FAQ

So I'm giving you fair warning, I'm working on updating this website. Why? Because it keeps me from actual work.

So I'm making a FAQs section. So please, ask me something. Anything. The stupider, the better. Write it as a comment or send me an email. Even if you don't normally comment on this blog, ask a damn question or I'll have to start asking myself questions. And trust me, no one wants that.

Because I'm Super Bad

I drink my Honey-Raspberry flavored ale STRAIGHT OUT OF THE BOTTLE.

Yup. That's me. Bad ass.

November 29 2007: Lesson Of The Day

Lesson Of The Day: No matter how much the six year old tries to convince you and no matter how much you'd really like to agree with him, 3 scoops of chocolate ice cream with whipped cream and caramel sauce served in a waffle cup is NOT a healthy after school snack.

The Saddest Branch On The Block

I was going to post something different here but then I saw this branch outside. And this branch?...well it describes me today. I'm tired and sad and still missing him quite terribly. Maybe missing him more even than I was last week. Should that be possible? It's supposed to get easier right? Not harder? Ah well, maybe I'll go shopping.

Since this post was pathetically depressing, I feel like it's my duty to send you HERE for some funnies.

November 28, 2007: Lesson Of The Day

Lesson Of The Day: If you do a search in amazon.com's book section for 'Disney', you will find that there are 498 Disney-related books under the 'Gay & Lesbian' category.

Apparently those dwarfs were doing more than sharing a house.

Can someone PLEASE tell me

what the fuck is the big deal with Donny Osmond?

Seriously, he's everywhere!!!!

Larry

Apparently this little guy was very impressed by my awesome new pillows too. And because of his exquisite taste, I named him Larry and told him he could stay in the house all winter if he wanted. But that he'd better get the hell out of my bed before Sophie, The Cat ate him.

November 27, 2007: Lesson Of The Day

Lesson Of The Day: People with PMS should be locked in a room with no human contact* or connections** to the outside world for at least three days.

*and by human contact, I mean ex-boyfriends.
**and by connections I mean telephones, computers, or vehicles by which to contact ex-boyfriends.

Mr. Wonderful

Conversation between Man-Friend and myself circa September '07:

"Maybe I should call Jacquai's teacher."

"Why?"

"Well, I'm not sure if she knows how wonderful he is. Maybe I should call and tell her."

"He is pretty wonderful."

"Yeah, I mean, I know everyone thinks their kids are the best kids in the world. But sometimes I wonder."

"Wonder what?"

"If they know that they're wrong and that in fact it's my kid who's the best in the world."

"Okay, good night Yvonne."

"So I should call her?"

"No, Yvonne."

And I did not call her but today was our parent teacher conference and it turns out that not only is my child borderline genius but is also the sweetest and most wonderful kid EVER. And his teacher is well aware of it without me having to say a word.

Obviously Confused

by all the wonderful new bedding, she'd forgotten that this is actually MY spot.
Move it chick!

November 26, 2007: Lesson Of The Day

Lesson Of The Day: Stop freakin myspace stalking him!!!!!

In A Last Ditch Effort To Stop Winter

November 25, 2007: Lesson Of The Day

Lesson Of The Day: Money can't buy you love, but it can buy you new sheets, pillows, down comforter, duvet, and featherbed after the one you love leaves and you're finding it impossible to sleep alone in the bed where the two of you used to sleep together. Just a warning though: lying in this new very comfortable bedding may cause you to fall asleep at 8 pm and not be able to blog. Proceed with caution.

Guarding The Castle

November 24, 2007: Lesson Of The Day

Lesson Of The Day: Eat a plate of seasoned curly fries dipped in Ranch dressing, chased with several glasses of Diet Dr. Pepper and soon You Too! will be able to produce burps so grotesque that they will make a six-year old boy cringe in disgust.

An Abstract Study In Home Goods

Needless to say, it's time to clean my stove. And that's what I'm doing today.

November 23, 2007: Lesson Of The Day

Lesson Of The Day: Soda bottles come with an expiration date. This date is not a joke and it's not a suggestion. The date on the bottle is fair warning that if you open and attempt to consume the contents after stated date, horrible, horrible things will happen in your mouth.

Something To Be Thankful About

And why, you ask is this not a photo of my own child? Because he hides from the camera. Runs and hides and covers his face. Little crapper. Still, he's the thing I'm MOST thankful for.

November 21, 2007: Lesson Of The Day

Lesson Of The Day: Remember when you were three years old and your mother ever so gently scooted you up onto her lap and rubbed your hair and asked you if you'd like a baby sister? Remember how you answered yes? You should have said no.

Just So You Don't Forget

Last night, after brushing his teeth and jumping into my bed for his story, this is what "The Kid", who I must point out, is still blissfully unaware of the recent breakup between Man-Friend and myself, said:

The Kid: Mommy, smell my armpits.
Me: What? Why? Oh god, what did you do?
The Kid: I put on Jimmy's deodorant.*
Me: What?! Why would you do that?
The Kid: So you don't forget him.

Right, like that's a possibility.

*So sue me, I haven't taken his deodorant out of the bathroom closet yet! Guess what, I also haven't taken out his toothbrush, or his soap from the shower or the cookbooks in the kitchen, I haven't taken his shirts out of the drawers yet, and I haven't changed my relationship status to single on Facebook. So sue me. So FREAKIN sue me!

Coming Soon!

I'll be adding two new characters to my blog soon. I won't tell you who yet but here's a preview:

November 20, 2007: Lesson Of The Day

Lesson Of The Day: If, while eating a chicken sandwich at a popular family style restaurant you find a hair on your plate that looks like it could only have come off of a penis and you’re so digusted that when the waitress asks if you want her to bring a new sandwich, you, who is so cheap that NEVER once in your life have you denied free food, say “No thank you, just a barf bag please” and vow to never eat there again, but then forget because really, you have the memory of a dumb puppy and not only do you come back to the offending restaurant a few weeks later but then order the same sandwich, well, you can’t really be surprised when history repeats itself can you?

The Only Acceptable Part of Fall...

happens to be in my back yard. This tree is the only thing that makes the transition to winter halfway bearable. This tree's leaves turn from a dark maroon color to this gorgeous bright red.

November 19, 2007: Lesson Of The Day

Lesson Of The Day: If the canned Potato, Broccoli, & Cheese soup looks and smells like vomit, you should assume it will probably also taste like vomit.

Spaghetti & Meatballs

I feel the same way when I eat Italian food.

The Anatomy Of A Future Alchoholic

I would like to point out that, though I've been of the legal drinking age for almost four years, this afternoon was the first time I've ever gone out and actually purchased alcohol for myself. This is for two reasons. One being that I'm not much of a drinker and two, my father MAKES BEER FOR A LIVING. So there's always some sort of something that I could get drunk on lying around if the need arises. For example, this is a photo from the bar, not 100 feet from my bedroom door:


Notice those two taps on the side? Beer comes out of them. Two different kinds. At all times. Yeah, I have a sink that pours beer. I'll wait while catch your breath in envy.





Okay. Now to be truthful, normally I'd prefer if those two knobs had chocolate milk and diet Coke coming out of them but at times like this when you've lost the love of your life, beer becomes a good friend, if not a suitable replacement for the warm body that used to lay next to you at night and sniff your hair. And I know, I know, you're not supposed to drink to get drunk, you're supposed to drink because nothing compares to the smooth taste of a cool brew at the end of a long day, but to me, EVERY alcohol I've ever tried, whether it be beer, tequila, rum, wine, or wine coolers has had the distinct taste of death in a bottle. And therefore, the only reason for me to drink is to get drunk. And since normally I'm a well adjusted, happy lady with a well adjusted, happy life, that need very rarely comes up. But when your boyfriend leaves you because "I'm not sure I want to marry you" even though you've never once asked him to marry you and really, never even had any intentions of asking him to marry you, secretly thrilled with the idea of living in sin for the rest of your life and just happy to have found such a wonderful guy that if you never got married, it'd be okay as long as you could just hear his voice everyday, and if your cat WOULD NOT SHUT UP and just today declared war on the bathroom rug by attempting to pee on it, and if your six year old son just casually mentioned to you that perhaps you should check his head for lice because it was a little bit itchy, well you might start drinking to get drunk too.

Which is precisely what I've been doing and in the past week I've probably consumed more beer than I have in the entirety of the past two years. It's not actually all that much though, before you go calling AA on my behalf, since I drink so little normally, half a beer usually gets me tipsy and a whole beer- well a whole beer might make me start touching your boobies. So yesterday morning, after calling my friend Emily to ask when the acceptable time to start drinking is and learning (surprisingly) that there is, in fact, an acceptable drinking time and that I would have to wait another 8 hours to reach it or she'd call AA, I bided my time by washing my hands in the bar sink and then licking them, because, technically, that's not drinking, it's licking. But at 5:02, while humming happily, I skipped into the bar and attempted to pour a glass from tap one. When it sputtered and only foam came out, I tried tap two. When that one did the same I laid down on the floor and cried. Apparently there is an end to the fountain of beer and apparently I'd reached it.

So being the resilient optimist I am, today I went to the supermarket and bought some beer of my own rather than tell my father that I'd depleted his supply. And it was weird. I didn't know which to get because I knew that I wouldn't like any of them and spending $8.49 on six bottles of death seems a little silly to me but finally I settled on a Honey Raspberry Ale because honey and raspberries are two of my most favorite foods in the world and so I had high hopes that they would mask the bitterness of the ale. They didn't. But maybe if I drink enough, it won't really matter anymore.


The End. That's all I have to say about that right now. Back to drinking.

Also, I was going to write a blog about the stupidity of the word "melty" and perhaps one day I will but for now, this guy already appears to have covered the subject just fine and there's nothing left for me to say about it right now. Except that it should be outlawed and the use of it should be punishable by death. That's all.

It's High Time For A Nervous Breakdown

When I was a sweet young thing, I got a cat named Tiger. Actually, I'm incorrect in saying that I got her because technically it was Tiger who got me. She showed up at the back door one day and was all like "Yeah, I'm here now bitch. Worship me."

And so I did.

For 13 years she made it her life's mission to teach me how to love, how to forgive, how to be alive. Once, when she was only a few years old, she had a stroke and her back legs became paralyzed and she couldn't walk. The vet said that the only solution was to put her to sleep and she probably wouldn't last another month. I couldn't bring myself to do it though and eventually she miraculously made a full recovery and lived many more happy years. Through thick and thin, lost friends and broken hearts, pimples and growing pains, Tiger loved me unconditionally and when she died of cancer shortly after "The Kid" was born, I was sure that not only was the world over, but that I'd never be able to have another cat again (because you can have cats in heaven you know).

Eventually though, even the most devoted of spouses moves on, and I was so young, damn it. I couldn't just give up on my love of felines yet. And Tiger wouldn't have wanted me to be alone. So eventually we got Sophie, The Cat. She'd had her share of heartbreak too so we made a good couple. As the story goes, she was found in some housing projects in town and arrested by the 'animal police' for a crime that I can only assume was comparable to selling crack to schoolchildren. She was then adopted by a mental health facility but didn't last long there either because she kept attacking everyone (you can take the cat out of the ghetto but you can't take the ghetto out of the cat). She ended up in a "Kitty Foster Home" and when I finally met her, she'd been living in a closet for six months because every time she tried to leave it, all the other cats in the house, and believe me there were several, would jump and gang rape her. So the kid and I took her to our quiet, warm home, with a comfortable bed, no other cats, a huge backyard, and two doting humans guaranteed to adore her and shower her with treats and we all lived happily ever after.

The End. (I wish)


The best thing about Sophie, The Cat, is her undying and devoted love for me. She tolerates The Kid. She respected Man-Friend. She'll allow almost anyone to admire her beauty. But me, well she loves me. When I sleep at night, she makes it a point to get so close that sometimes I wonder if she's mistaken me for her mother and is trying to get back into my womb. If I get up, she does too. Even if she was fast asleep only seconds before, I move and she's all "Oh are we getting up now? Okay then, let's go." If I go to the bathroom, she goes too. I mean that literally by the way- her litter box is in the bathroom closet and any time I go in there, for any reason at all, whether it's to pee or brush my teeth or just to stare at the wall, she follows me in and goes directly to her litter box. It amazes me how much urination one's actually capable of in the name of love.

Which is why I can overlook the many annoying/crazy parts of her personality. I can understand and respect her complete and utter fear of anything that even slightly resembles another cat. This includes but is not limited to small dogs, babies, her reflection, and, of course, sneakers. Sometimes I even thank her for this unreasonable fear because knowing that getting another cat would be like Judas betraying Jesus all over again keeps me from becoming that funny old cat lady who spend all of her Social Security check on kitty litter and kibbles because she has sixty-five cats at home and by golly Frisky has sextuplets on the way!

I have learned in the past few years that it is as necessary as breathing to Sophie, The Cat, to hunt rodents and bring them into the house, whether dead or alive, because that is the only place she's secure enough to really be able to enjoy her victory. I don't like it, I bitch about it, but I forgive it just the same.

And I can even put up with the fact that she occasionally feels the need to take a good swat at The Kid, though it seems like for no apparent reason, I know it's just her way of making sure he stays in line and behaves. And with the lack of a steady father in his life, god knows, a little preemptive behavior management can never hurt.

The fleas, the snoring, the painful kneading she does to my lap while trying to get comfortable, the need to have every door in the house open AT ALL TIMES!, I can deal with all of these things, just because she loves me and I love her too.

But the thing about Sophie, The Cat, that I'm having a very hard time with is her constant meowing. It hasn't always been this way of course. At first she was quiet, unassuming, and charming. Now however, she's become comfortable, complacent, and demanding.

And obnoxious.

It is of course, partially my fault. I won't let her come in and out as freely as she'd like to, due not only to the unwanted house guests she brings in but also, it's getting pretty cold out, damn it, and I can't just leave the door open constantly because you have to go outside NOW OR I WILL DIE! only to realize five minutes later that you forgot to check on your food before leaving and you must now come back in and make sure it's still in the kitchen where you left it but will be heading back outside as soon as you do that and take a quick bath in the middle of the living room. So please stand by the door and be ready.

Plus, I'm pretty sure that she thinks when she's meowing, that I understand her. Which makes sense because when the people make noises at each other, things happen, so why shouldn't it be the same for her? And at first I was fondly willing to indulge this fantasy of hers but after a while, when for example, it's two in the morning and she's sure it's time to go outside because I rolled over, which is the same as getting up, right?, and so she sits at the door and whines until i throw a pillow at her, the fun and games have suddenly stopped.

And now so must the meowing.

Which I feel like I must point out isn't just regular old kitty meowing. No, this is like cat-in-heat-after-snorting-some-sort-of-very-strong-upper-while-being-possessed-by-the-devil meowing. Like, "I can make your ear drums burst if you don't do what I want and you know that last string of sanity you're holding onto? Yeah, I'll tear that shit up," kind of meowing.

So I decided this weekend that the only way to get her to stop the unstopable was to ignore it. Because even though she thinks I can understand her, she obviously does not understand me when I sternly hold her up and in my deepest voice, say "NO! You are not going outside right now so shut up and cut the shit!" since she directly goes back to what she was doing as soon as I put her down, which is staring at the door and making noises like a dying seal. And then I want to kill her.

So Operation Shut Up Cat started on Saturday morning. And now all I can think is that my cat is either really dumb or an evil genius because for the past 88 hours, despite the fact that I will not acknowledge her while she's doing it, she will NOT STOP MEOWING!!!!!! Once, around hour 34 I thought she was done but it turns out she only had to clean her butt real quick and after a ten second intermission, was quickly back to the concert. She has persistently meowed while I'm awake, while I'm asleep, while I work, while I cry, and even, just to drive the point home, came into the bathroom while I was taking a (nice, relaxing) bath last night, sat in the middle of the room, and meowed until I splashed water at her. Then, she moved right outside the bathroom door and whined some more.

I am officially going crazy.



On another, unrelated note, someone in Crystal Lake, Illinois really loves me. I don't know if that person is one of the lovelies who leaves comments here but if not, you should. Because you should know that I love you too and appreciate you showing up here and reading my little blog as often as you do. Also to the person or persons in New York City who frequents my page, hello and thanks for stopping by. If the rest of you (and yes there are more) want me to profess my undying love to you too, then come around more. Make my google analytical screen light up dark green and let me know you care. I promise to reciprocate.

November 4, 2007: Lesson Of The Day

Lesson Of The Day: Don't tell your boyfriend that "I want to break up with you" and that "I'll be just fine without you" when what you really mean is "I'm madly in love with you" and "I'd follow you to Mars if it meant I could be close to you" because when he decides to believe your words and that enough is enough and he isn't coming back and sometime during all the begging and crying and ankle grabbing that you're doing, he steals your heart and smuggles it out in his pocket and you don't realize it until afterwards when you go looking for it and all of a sudden MY HEART'S NOT WHERE I LEFT IT!!!, you're going to find it very difficult to eat/sleep/breath/work/smile/or anything that resembles something other than lying in your bed, staring at the wall and crying.

Shit. I think I just lost the love of my life.

Have you ever...

cried so much that eventually all the tears were gone but the pain wasn't? Like your body is saying "Okay lady, time to get over it. Let's get up and move on now." But your heart's acting like a toddler and throwing a fit, laying there pounding the ground yelling "Tears, don't you leave me too! I'm not done crying yet!!!"

It kind of reminds me of dry heaving.