Time for some Blog Stew

10 days went by without me posting, and you know what that means, Mah Peepull! It’s time for another heapin’ helpin’ of Blog Stew!

• • •

I got The Plague. As you can see, I lived to tell the tale. It was a very close call.

While I didn’t get the tummy part of it (Thank GOD!) I did get the body ache part, and I’ve never had it so bad, EVER. I stayed in bed for almost an entire day straight and then moved very carefully for the next couple days. I managed to not share The Plague with Hunky and boys.

I did, however, manage to generate about 7 quarts of snot. (I may tend toward hyperbole. Just sayin’.)

I can be a huge baby when I get sick. If I have the strength, I contact close friends to say goodbye and if applicable, reveal what I’m bequeathing them with in my will.

I just realized that I may have already told you this. It was The Plague followed by the hotel weekend. Did I already tell you this or did I just post it as a status update on Twitter/Facebook?

I have no idea what I’m doing. Someone should take away my blogging license.

Oh, look! Something shiny!!!

• • •

I’ve been a lot more active on Twitter lately. I think it may be true what they say about tweeting something and wasting a good idea for a post. I’ve caught myself a few times tweeting something that I really should flesh out into a decent post.

If you tweet it and don’t post it… using that one good idea to put a tweet out there that has decent substance gets more attention on Twitter and goes a lot farther in developing relationships and finding readers.

If you tweet it and also post it… I think it could show bad form to tweet something and then also use that idea to post. I’m not judging people who do that, I’m just saying it doesn’t feel right to me. I may change my mind; it’s not out of the realm of possibilility. After all, bumper stickers and tshirts all over the world assure me that it’s my right as a woman. Oh, another downer: If you do both, it shows up multiple times in feeds like FriendFeed, Buzz, Seesmic, etc and you run the risk of irritating people and having them unsubscribe.

I guess what I’m saying is… it’s a trade off.

And I may have put way too much thought into this.

• • •

A friend at work just got a new MP3 player and was asking if I would put some of my music on his player. Sure, no problem, right? Right. Actually, for a change, it worked the way it was supposed to. Amazingly. He gave me some money and I downloaded a couple albums for him from iTunes, and I didn’t even have to burn them onto a CD and re-import into iTunes to get the protected files to work on his player. I just plugged it in, drag-n-dropped them onto the player that mounted onto my desktop, and voila! He had tunage. I love my Mac. LOVE. LOVE.

The only problem, and it wasn’t a big one, was when he wanted a couple songs that iTunes didn’t carry. See, I was one of those freaks that was downloading a much as humanly, or more accurately, computer-ly possible the last four hours that Napster was up. Then, scared off by the press about people getting fined thousands of dollars, I quit. But when I couldn’t get him the music he wanted on iTunes, I went looking for it. And I may or may not have gone a little nuts looking on Billboard charts for one hit wonders from the 70s 80s and 90s. I may or may not have acquired such greats as Feel Like Makin’ Love, Shake Your Groove Thang, Rock Me Amadeus, Too Shy, Sledgehammer, and West End Girls as well as around 250 others. You know, I think I’ll just leave it at that so I don’t incriminate myself any further. Both in the music taste department, and the downloading music source department.

I fear it’s too late; you’ve lost respect for me already. I don’t blame you. I judge me.

And I’ll be rockin’ my air guitar along to Pour Some Sugar On Me as I do it.

• • •

I’ve been doing quite a bit of reading at work in the last couple months.

Last week I finished The Runaway Quilt which was #4 in a series by Jennifer Chiaverini. I started that series that inspired me to do the sampler quilt I started in July. (That was the ugliest, messiest sentence in the history of EVER.)

I just finished My Sister’s Keeper by Jodi Piccoult. For the most part, it was a good read. There’s a lot of the story that reads almost poetically; I love the way she used some similes to illustrate small details. But there were other sections that read a little to cliche-ish-ly. Shut up. That’s totally a word.

• • •

I had a dream that I called my local Apple guy to get my beloved iMac, my Edgrr, my five-and-a-half-year-old buddy, out of the hospital. My guy said Edgrr needed a new logic board (that much is really true) and that Apple had a new program to trade in old Macs for new Macs and that Edgrr’s trade in value was currently $1655.

What? I told you it was a dream. I started with, I had a dream. Did you think I was doing my MLK impression? I don’t have one of those.

Related: I want an iPad. The way you want a drink of ice water after you’ve been tanning next to the pool for six hours. In Arizona. In a desert.

• • •

I’ve been kicking around the idea of starting another blog with no identifying information so I can tell some of the stories that I come across at the shelter. You would be inspired by some some of the people that come through here. I never get tired of listening when they want to tell me where they’ve been, what they’ve learned, and where they want to go.

Well, almost never.

Some people just talk too freaking much.

• • •

I guess I SOLD OUT TO THE MAN or whatever. Over there on the sidebar is an Amazon dealio with some of my favorite books. If you click over to Amazon from there and buy something, I get, I don’t know, something. Probably enough to fulfill my lifelong dream of stopping at the gumball machine on the way out of the grocery store. And getting two gumballs. If you clicked over and bought, like, a car or something like that, I might be able to get a temporary tattoo of a dragon with a rose in its mouth.

I signed up for Google AdSense but I haven’t exactly figured out how it works yet, so you have a while before you have to ignore the Google Ad boxes. Mostly, I just signed up because Blissfully Domestic (Oh, why, yes, I DOOO write for Blissfully Domestic!) said I should. Something about getting revenue from the clicks on my articles over there. So you can blame all this AdSense nonsense on them. Or me. Whatever. *shrugs*

As long as you’re willing to listen to me blather on and on, I might as well take the clicks from the search engine traffic, right?


That’s the sound of me searching my soul.

• • •

I’ve talked about this before, but Oh Em Gee, it drives the proofreading portion of my brain to distress when I see contractions used incorrectly. IT’S = It Is. ITS = possessive. Sound it out.

This concludes the Blogging Public Service Announcement. (Paid for by the Typologically Anal Retentive Association With A Stick Up Their Big Old Butt.)

• • •

About six weeks ago, I wrote channelled my inner angst-y teenager and blubbered about my disappointment with the blogosphere.

I sucked it up and realized I CAN’T CHANGE THE BLOGOSPHERE.

Wow. What a concept. Brilliant, Dory.

But I can change myself. I sat back and thought about what I could change about the situation.

This is what I came up with.

I’m mad at the blogosphere, so obviously I need more blogosphere.

I told you, um, duh. See also: Sarcasm above, i.e. Brilliant, Dory.

Anyway, I went and got more blogosphere. I went through a very popular, big-girl-blogger’s followers and one by one, added people and doubled who I was following just to see who would follow me back so I could meet some new twits twats tweeple.

It worked.

Hi, new tweeple! *waves*

I like the blogosphere again.

• • •

I guess that’s about all the damage I can do this time.

Rip it, roll it, and punch it, dude. Word.

Then she came back, kicked my boyfriend in the crotch, and we hitch-hiked to my junior prom.

I was pretty bummed out that I couldn’t meet Bossy in Chicago on Tuesday.

First, I didn’t get an invitation, so I wasn’t sure exactly where it was. I got all the emails where people were trying to decide particulars, but no actual “Ok, we’re on and it’s here” invitation. Second, I couldn’t justify taking the time off work since I just started this job in February. And I was gonna take BritSis1 with me, and she couldn’t get the time off because somebody quit at her office. So big ol’ Crap Sandwiches all around.

By the by, my soop asked if I knew Photoshop, and hells yeah I know Photoshop, so now I’m doing the same thing I was doing plus graphics part (preparing art for the web and adding to the ad). Woo Hoo! Yay, me! Crap, where was I? Ah, yes. So I didn’t get to go meet Bossy. Which qualifies for a Major Bummer, Dude. So I was thinking about missing it on Tuesday and carried that crap right on into Wednesday in a Poor, Poor, Me sort of way. But I’m seriously digging how Photoshop makes my day zoom-ZOOM-zoom.

By the by the by, Dino was obsessed with the Mazda commercial with that tune on it when he was about 2 years old. I could be in the living room watching TV while he was playing two rooms away. When that commercial would come on, he would toddle just as fast as he possibly could to the TV. He would stand in rapt attention through the whole thing. And then every single time, he would turn to me and say, “Ah-zoom-zoom Mommy?” and I’d reply, “Yep, Dino, ah-zoom-zoom” and he’d run off as fast as he came in, giggling all the way from his toes. Two years later I found the whole song online* and the first time I played it, he came running in the room and said, “Hey, I like that song!” and started chuckling.

Wait, where was I? Oh, Bossy… Chicago… it must have been on my mind more than I thought. Last night I dreamed that Bossy came to visit me.

I dreamed that she brought her Great Dane with her. We were in the middle of a fecking blizzard, and she drove up in an old white van driving on the wrong side of the car. (FabBoyFab— maybe that had something to do with you! LOL) Her window was halfway down and she had snow all over her sunglasses. Instead of my house, I was showing her into the house (ok, trailer, actually; yes, I lived 10 years in a trailer, let the mocking and trailer trash jokes commence) that I grew up in. Then Bossy left for the shindig without me, and I went into the room that I gave her to stay in, which was my old room I spent my Teenage Angst-Ridden Era in. (By the way, did you catch the Bossy-ism I squeezed in up there? It took a small crowbar, but I sure did it.) Anyway, I walked into the room and my jaw dropped. Her Great Dane had had about eleventy-two accidents on the carpet and of course none on the linoleum in the private bathroom. So then I decided I’d put fresh sheets on the bed. I pulled back the sheets and about made an “accident” of my own– the waterbed leaked and there was about an inch of water on top of the mattress and sheets. Soooo I started cleaning up the doody and then I woke up.

Analyze that.

* “Zoom Zoom Zoom.” Written by Kao Rossman.
© 1993 Serapis Bey Music and Fox Film Music Inc.
From the Original Motion Picture Soundtrack,
“Only the Strong.”

I think I would name him Sam.

I want a Budweiser Clydesdale.

We’re coming into the season when my very favorite commercial of all time will soon appear. The Budweiser Clydesdales cross a snow covered bridge, and there’s holiday music in the background. And it never fails; every single year, the first time I see it, I cry. Not like bawling, but I tear all up and a couple leak out, and my boys point and laugh. The remainder of the season, I manage to stifle the misty-eyed crap, but I still can’t help getting goosebumps every single time I see it.

We toured the brewery today, and honest to God, I cannot figure it out. I see the Clydesdales, and cue the stingy eyeballs. I could have spent the entire tour (heck, the entire day) just watching the Clydesdales. I got a couple really great shots, but they only gave us a few minutes to take pictures and these people who, had they known my obsession, and had I told them I had one week to live, I’m sure they would’ve gotten the hell out of my way. Next time I will not hesitate to elbow and possibly lie, cheat, steal, and even strategically place a boot to the head if necessary.

I’ll get the pictures up on flickr as soon as I can. And then figure out how to get a wall mural made for the long side of my house. Oh, and why didn’t I go to Grant’s Farm and take all the pictures to my heart’s content? Because they’re closed for the season. The nerve of these people. I suppose I’ll have to try to contain myself until the special Christmas event they have in December. And if anyone gets in my way? Asses will be kicked.

So anyway, at the end of the tour I asked if I could just go back to the barn and stay there a little while. Maybe just a couple hours. Or days. The tour guide said no and started typing up a restraining order, and I drowned my sorrows in my free beers.


After a terrible, horrible night’s sleep (if you can even call it that, it was more like a three hour doze), I had a yummy two hour nap this afternoon. I love me some tasty nappage. And I dreamed that I ran around my parents’ neighborhood jumping over the power lines for fun. With my Clydesdale.

It’s pretty groovy that my folks live in St. Louis now. I love their new house. And their garage is almost big enough for a Clydesdale.

Rip it, roll it, and punch it, dude. With me and my Clydesdale. It’ll be fun.

In my defense, he was being an ass.

I called my dad an ass.

I got away with it.

In my dream.

We were working together at a car dealership (this part isn’t a stretch, when I was 15, my dad worked at a Chrysler dealership and he got me a job detailing cars) and I was miserable. I had been having problems with a manager there who hated me. (Wow, that part was so not a stretch from my real job in April and May.) Anywho, I had been written up for a few things already and this jackass manager comes into my office and says, “Remember that car you bought a couple weeks ago? Well, the papers were wrong so here’s a $50 refund.” He snaps a $50 bill in my face, then hands it to me. I say, “What… how… when… oh, I don’t care, it’s 50 bucks!”

Jackass leaves my office.

A couple hours later, someone says, “Hey, there’s $50 missing from the petty cash box.”

Jackass says, “I’ll bet it’s in Dory’s pocket.”

My jaw drops and I’m speechless.

The boss says, “Dory, can you please come into my office?”

I walk in and empty my pockets onto my desk, including a crisp $50 bill. He looks up at me and says, “You’re outta here.”

I say, “But wait, can’t I tell you my side of the story?!”

He enunciates carefully… “No. Get your belongings out of your office and leave immediately. I will have someone escort you out.”

I run to my dad’s office sobbing, and ask him to talk the boss into at least hearing me out.
He looks up from his desk and enunciates carefully… “No.”

Again, my jaw drops and all I can say is, “Why?”

He says, “It won’t do any good. You’ve been miserable for months. You’ll find another job. Why would you want to push it?”

Still sobbing (oh, and I am a messy crier), I yell, “It’s about a little something you instilled in me called integrity, you ASS!!!” and I stomp into my office and throw all my crap in a box the ‘escort’ had already provided. I leave the building, already dialing my phone (apparently I’m not Deaf in my dream *snickering*) and my mom answers to me wailing about what just happened. I blubber through the whole story, and I get to the part where I’m in Dad’s office and she starts laughing. I get to the part where I call Dad an ass, and she stops laughing.

“Wait, wait, wait… you just called your father an ASS?!” she asks, her voice chock full of incredulity.

“Well, yeah,” I say.

“And you got away with it?!” she asks even more vehemently.

“Well, yeah,” I answer.

She starts laughing again and manages to get out “Good for you, sweetie” and laughs even harder.

I started laughing then, and snap the phone shut. And as miserable and infuriated as I was the last few months, I am now just that contented. And I drive off for the unemployment office.

*curtsies prettily*

*roll credits*

Anyone wanna analyze that one?

I had insomnia so bad last night, right on into this morning. I tossed and turned (poor Hunky, I snapped at him a couple times, but to be fair, he was laying there flaunting his ability to sleep. Jerk.) and at 4am, I got up, took some sleeping pills, and then sat at the computer, putzing around reading blogs to wait for them to kick in. They didn’t. At 7am, I went and laid back down and managed to fall asleep. I woke up in a sleepy stupor at 11am to Elli barking her fool head off at Dino because he touched her ball and there was the possibility of it being thrown for her, and she was rather excited about this. Good Lord, we’ve created a monster. The dog and ball throwing, not the boy. OTOH… well, no, never mind. So that’s why you saw my comments at 4am, fatboyfat.

Which leads me to ask, what are your preferences for answering your comments? In the comments, or the start of the next post? Hmmmm?

In other news….
Here’s the pic I promised, but you can’t see the red from this light. It’s black but then when you get closer you can see the red. And it’s shiny. Take my word for it. It rawks. AND rolls. I dig it.

Rip it, roll it, and punch it, dude. For reals.

This post brought to you by the letter O and the number 6. (Tomorrow will be the number 9.)

As a P.S. for yesterday…

*snorty un-lady-like laughter*


This rating was determined based on the presence of the following words:

  • punch (3x)
  • bitch (2x)
  • ass (1x)

Whatever, dude. I do try to keep this PG-13 because my friends/family, especially my son, checks in periodically. *waves at the step-momster AND the momster-in-law*

Last night, I dreamed in sign. First I dreamed that I was thinking in sign, then that evolved into blogging in sign somehow. Then I was at a fair or a carnival or something and I was freaking out because a couple of my Deaf friends were with me and needing me to interpret for them what some policemen were saying, but the policeman who was talking was talking over a loudspeaker so I couldn’t understand what he was saying because I couldn’t see his face to speechread. *gasps* (That was a long friggin’ sentence.) When I say freaking out, I mean full-on, heart-racing, burny-tears-threatening, hand-wringing, pacing, rocking, freaking out. AND I was pleading with hearing passerby to help me, but they would just give me a blank look and move on. Then one of the Deaf was getting onto an elevator that I knew was dangerous, but I couldn’t tell them in time. I knew yelling out to them wouldn’t work, and I couldn’t run to them in time to grab them before they got in the elevator. That did it. I bawled. (In my dream.) So there you go. Dream analysis not only welcome, but strongly encouraged.

Which leads me to wonder if I could make the time to write a blog post, then video myself signing the post. Would anyone be interested in seeing that?

As I was falling asleep, I was thinking about how getting good writing out of my head and onto the computer screen made me think of butterflies, but I can’t quite think of why. (Then something about blowing smoke up my own ass, but I really can’t remember why in the world I thought that.) Maybe because you can be walking along and writing a great post in your head, and suddenly you think, oh, I totally have to remember this so I can really write it; but now, here comes the dance. If you dash back to those fantastic words, you will scare them off; not unlike the flip of a light switch sends cockroaches scurrying. No, you have to move slowly and handle gently, so the butterflies stay and you don’t crush them. Saunter casually and take a non-direct route (p.s. you must say in your head Rout, not Rewt, because I’m from Michigan and this is my post), whistle quietly and nonchalantly; then gently, softly, carefully, collect those butterflies on your fingertips and (still treading lightly and whistling quietly) place them in your Blog Butterfly Basket. Step back, breathe a deep (quiet!) sigh of relief, and enjoy your creation. Hope that other people might happen to walk down your path and glance at –better yet, appreciate and enjoy– your pretty, pretty basket. They don’t know how hard you worked to get all those Beautiful Butterflies into your Blog Basket, but that’s ok. You’re just happy your Butterflies are being appreciated.

*steps back*
*takes a deep breath and long exhale*
*enjoys the Beautiful Butterfly Blog Basket*
*tilts head- puts one hand on chin*
*hopes Beautiful Butterfly Blog Basket is being enjoyed and appreciated*

I got my hairs did yesterday and I love it. It’s a color that me and The Hair Bootifier have dubbed “Cherry Pepsi” and it rocks. I would put a picture up but I haven’t washed it yet, and I love you all dearly, but not enough for you to see my messed up morning hair. We’re still honeymooning so let’s savor the mystery a little longer, mkay? Pic tomorrow, promise.

I should probably mosey because I have a very full day ahead of me. IEP meeting at the school to discuss The Dinosaur’s plan at 3; dinner with a couple friends and to help with their sign homework at 6:30; out to Checkers with some friends for a beer and live music, both of which are totally yummy, at 9pm. Not going to stay until close, because Hunky will be at home with the boys. Hunky says I can go and he won’t hold it against me, but only if I hold it against him later. He adds that I can stay until close if I get just a little drunk and give him the naughty treats. We’ll see.

Rip it, roll it, and punch it, dude. Hard.


The Great Mofo Delurk 2007

Even if it’s just “Hi. Loser. Bye.” you gotta comment. It’s like, the law or something today. 😉

Last night, I dreamed that I was on a band trip and I forgot my flute so I had to borrow somebody’s wooden piccolo. We were in a huge stable. Then there was a dance but my mouth was full of grass and I couldn’t get it all out so I was trying to find a bathroom to barf in. And a gay friend of mine and her partner were at the dance and they brought the newborn baby boy they had just adopted and named Toby. (Which isn’t really a stretch since they are fantastic foster parents to a couple older boys who could be labeled problem children and wouldn’t even have a chance in life if it wasn’t for them.) Then we were all lined up next to an olympic sized pool, not sure why. *whew* That was weird even for me. And now we can add grass to the growing list of crap I can’t get out of my mouth in my dreams.

It is impossible for me to sit down and write one blog entry and hit submit. I’m not the only one, right?! I hit ‘create post’ and that might sit in that tab in firefox percolating all day long while I check email, backup files to dvd, write, listen to a podcast, write, watch a couple episodes of tv on dvd (man, daytime tv sucks buttocks), make a pot of coffee, check job postings, write, play with my pics, let the dog out, get a cup of coffee, write, smoke, write, make a PB&J for lunch, sweep the kitchen floor, check email, write, pick up the kids from school, write, help kids with homework, check email, put a load in the washer, write, read blogs (I’m up to almost 40 that I check with google reader and not one of them can I bear to unsubscribe to), write, get kids ready for bed, write, then hit submit.

I saw a girlfriend last night that I haven’t seen in a while and she lost 72 pounds. And she worked really really hard at it. It is so unfair the way our bodies and metabolism can be so different. I’m 5’5″, 125 pounds, 32D, 27, 36, and I am ashamed to admit, I do not have to work at it. I popped two human beings out the ole escape hatch and the only crappy thing I have to show for it are some bad stretch marks on my thighs. I do not exercise. I eat crap. I smoke. The packaging on my Carman Electra Striptease Workout is unbroken and dusty. I am almost exactly the same measurements as I was on my wedding day. Hate me now, hate me hard. I deserve it. The only difference between me and dedicated, strong-willed, hard-exercisin’, calorie-countin’, daily weigh-in havin’ amazing women is Genes. I’m sorry. I really am. But I’m not trading. I guess the whole point to this… point… was that I know there are phenomenal women who work at it 24/7 and I don’t, and I do appreciate both my genes and how hard you do work at it.

That’s about all my news, if you can call it that. Further updates as events warrant.

Rip it, roll it, and punch it, dudes.

Now taking Title Suggestions.

or… I Can’t Be Bothered to Conjure Up a Witty Title This Evening, Folks

I woke up with vivid dream leftovers this morning. I was in a haunted house with all the various and sundry traditional scary things chasing me up and down countless flights of stairs. Then I was studying to be a nurse at MSU and our first day in class our teachers had an unexpected VIP coming to the hospital for a medical procedure and they assigned us the task of painting their hospital room. I got partially dried latex paint in my mouth and (surprise surprise) couldn’t get it all out of my mouth and it was actually multiplying until I could barely breathe. As I was spitting the nasty crap out of my mouth into a napkin only to somehow have even more accumulate in there, I was running all over campus trying to find an open bathroom to puke in. Nice, huh? Holy Freudian Crap, Batman.

I went to a Girls Only Garage Workshop today and count it as a total success.
I won a doo-rag, a nice bike cover, and bought some kick ass boots with a special 15% off today only coupon. Most importantly, I decided that me and the stupid scooter are gonna tangle, and I am so going to win. I will not be bested by an old, cantankerous, Bingo-playin’, Lucky-Strike-smokin’, Elvis-collectin’, Mama-from-“Throw Mama from the Train” Kawasaki 440LTD. I’m gonna put on my new boots and kick some rusty corroded ass. Bitch. I oughta trade her in. Or better yet, kick her ass then trade her kicked ass in.

Rip it, roll it, and punch it, dude.