, as Don pointed out, I'm actually IN a Federal Prison, for an as-yet-unnamed offense.  Grrrrr.

Outlet 1:  Kill someone.  This is problematic since I'm alone in the house.  I can't kill ME, since I'm awesome.  I can't kill my dog, since HE'S awesome.  I probably can't kill Paul's dog, and I only ever contemplate it when the damn little thing is yapping at an imaginary cat – and he isn't doing that now.  Now, he's curled up into a cute, quiet, happy ball.  So, Gay Woody is safe.  I think we've established that I can't kill the Goddamn Fish, or I would have done so by now.  Basically, in order to kill anyone I would have to leave the house, and I've just shotgunned a glass of wine, so that won't work. 

I think I'll just wait here for Paul to come home. 

Outlet 2:  Exercise.  Nah.

Outlet 3:  Blog until 1 becomes possible. 

Cool!  So, we have a plan!

~The Dentist Diary.  Wednesday, August 13, 2008~

1228:  I arrive at the dentist office and park my car.  I immediately put the car in reverse and leave the parking lot.  Then, I call myself a stupid wussy and pull back into the parking lot.  I sit there for a minute.  I notice a blurry face peering at me from the window and restrain myself from giving it the finger and leaving again.  I decide to smoke.  Twice. 

1231:  I leave my car and start walking into the office.  If anyone is watching me, they will assume I'm square-dancing with someone who is not there.  (Swing yer partner, turn around, and turn around agin.  Walk in place!  Turn around!  That's right, do se do to the right and do se do to the left!  Walk straight.  Stop!  Turn around, do it agin!)

1234:  After scrabbling approximately twenty five feet, at the speed of a heavily sedated snail, I open the doors and go in.  I stand there, wishing for a trap door.

1235:  The 45ish year old (could be 20, I don't know) woman sitting at the receptionist desk appears to have been tanning since she left the womb, and she must have left the womb in the general vicinity of the equator.  She is a blonde that got that way either with undiluted hydrogen peroxide, or she swims in a vat of bleach at night.  Her contact lenses are colored Unapologetic Aqua.  Her earrings are little teeth.  She is wearing a sleeveless rayon shirt with dolphins (?)  all over it.  The shirt is cut low enough to see some sort of recent heart/chest-surgery scar.  Resting upon the top of the scar, a gold pendant proclaims her "Denise," in cursive.  Denise tilts her head so that her right ear rests on her right shoulder and says in a sing-song voice usually reserved for severely retarded people, "Laaaurrra, right?"  I bare my teeth at her and nod once, still standing within reach of the door handle. 

"I saw that you seemed nervous on the way in, honey, are you okay?"

Yes, Denise, I'm obviously totally fucking dandy.  DON'T call me honey. This is the fourth new dentist that I've seen in as many months and you guys aren't going to like me either. What I'd like to do is set this place on fire, and then go have me a little nap, but I can't do that because I'm afraid that if you can't help me get this done, no one can.  So, hey, let's not talk to me like I'm stupid, because I'm not.  I'm just a wee bit psychotic and terrified, and you and your really creepy teeth earrings aren't making it better. You look like a "patter."  You try to pat my shoulder, just once, and I will craft some earrings for you with your own teeth.  Also, is the health insurance plan so bad at this job that you can't take more time to let that scar heal?  It looks like you might have been cut open as recently as last week.  It smells bad in here, I can hear a drill, and I want to leave.    

"I'm fine," I say, unable to say anything else.

 

"Okay, honey, go ahead and have a seat, and we'll get you in real quick, hoooookkkaaayyy?" 

Don't kill the receptionist. Don't kill the receptionist. Don't kill the receptionist. Don't kill the receptionist.  Don't kill the receptionist.  Don't kill the receptionist. Don't kill the receptionist.

1239:  I take a seat and try to engross myself in the Brad and Angelina Family Album People.  It occurs to me that Angelina probably eats dentists for breakfast.  It also occurs to me that she looks slightly better after HER cesarean, than I did after mine.  She looks lovely and refreshed, and –not for nothing—she's got perfect teeth.  I remember looking like I had HAD A SQUALLING KID CUT OUT OF ME.   But hey, that's me.

1247:  A five-foot five, ninety pound TEENAGER comes out of the back, glances at a folder in her hands, tilts her head so that her right ear rests on her right shoulder and says, "Laaaauuurrrrraaaa?"

Kill the teenager. Kill the teenager. Kill the teenager. Kill the teenager. Kill the teenager.

I wait for a minute to see if anyone else named Laura gets up and walks willingly with the little waif.  No one does.  Dammit all to hell.  I get up and start square-dancing toward her. 

We get back to a dentist chair, and all thoughts of killing the little wee-girl flee my head.

That's a dentist chair.  The Bad Chair.  Leave, leave right now.  They said they wouldn't do anything and this is a consultation, and they obviously lied, and you should go.  Right. Now.  Punch her.  What is that hook for? There is no reason to conduct a consultation in a chair like that. Holy shit, is that a scraper thingy?  Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God.

"Sit right down here, honey, (why is calling me honey fucking okay?) and just relax. (Oh, right, let me get right on that.)  So, it says here that Dr. Amy referred you to us and you have a bit of anxiety, riiiigghhhht?  (I hate you.)  I just want to tell you that I totally understand and Dr. Wilde is aware too, (I bet) and we're not gonna do ANYTHING you don't want us to, mmmmkay?  (Die.)

"Well, it looks like you have some issues with anxiety.  (Stop it, really?)  Did you take the valium today?"

I said, semi-coherently, "No, I didn't.  I thought this was supposed to be a consultation, and I have to work this afternoon." (I'm completely with it and you're not going to touch me without a fight.)

"Oh, totally, it's just a consultation."  Ear goes to shoulder.  "We just have been speaking to Dr. Amy and she thought that you might do better for the consultation if you had some valium on board."  (Yeah, I'm not a fucking Am-Track, darling.  Stay over there.)

"Errgh," I said, and started to cry.  She tried to take my purse from me and I latched onto it like a lamprey and growled at her.  Her eyes got big, and she jumped back on her teeny little feet a bit. 

"Right," she stammered.  "Um, let me go talk to Dr. Wilde, mmmmkkkaaay?" she said backing out of the room, with the 11-inch-wide folder obscuring her entire upper torso.  "You just sit tight one sec, mmmmkkkaaay, honey?"  (That's right, run, you little snippet. RUN!)

1301:  In walks Dr. Wilde.  He's a grey-haired gentleman in his late 40's and he's HUGE.  Probably 602/220, with big old baseball mitt hands.  His fingernails are clean, so I stay in the chair, barely, with one foot on the floor; still clutching my purse like it's my only child. 

"WELL HELLO THERE, LLLAAAURRRA," he booms.  "HOW ARE WE FEELING TODAY?  A LITTLE NERVOUS, EH?"  He grins at me like he's a mental patient.  I hate him immediately. 

You fucker.  You're too big, stay away from me. Stay away from my purse.  Stay away from that hook thingy.  Stay OVER THERE, and stop shouting at me. 

"Urrgharchiller," I say, crying harder.  The twee thing behind him keeps her distance and passes him a box of tissues, which he offers to me. I snatch it out of his hands and hold it in front of my purse, an extra defense.

"So," he says, at the approximate decibel of a Huey 'copter, "You don't like the dentist, do ya there, honey?"  You should explode.

"Bralllanaugher whaaaniter," I sob. 

"Oooohhh, now.  That's quite enough of that, now, isn't it, little girl?  Boogah Doogah Loogah!"  He waggles his hands like a boogey-man in front of my face, causing me to clutch the tissues and hold my purse up around my nose.

Oh, Ha Ha Ha, you stupid fucker.  Aren't you hilarious? Do that again, and we'll find out the flash point of those dumb-ass mauve scrubs you're wearing.  And I'm not the little girl here, asshole.  That little tinkerbell of a hygienist hiding behind you knows what's what. 

"See!" he shouts, "I don't bite!  HAARRDEE HAR HAR HAR."  I lay there on the Bad Chair and wish he would suddenly have an aneurism.   He doesn't.  I am about to shortly, though. 

1310:  Dr. Wilde decides that an exam is superfluous and that really, what I might need (ya think) is IV sedation.  He says that without IV sedation, I probably won't get through the cleaning appointment I need (yes, that's it, just a fucking cleaning; it really is this bad for a cleaning!)  And I should schedule my IV sedation with Denise. 

"So, THEN!  We'll see you WHEN WE SEE YOU and we'll get through this TOGETHER!"  He is shouting so loud, the chipmunks beside the window (on the other side of the window) dart off like mercury. 

I make like mercury myself, and slither to the front desk, and am suddenly in front of Denise again.  I wait.  (Take your time, HONEY)

1319: Denise gets off the phone with a family member obvivously having an issue with a rent-a-car company.  She makes I'll be right off honey gestures, and then hangs up the phone, rolling her eyes at the shennanigans of her wacky famly, and smiling at me as if I have the exact same retard relatives.  She rests her ear on her shoulder.  "Soooooo,  Honey, how DID IT GO?"

Well, Denise, you oddly brown woman, I realize that I will have to be made into a zombie in order to have a simple dental procedure done that seven year olds routinely complete upon promise of a lollipop.  I am disturbed by your entire office's use of familiar endearments toward total strangers, and you should invest in sunscreen. Immediately. 

"Fine," I yammer at her, dabbing at my eyes with a tattered Kleenex swiped from my shield against Dr. Wilde. 

1323:  Future zombie appointment tentatively scheduled, with NO PROMISES from me, I trot with alacrity out to my haven of a car and go to work.

And, THEN, I started to have a bad day.

What's the most pissed off and frustrated you can remember being in recent memory?  Have you ever entertained thoughts of homicide?  Do you ever wonder what might happen if a psychologist got hold of you?  How do YOU deal with Rage?

Currently reading : Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day By Judith Viorst

12:08 PM - 71 Comments - 34 Kudos - Add Comment

Much Blogdo About Nothing
Current mood: okay
Category: Blogging

I guess like everyone, some days I have stuff to write about, stuff I care about and want to put down in words and discuss, but for whatever reason get blocked and can't get it all together.  And some days I have NOTHING whatsoever to write about, but just feel like typing with no topic in mind.  Can you guess what today is?  J  I think I'll give my brain free rein here and see what sort of mischief ensues. 

I actually am working on my hiking blog.  As I sit down to write about it, though, my mind really doesn't embrace hiking yet.  It goes to all the other shit in my life that drove me out into the woods to begin with.  Therefore, what starts out to be a nice, marginally interesting blog about the joys of tromping through the woods with an armed, ultra-competitive boyfriend, one elderly dog and one gay dog; somehow disintegrates into an unholy rant about supercilious sporting good store workers who think they're better than me because I could care less about the compass/pepper spray/hiking pole/vibrator combo-tool that they're trying to sell me, because I don't understand compasses.  Fuckers.  Whoops.  Okay…moving on.

"The Pug House" is having visitors tonight.  These are our backyard neighbors, and their house is in full view from our back deck, and is named because the White Trash Poster Couple that live there breed an untold number of Pug Puppies.  Their visitors tonight consist of approximately nine million children under the age of seven, who are all intermittently screaming for Mama-Pug, who is named "CARAMEL."   They have been doing this for about an hour now.  I took a quick few minutes away from this blog to rearrange my Christmas wish-list, and now the number one item I want is a long rifle with a scope.  No reason. 

Wyatt is out of town for SEVEN DAYS because he's camping with his dad.  (Again, not allowed to blog about him because I wouldn't be able to stop.)  Wyatt just called me to tell me goodnight and also to tell me he can hit Noah (Dad's girlfriend's son) in the head with a water-pistol and has been farting a lot.  I congratulated him on both items and I miss him a lot.

Oh, for those of you who are sending me App Invites, I'm totally sorry.  Mobsters and Pirates look entirely fucking cool, but I know myself.  If I start it, I will quickly become hooked, and then it's all over.  It's the same reason alcoholics can't have "just one."  That's me and the computer.  Plus, I drink way too much wine, and I'll probably get killed the first day.  No, I don't know how these work.  What was I saying?  Oh, yes!  Wyatt, right?  No, Mobsters.  Italians?  I just don't know.  Wheeee.

SINCE Wyatt is gone this week, I've picked up about 25 more hours at work.  Oh, please ask me why!  What?  Did you say "Well, why Pepper, did you pick up way too many hours at work this week and risk your already-sketchy sanity?"  Golly and gosh, I'm so glad you asked. 

It's because Paul has been bitching about him having to buy more groceries than normal because I went to part-time.  Now, don't get me wrong, I KNOW his grocery list has changed since I moved in.  It used to look like this:  "Hot Dogs, Hot Dog Buns, Cookies, Lil' Debbie Oatmeal Cakes, Soccer Socks, and Bananas."  Every once in a while, he threw in a Tony's Combo Pizza, you know, for the protein.  Well, even before I went to part time, I insisted on a grocery list that included: "Good nutritious food that can be made into a meal with protein, carbs and veggies."   Now I go and add insult to injury by making him BUY that stuff?  Sheesh. I really am a clam, aren't I?  Anyway, now you know who to wonder about if you see a CNN bulletin advising of a mass-murder in a small Western WA town.  Paul thinks that he won't be the victim, but honestly, you bet on who YOU think will win.  And throw $20 in the pool for me, please.  I'll collect it on my way to some non-extradition country.  Thanks.

Can someone PLEASE get George W off my television?  If I see anymore footage of him slapping a volleyball player's ass or slurring his words, I swear I'll bludgeon the TV into a million pieces, and then I won't be able to watch Dexter or Dancing With the Stars next month.

I came home tonight and thought about having one glass of wine, but I did this as I poured my second glass of wine, and then the math got all screwed up, so now I'm on my third.  Hate when that happens, don't you?  Fortunately, I'm from hardy Irish stock, and this barely makes a dent in my psyche.  However, I have that weird "tickle" thing going on in my throat, and I was going to take cough medicine tonight, and now I don't think that's a good idea.  This sucks, because LAST night, I slept in Wyatt's bed in order not to have to wake up Paul by coughing all night, and TONIGHT, it looks like Paul will have to sleep in Wyatt's bed.  Wait.  Did I say, "That sucks?"  What I meant was, "Wheeeee, I get the whole bed to myself!"  Of course smoking has nothing to do with it.  Don't be ridiculous.