They Only Come Out At Night

So- I had a metric crap-ton of errands to run the other day. Since many of them could be loosely described as 'work related' (What? I wear shoes at work.....and there was a sale! Back off) it only seemed reasonable that I get them done during my conference period and lunch. It really is convenient that the two flow together, let me tell you! If I did my errands after work, that would mean I would have to postpone the meeting of The Great C-dub. Simply, out of the question.

Anyhow-Earlier that day, on my drive to work, I made the upsetting discovery that my eyebrows and she-stache were a little more out of control than I normally allow them to be. Since there was a salon in the same parking lot, I stopped to remedy the situation ASAP.


In perfect Vietnenglish the lady said to me, "You sure you don't want me wax the rest, whole face?"

I stammered about with various renditions of, "UUhhhunnn ohhh, whaa? Work. Go. No thank you." In my mind I was thinking, "WHAT THE HELL IS THAT SUPPOSED TO EFFING MEAN?"

She didn't say, "Do you want me to...," like it was an off the cuff remark. She said, "Are you sure you don't want me to...." Like I should really put some some thought into this, if I have not yet done so.

Is it possible? Could I have survived 31 years of life, being pretty self aware, almost bordering on self conscious, and not known that I look like this?

Seriously? What. The. Hell.

Shoot. I knew I should have given Jacob more of a chance.

So This is Christmas

Whenever people mutter on about dreaming of White Christmases, I don't pay much attention. I figure those songs were written and meant to be enjoyed by people in the Midwest, and North East. Certainly had nothing to do with my childhood Christmases out in the Mojave Desert. My memories of Christmas are most assuredly NOT white, not even hazy white, or greyish. They are brown and dusty. For some reason, that I could not pin down until today, there is a strange degree of shame that accompanies my memories of beige Christmases.

So in the spirit of Christmas...I offer you these gems from my childhood. A mirror to the past, if you will. This really explains a lot about me. If you are insightful....I am sure you can recognize the root of many personality flaws/quirks, trust issues, struggles with self esteem, and even maybe some of my issues with animals, right in these very pics.(Notice none of my brothers and sisters are dressed as live stock) I prefer to just bury all of those things and appreciate these photos for the 80's childhood hilarity that they are.

Merry Freaking Christmas.

Hey Yo, Fat Girl! Come Here, Are You Ticklish?

I found the Christmas balls! I ate the Christmas balls. And even though I am not feeling real hot, my Christmas cheer is officially back on. In spite of the fact that I am now transitioning from clothes with actual structure, buttons, and zippers, to shall we say, less restrictive clothing....I am still felling very, Fa-la-freaking-la.

But all I really want to know is...are you singing the Humpty Dance? Then, my work here is done.

In Case You Were Wondering Wednesday

1) My socks don't match today, but they are similar...so I feel okay about that.


2) I did not brush my hair this morning. What's worse, I didn't even think about brushing it. What's even worse, I have received no less than 10 compliments on how it looks. And what's even worse than that, on days where I actually DO adhere to standard grooming procedures...no one mentions a thing.



3) This little message on my board reminded me that I am doing a STELLAR job as an English teacher.



4) In spite of the fact that I come from a long line of coaches and jocks, I am not a farty, burpy, giggle and talk about pooping kind of gal. So- when I was in the bathroom at work today, and the poor lady in the stall next to me (who was obviously not feeling well) started talking to, "Dear Sweet Jesus," about how this particular bathroom visit was going, I was equal parts horrified/embarrassed/nervous about possibly exiting at the same time she was, thus requiring awkward conversation.



5) I REALLY hope this gets to come home today!

With Mogwai, Comes Much Responsibility

Dearly Beloved,
We are gathered here today...because there is a new baby! And he is cute! And tiny! And all swaddled tightly with care!

But that is actually all heresay passed via picture emails and text messages. We are in fact, not gathered. Not gathered one little bit. Which to the likes of me, (who is in possession of a womb that is equally likely to shrivel up and fall out as birth any actual children) sucks pretty hard. Those damn pigs and their germs went and ruined all of the vicarious baby delivery fun. "NO VISITORS," they say. Not even if you are kosher, or don a HAZMAT suit. "Not even in the hallway or the waiting room. But you might be able to look in the window if the room faces the parking lot." What kind of communist dictator nurse, whose heart is two sizes two small, thought that up?

And a follow up question, don't hospitals and law enforcement officials generally discourage people from crawling through the bushes to sneak-a-peek at those inside? Last I checked with Angelina, that sort of thing was frowned upon.

Now that I read that back, I am absolutely not sad to miss out on anything that might possibly involve sharp instruments and my lady parts...but I have a freaking box of chocolate cigars and congratulations ready...and no one to hand them to!

Official note:
I fully understand the hospitals desire to keep newborns safe from any germs or viruses. Real or hysterical. I understand that they have a huge responsibility....Don't get 'em wet. Don't feed 'em after midnight. Yeah, I know. I also realize that I run the risk of getting busted by my family for 'stealing the thunder' of official announcements, but what's a spinster aunt to do? There is a brand new baby less than 10 minutes from me and you expect me to twiddle my thumbs for two days until I can squeeze him? Are you kidding me? I'm dying here!

Pride of the Family

On his left cheek bone is inked the Pittsburgh Pirate’s ‘P’, “for the Pittsburgh, that’s my favorite team. Barry Bonds, when he first started.” The thing about the P is, however, that it’s backwards and looks more like a 9. DeShawn tried to explain, “No, if you’re standing where Dom’s standing and looking at me, it looks like a P.” Dominic McGuire was standing directly in front of him about 10 yards away, but it still looked like a 9. I think DeShawn meant to say, “when I look in the mirror it looks like a P.” The final new tat is a crack on the left side of Stevenson’s forehead. He said it’s because “I don’t crack. I feel like people always try to break me, but I don’t crack. So, I put that there. --Washington Times--

A prime example of what happens when a person has more money than brains.