It's All How You Look At It

I used to get really upset when Sophie, The Cat, would bring dead rodents into the house. I would yell and cry and vomit until she would storm into her bedroom and send text messages to all of her friends like "OMG MY MOM IS TTLY BUGGIN!!!! I H8 HER SHE DOESN'T GET THAT DEAD RODENTS ARE SO MUCH KEWLER THAN HER! LET'S GET HAMMERD. I'VE GOT CATNIP!"

dead rodent

It wasn't until she started bringing live rodents into the house that I realized what a blessing the dead ones really are. And now I thank God every time I can see the mouse's kidneys lying next to it on my living room floor because that means I won't have to spend the next two hours chasing the damn thing around, trying to get it back outside.

Intimidating Ain't She?
I have no pictures of live rodents inside my house. I'm too busy chasing them out.

Now, all Sophie's text messages say things like "MY MOM IS THE BEST!! SHE TTLY GETS ME! LET'S GET HAMMERD. I'VE GOT CATNIP! "


6 Servings Of Yum!

It's probably because most of my friends are the kind of people who just skip the whole marriage thing and go straight to getting knocked up that I haven't had to deal with too many weddings. But about two years ago, Jim's best friend decided to ask his girlfriend to marry him and that all changed. And with the big day now looming close on the horizon, this upcoming marriage has begun to become very inconvenient for me in many ways, including but not limited to:

  • Man-friend's newly renewed fear of commitment, as any type of commitment will undoubtedly result in the worst kind - Lifelong Commitment.
  • The $25.00 I just spent buying someone else a new set of baking dishes as a shower gift is $25.oo I can't spend on things like, oh I don't know, gas or food.
  • When hanging out with or hearing about engaged people, the focus revolves entirely around them and their wedding. This leaves very little focus left for me and my awesome.

But none of these things, not even having to whisper into the deep dark nights "I promise not to make you miserable and take half of your money" while Man-Friend holds his pillow in terror, has caused as much distress as this portion of an email I recently received from the mother of the bride in regards to the upcoming bridal shower:

"I also sent cards for everyone to give her a recipe. You can just write your recipe on a piece of paper or index card and I'll transfer it onto the actual recipe card. If this is something you want to do."

If this is something you want to do. . . like I have a choice. Like I'll dare be the only woman at the shower not giving the wife to be a recipe. And really it shouldn't be a problem except that all of my recipes involve three easy steps- 1. Pour contents of box into bowl 2. Cover with milk 3. Eat.

This is probably why I'm not the one getting married right now.

I thought about just copying down a recipe from Pioneer Woman's stash but they want it on a recipe card size and I'm almost positive that all the supercool pictures with her recipes wouldn't fit. I could copy one out of one of the cookbooks in the kitchen collecting dust but that almost feels like cheating. And cheating at recipe giving is one thing I just won't do.

So I've been stressing over this recipe thing for a few days now and have come to a conclusion. Since I have none of my own, I'll give her one of my dear old Nanny's tried and true recipes. I'm pretty sure your grandmother's recipes count as your own recipes so this IS NOT considered recipe giving cheating. If you disagree, feel free to voice your concerns to me at yvonne621@kissmyass.com.

While I was writing this recipe down, it occurred to me that maybe I should share the recipe with you too, Internet. Just don't claim it as your own. This one's all me Nanny.

nannys famous mac and cheese.jpg

There it is.

Internet, you're welcome.


The Most Practical Place To Store His Deodorant

The Most Practical Place To Store His Deodorant

I'm thinking that maybe he thought the lady on the back of the cereal box was looking a little sweaty and decided to leave her a hint.

Of course I've left the deodorant there on the top of the fridge (laziness mostly) and whenever I go and reach for a cup of sugar I have to resist the urge to pull the deodorant down, take off the cap and lick all the man-friend deliciousness.

What? Don't look at me like I'm crazy, it is in the kitchen!


The Chronicles Of Narnia

When we finished reading the Harry Potter series, it was like losing a good booty call friend. I tried to fill the void Harry left with other favorite books from my childhood. We read Henry Huggins and Freckle Juice, at a really low point we even tried one of the books from the Goosebumps Series.

Though the kid liked them all just fine, for me it was like having sex and never being able to reach an orgasm. Harry Potter was the pimp daddy of all bedtime stories and these? These were that guy who claims he has a great big dick and it turns out he's the size of your pinky.

But then the whole Chronicles of Narnia buzz started up because of the new movie coming out and I started thinking that maybe I'd get the first one from the library and see how it goes. My hopes were not high. But then, one afternoon we were at the supermarket and right there on the shelf, like a shining beacon of light, stood this- the ENTIRE 7 books from The Chronicles of Narnia in one convenient package. And the price was lower than the late fines would have ended up being if I'd taken them out of the library.

So we bought it, took it home, and made love began to read. I swear I just about came after the first chapter. And though no other bed time story may ever satisfy me like Harry, this one, it's coming pretty close.


Just Call Her Mother Teresa of Connecticut

If, one day, fifteen years ago, you were on your way to work and happened to cut through a busy street where drug dealers hung out and where residents were regularly going around getting themselves shot, you might have found yourself wondering what the hell a group of 26 Caucasian kids, dressed entirely in plaid, was doing standing around in a deserted parking lot on the corner of that busy street.

And you might have thought to yourself, "Awww, poor white kids. Maybe I should throw them some bread."

But if you looked across the street, you'd have seen the Catholic elementary school these kids attended and realized that what you were witnessing was not someone's cruel idea of Reparations. What you were witnessing was a Catholic school gym class. What you were witnessing was a Catholic school baseball game.

A baseball game with no gloves.

Or bases.

Sometimes there were no bats either, but really, that was rare.

And if you continued to watch the display, you might have noticed one little girl in particular cowering behind a tall athletic looking boy and thought to yourself, "Wow, that poor little white girl must be very scared of baseballs to hide like that."

But then, on the odd occasion when one of those Catholic school kids actually hit the ball, you'd see that, even though she covered her head with her arms and ran for her life, the ball would still come directly at that little girl every time and manage to hit her, and maybe then you thought, "Wow, that poor little white girl has a good reason for being scared of baseballs. She's like a freakin' ball magnet."

And then you probably drove away and never thought of it again.

Until one day, many years later, when, at your son or grandson's little league game, you see a woman coaching the other team. And you hear her shout things to her players like "Don't swing the ball until you get into the batters' box!" and "Ooops, that was a fumble. Wait are there fumbles in baseball?", and "Touch home base!" and you'd wonder who the hell elected this woman to coach a sport she obviously knows nothing about.

But it wouldn't be until you notice her involuntarily ducking every time a ball comes in her general direction that you recognize this coach as the little girl from the school parking lot so many years ago. And you question how that little girl, who hated baseball, who never played on a baseball team outside of gym class in her entire life, who never even watched baseball on T.V. until a year ago, would volunteer to teach a pack of wild baby wolves team of rambunctious little boys how to hit and field. And you'd conclude that Catholic school had probably made her a touch crazy.

And if that was what you guessed sir, well then, you would be absolutely correct.


The Afterlife

If there's a heaven, I hope mine has a giant library in it.

If I'm to be reincarnated, I hope to come back as a house cat that belongs to a rich person.

If there's no afterlife and this is all that will be, I hope I have the common sense to enjoy every last minute here.


The Post In Which I Link To Many Other Things

My pity party's not quite over yet but it's at the point where we've been drinking all night and I can't decide between the last potato chip or trying to get some sympathy from the cute guy across the room. If I eat the chip, I may blow up and then the cute guy will never want to take me home. But that chip is just so tempting with all its salty goodness.

I'm at the point in my party where things start to get deep, where the alcohol starts to make my vision hazy and since I can't stand up, I sit and think instead.

I've been living with my parents for, well, forever, except for the time when I was sixteen and I moved in with some friends for a couple of months because I was super cool and sticking it to the man (the man being my father) and then there was that time when I got pregnant and my mother kicked me out. But since I've had my son, we've been living peacefully in a small apartment in my parent's basement.

Yes, I live in my mother's basement. Just put a greasy beard, 10 years, and a beer belly on me and I'm the classic 35 year old man living at home.

However, here's the thing. It sucks to be living with your parents for many reasons, yes, but on the other hand, I have a free babysitter, a huge yard for the kid to play in, a great school, and one of the best rent rates possible. I have my own space with a separate entrance, I was able to go to college and start a business, things that I probably never could have done on my own. But now that I'm making money, now that I'm old enough to get wrinkles, I really should be supporting myself.

So I started looking at apartments. Mostly I looked at pictures of apartments on the internet and in the newspaper. But yesterday I went and visited one that's in a little town about 15 minutes away from where we are now and it was great. It was everything I ever wanted in an apartment- it has 4 walls, a bathtub, a place for a dining room table and most importantly, a dishwasher.


The only problem was that there's no mailbox. This was of great concern to me because if I had no mailbox where would all my junk mail go? And what would I do 5 times each morning if I couldn't walk outside, open the door and check to see if anyone felt the need to send me money?

The landlord said they could have one installed before we moved in. She's just been so busy, she hasn't had the time to put one up. Being the helpful soul I am I told her I'd do some research and help find a suitable box if she'd knock $100.00 off the 1st month's rent.

But let me tell you, with all the quality choices on this website, I'm having a hard time picking the best one.

First, I was drawn to this one because it could double as a birdhouse. And since I'm super cheap, I love things that can double as other things.

But then I saw this one and figured it would allow me to use that German accent I've been working tirelessly on. I'd stand by the mailbox everyday, holding a giant sausage link and a potato pancake and every time the mailman came I'd say to him "Guzenhowsen, Mickzenhome".

He'd think I was brilliant.

Of course, this copper one would offer the ultimate in class while still being sturdy enough to keep any prisoners from escaping.

This one though, well, this one might be the winner because it would look so lovely both standing straight up and lying flat on the ground after a drunk teenager mistakes it for a parking space and runs into it. I don't know, call me a thoughtful neighbor.

I'm going to print these out and bring them to the landlord and see what she says.

I imagine she'll be so thrilled with my choices, she'll take $100 off every month's rent.


An Open Invitation... Please Bring Soda or An Appetizer

You're Invited!!!!!

What: My Pity Party

Where: Here

When: NOW!

Why: Because I'm bored and feeling sorry for myself and I want you to be bored and feel sorry for yourself too.

Okay, I'll start the festivities with my sad story. Try not to cry.

I have nothing new going on. Nothing. People keep asking me what's new with life, what's new with work and I have nothing to tell them. No new clients, no new and exciting jobs, no new nothing. And it's depressing.

And my personal life? Well my boyfriend just moved into a new apartment with a new roommate, who happens to not be me. Why? Well besides the obvious 'he's an idiot who doesn't know that he should be sleeping next to me every night', I don't really know why. He was bored maybe? And it felt like the right thing to do. And since he's "not ready to move in together after 2 1/2 years because I have deep seated commitment issues so stop trying to pressure me into marrying you woman!" (I may have taken some artistic license while translating his words there) he decided to take a chance living with a moron who his best friend hates, a moron who has no job, a moron who spent a month painting his new bedroom but did nothing to clean the hellhole that they rented, a moron who doesn't keep fresh batteries in his x-box and most importantly, a moron who said boyfriend is already miserable living with.

I'm a little bitter and I can't even blame it on PMS.

And to top it off, I think I've aged more in the past month than I have in 25 years. I may or may not have found a gray hair last week. Depending on whether the offending strand grows back normal or colorless, I'll decide whether it was really a gray hair or just the result of a home-highlighting job gone astray. Also, I'm getting a wrinkle. Right in the middle of my forehead and it's happening right in front of my eyes and there's nothing I can do about it. And no matter how much I try not to show signs of emotion or in any way move my forehead, it appears to be there for good. The fact that no one else has any idea what I'm talking about, even when I point directly at it, is no comfort whatsoever.

Oh yeah, and I dropped my cell phone today and cracked it. It still works just fine but it's not nearly as pretty as it should be.

Well there you go, that's my sad tale. Please now, share yours. (If you have no sad tale, don't say that in the comments. I really don't care how happy you are right now.)

It's my pity party and I'll feel sorry for myself if I want to.