JUNCK Chick

Play Freebird!!!!

2011-09-21T05:21:00.000-07:00

It’s that time again...when summer fades into fall...and young people everywhere feel the need to live on the edge. Of course, I would much prefer it be the edge of SOMEONE ELSE’S property...but kids will be kids, right?

Um no. Here in Mayberry, when I grew up (100 million and eleventy years ago), the cheerleaders would TP the trees in the yards of the football team. Then, they would arrange to paint some snappy homecoming slogans on the shop windows around the square...like “Slay the Knights,” “Beat the Bluejays,” or “GO RAMS!” Then we would all work on floats for the parade for a week.

If you were REALLY living on the edge, you might go so far as to soap windows. But if your parents found out, you’d be back there on Sunday after church washing ALL their windows. If your house got TP’d, it meant they LIKED you! Oh the joys of popularity.

These days, things are a bit more...um, FLIPPIN’ OUT OF HAND!!!! In our neighborhood we have had toilet paper, shaving cream, condoms, mystery spray, profanity, mobs of practically grown kids scaring the bejesus out of little kids, smashed mailboxes, birdbaths full of urine, broken lights...and well, after I write this, God knows what else we’ll be in for here at Casa de Roberts.

Monday night, we were treated to a young man hurdling through our flower bed, about six inches from our living room window. Cute little guy...he wanted to cover our house with shaving cream, bless his heart. (Yes, I know exactly who it is, and I will be talking to his dad at work.)

Sadly, Mr. Fantastic & I have apparently turned into the crotchety old people in the neighborhood, and we were out the front door in a shot. “Get offa’ my lawn, you little pishers!” Well, except it wasn’t ‘pishers,’ and I decided to stand vigil until the coast was clear.

While I was in stealth mode, I had two gold colored carloads of boys pull up next to our side yard. The first bunch was dumb enough to be making a second pass, after we ran them off the first time.

Being much older, and MUCH wiser, I was lurking in the dark...with my garden hose set to ‘stun’...As they crept ever closer to the house, I held my breath...“Wait for it...wait for it...NOW!!!!” I squirted them with a jet-propelled stream of homeowner’s fury, and the three that had been dropped off ran screaming down the block like girls being chased by bats. Seriously, one of the neighbors asked me if we heard a woman screaming Monday night, and all I could say was “HAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!”

I must admit I took great pleasure in surprising the little scamps, and when one of our boys told us one of the perpetrators had told him they had been here, and could he please tell me to stay inside & away from the hose tonight, as they were coming back, all I could say was...”REAAAAAALLY? I think not.”

The other carload of boys was talking about killing cats & leaving their dead carcasses as a calling card of sorts. Um...NOT?! (I will SO hunt you down ans haul YOUR carcasses to the police station if I catch you doing something like that in this neighborhood Mister!) Luckily, they moved along before I had a stroke from trying to contain myself. (Note* If these animal killers are YOUR kids...You are bad, bad, baaaaad parents. Just sayin’...)

Anyway, after dinner tonight, I did the dishes, helped our youngest with his homework, walked the dogs, talked to a neighbor from down the block, and at dusk, Mr. F & I decided to partake in the lovely evening outside. With the hose. Here’s our conversation...

Mr. F.: Do you REALLY think they’ll be dumb enough to announce they’re coming back, and then actually show up?

Me: Really?

Him: Well, yeah. Who would do that?

Me: Did you forget these are kids? I can name 30 kids that would announce something dumb & then do it...AND...they’d put it on YouTube.

Him: Really?

Me: Yes, REALLY.

Then we sat in the enveloping darkness & waited.

Him: I don’t think the kids will be out again tonight. Wouldn’t that be boring? Doing the same thing two nights in a row?

Me: Really? Do I have to explain Mayberryesque “fun” to you again?

Him: Uh...no.

Me: I thought not.

More sitting...and waiting. Finally the cars start to cruise our ‘hood.

Him: Hey! That car has been past here like three times!

Me: Uh-huh.

Him: Is it them?

Me: No.

More waiting...Then, in a feat of non-stealth too stupid to be believed, a car pulls up on the opposite corner...RIGHT UNDER A FLIPPIN’ STREETLIGHT!!! Slammity bang, bang, bang, bang go the four doors.

Him: You’ve gotta’ be kidding me?! That is their idea of sneaking up on a house?

Me: Uh-huh.

Him: What the Hell is that kid wearing?!?!

Me: It appears to be some kind of pink onesie...or a ballerina costume.

Him: Ooooookaaaaay...What are they doing, getting ready to decorate the May Pole?!

Me: Oh Honey, these kids don’t know what a May Pole is. Cut ‘em some slack.

Him: Is that kid wearing a wrestling singlet?!

Me: Apparently it’s his superhero costume...bet he doesn’t know he left his cape in the car.

Him: (Snorts with laughter)

The foursome whispers loudly enough to be heard two blocks away, and just as they get into position and get ready to unfurl all their TP glory Mr. Fantastic lets fly with a string of ferocious homeowner-speak laced ever-so tastefully with curse-words as we pounce on the poor unsuspecting kids.

The kid with the Lycra get-up jumped about 3 feet straight up in the air, and then they all made a mad dash to their car...with us close on their heels. (Yes, we know who this one is too. Duh!)

By this point, Mr. F. has been possessed by Clint Eastwood, and has used the word “punk” approximately 37 times. I simply stand in front of their car, and call them by name, and tell them I am SO telling their parents.

In abject horror, the young criminals back all the way down the block, narrowly escaping a collision with a pick up.

Mr. F. and I retire to the porch, and wait some more.

Him: This is FUN!

Me: I know, right?!

Our Oldest: (Who has wandered upstairs for a snack) It’s good to see you guys having this much fun on a Tuesday.

Me: Yeah. Thanks for the heads’ up! There will be a little something extra in your allowance this week.

Eventually, the car with Super Gumby comes back past, with another car of reinforcements and they drive slowly past. As I spray the hose in their general direction, I receive the salute that tells me “You’re Number 1!” Then they yell something, and Mr. F. & I look at each other, and say at the same time, “Did they just yell Freebird?!”

We collapse in laughter, and decide maybe we should get some lighters for tomorrow night in case they really did yell Freebird.

Our oldest tells us we should load up the paintball rifle and take to the roof tomorrow night, and while it sounds like an amazingly fun time...it IS illegal to shoot it in town...And since WE are law-abiding citizens, we would never do that. Well, okay...probably not. No...we wouldn’t. I don’t think.

Tomorrow night, I think I’ll hide in the bushes with the dogs, and give those whippersnappers a reason to use some of that toilet paper. Until then...GO RAMS!

Head 'Em Up...Move 'Em Out

2011-07-18T08:32:00.000-07:00

Bulls in china shop...film at 11. Well, okay, so I’ve heard that bulls in a china shop don’t REALLY do much damage as they are all confused and out of their element. Apparently, Mr. Fantastic an I are the ones who cause a ruckus.

I had planned to blog about our move in chronological order, but for someone who lacks focus as much as I do (OOOOH SHINY!) the best laid plans of mice and men are often for naught. So here goes nothing...

We are FINALLY at the point where I have convinced Craig that it is too hot to move plants, and we should, instead be moving STUFF. We have moved to California and back together, and then some. We have moved stuff into my shop...and out, and then again into our new digs @RVP~1875. You would think that with all this moving, we would learn to be a bit more careful...but no.

We have left a wake of debris wider than the Raccoon River (you have to be/have been local to understand this reference) as we have moved. Breakage can be useful when trying to find a place for all the crap you have accumulated over the years. I mean come on, if you smash something to smithereens, you don’t have to find a place to display it, AND...this next one is a HUGE selling point for me...you NEVER have to dust it again.

Casualty #1 from our first load...yes, you read it right...our FIRST flippin’ load was this...

for those of you who had been in the shop...it was the piece that was never for sale, but everyone asked...an 18th century wine jug. Being fair, it did already have a hole in the bottom, which didn’t detract from it’s aesthetic charm. I love old glass, the character the bubbles give it, and the wonkiness of its liquidity.

However, it was SO humid here yesterday (117 heat index) that EVERYTHING was slippery. Seriously, I have never seen furniture fog over, but it happened yesterday. The glass got slippery outside, and as soon as we were back inside, the surface became a veritable waterfall. That being said, I wasn’t the one who dropped it! Ahem. Anyway, Mr. F. feels awful (as well he should DAMMIT).

As I tend to do when I am REALLY, REALLY PISSED OFF, I got very quiet, and cloaked myself in a cape of self-righteous indignation. Even though I repeatedly said “Oh, it’s fine...It was an accident,” I have the ability to harbor a grudge like a rock with a fossil. Just sayin’...

So we went about getting the next load, and I was silently flitting about the house gathering up things for the next load. Craig kept apologizing, and I kept saying “It’s fine,” which, as every guy who has been married more than 5 minutes knows is a time bomb waiting to explode.

Gentlemen, you will be going about your business 5 years from now, and suddenly, when you’re rinsing out your pilsner glass or coffee mug at the sink, your mate will unleash a torrent of horror, encapsulating every stupid thing you’ve done since you were 12. Sure, she may not have been there, but you can be sure she was listening when your mother was telling all those stories about dumb things you did as a kid. When the fury passes, nod apologetically, and go out and buy her something you consider a total waste of money, flowers, an expensive handbag, jewelry. It doesn’t have to be break the bank expensive, just make it something you wouldn’t normally get her. NO...not a torque wrench, or a cleaning related-appliance.

Anyway, we finally got another load together, and I march into my studio area at the new house to put some things on the closet shelf until my supply shelves get unloaded, and BLAMMO! I drop an entire case of sorted glass beads onto the floor. Um, yeah...so anyway, we’ll see what happens today.

Treat Whores on Parade...No NOT Me.

2011-02-02T08:53:00.000-08:00

OK...So...we’re having a little bit of a weather sitch here again, which I have dubbed the ‘Midwestern Winter Craptacular: Part Deux.’ The reason for the snappy en Francais addition, is because well, it IS the second snowstorm (DUH!), AND I have had to follow the yellow brick road, er...yellow snow, to figure out where the dogs have collapsed from frozen puppy toes. (Yes, this is another delightful yellow=France reference, paying homage to Pa Kettle.)

Now, our old dalmatian, Kirby, would get so cold, he would try to hold too many feet up at once and then fall over in the snow. Which always resulted in me feeling sorry for him, and making the trek through the frozen tundra (GO PACKERS! YES...They ARE going to win the Super Bowl. Just remember you heard it here first!) to go carry him in. He has since gone on to doggy heaven (RIP) where I am sure he enjoying a much more moderate climate.

Wilson, our -Flat-Coated Retriever, really likes the snow...but when the wind chill is say -20, he does his business and hustles back in. I suppose, this is partially due to the fact that he is a treat whore, and knows he will get a nummy if I don’t have to go out and carry him in. Seriously, while I CAN pick him up, I prefer not to. Especially wading through snow, which is covering the holes that Fluffy Pony Puppy has strategically dug throughout the yard in search of fun & delicious treats. Let me tell you...Falling face first into a pile of frozen dog doo, while you are carrying an 80 pound dog is not my idea of a good time.

This of course, brings us to Fluffy Pony Puppy. Ah...sweet, lady-like, delicate flower that she is. (Uh-huh.) I recently had to wrestle her new ‘chewy’ away from her before I would let her into the house. Her delectable of choice was...*drumroll please* frozen poop...on a stick. (Yes, I have a photo, but a couple of my BFF’s have said I should refrain from posting gross-out pix. Wusses!) Apparently Pony Puppy is hatching an organic treat for the State Fair ‘Food on A Stick’ category, for dogs who prefer a little nosh as they stroll the Midway.

ANYWAY...Even Pony Puppy decided her feet were cold this morning, and after mincing around the yard like a polar bear ballerina, she flopped down in the snow under a bush, and fluttered her little doggie lashes at me, indicating I should come and get her.

So, when she refused to come in from the arctic deep freeze, I had no choice. I had to go after her. Here’s the visual...me, carefully treading to the corner of the house where she can see me. Naturally, I refuse to put on my coat, because DAMMIT, Spring is coming! (That rat, Punxsutawney Phil, says so!) So there I am, yelling all of her pet names, like Ripa, Chip-Dip, Flussie, Mony Fluss & my personal, and most effective favorite...Jesus, Mary & Joseph...would you get your furry ass in the house! I am also holding a pack of hot dogs & waggling an uncooked frank around trying to lure her in.

Wilson, being the smart dog he is...sneaks up behind me, snatches the frank from my frozen fingers, and makes a beeline for the house. I extract another drippy dog from the pack, and, keeping an eye out for Black Bart, tempt Pony Puppy with another num-num. Wilson again, tries to snatch the treat, and I have to fend him off & yell at him to go INSIDE. Which, he SO doesn’t, Instead, he keeps leaping up, and pawing me...trying to snag said taste treat.

Pony Puppy FINALLY decided to come in, and they race for the door, nearly knocking me off the edge of the snow covered, terraced flower bed. I somehow remain upright, and make my way into the house, where Ripley (Pony Puppy’s real name) thanks me for the show, and says “Gimme!” She runs off with her frank, and promptly flops onto the sofa, smearing hot dog juice, and snow all over. Wilson lies a few feet away growling..trying to get her to give up her treat. She flips him off, and begins throwing her treat around on the couch in doggie delight.

I, on the other hand, have decided I am not letting them back outside until Spring. I’ll teach them to use the bathroom...They can’t make a worse mess than teenage boys.

Stupid Is, As Stupid Does...Yep, THAT Would Be Me

2011-01-24T09:18:00.000-08:00

SO...The fam and I went shopping this weekend, as our oldest needed a new dress shirt and tie for Winter Formal. It’s funny how the kids get older, and I just stay the same age. Not quite sure HOW that happens, but whatever.

Anyway, this silver mini van rode my tail for about 20 miles...on a four lane. They could have easily gone around us, but NOOOO! Well, they finally passed, and cut over in front of us, nearly taking my front end off. (Yes, there was swearing...but it’s okay, the boys had on their headphones.) So, I am all rats-a-fratsa-frick-a rawr-rawr-rawr!

Once they are in front of us, we are privy to a view of the broad in the passenger seat flapping a map around, not unlike a chicken with it’s head cut off. (Yes, I HAVE seen it.) After a few minutes of flapping the map, and still not taking flight, she shoves it at the guy driving, just as he is preparing to merge onto the Interstate. He grabs it, and folds it for her, so she has a view of the area they are momentarily going to be crashing in...Listen SISTER...turn in your Big Girl card, because you give the rest of us a bad name. I suppose I should be thankful she wasn’t driving, the way she was spazzing out, but come on! How do you get to be a grown-up, and not know how to fold a map, or a newspaper...URGH! That’s another one of my pet peeves. It’s not like newspapers are even as tricky as a map, but some people apparently can’t handle it, and just wad it up round and round, like a skein of yarn & call it good. Of course, these are the people who ALWAYS snatch your newspaper and read it first. GAH!

Next, for our traveling pleasure we were also lucky enough to be next to some chick on the exit ramp whose front tire was, for all intents and purposes, flat. She was in her own little world, so my efforts to catch her eye went unnoticed. Seriously, it’s no wonder men complain about the relationship women have with cars! They are giving the rest of us a bad name!

I had time to notice the goings on around me as I had picked THE WRONG FREAKIN’ LANE to be in. SIGH...It’s a gift, I know. I also choose the wrong lane at the grocery checkout, the bank, and the wrong ticket line at concerts & sporting events. YAY ME!

After I changed lanes, and we got to the stoppage, it was, guess what?!?! A WOMAN...Who upon exiting Red Robin drove her car clear up on top of the snow bank that was left over from them plowing the drive. HOW DOES THAT EVEN HAPPEN?!?!?!? I mean, really...You’re sitting in your little car...and can’t even see over the snow bank, and what? You are suddenly gripped by the urge to try and hill climb your way to the mall? Um...no.

Naturally I launch into a rant about crappy women drivers giving the rest of us a bad name, and finish up as we pull into the mall parking lot. We decided to try Joe’s Crab Shack for lunch since we had never been there. I am immediately drawn to the kitsch of the place, and am looking around at the corrugated tin ceilings and beams when Mr. Fantastic tells me to quit gawking around, as I look like a nut job. Then, 2 seconds later, shouts, “Ooooh! Look at that neon beer sign.” Okaaay...

The servers make the announcement that “This shack will be rockin’ in TWO MINUTES!” My menfolk look at me like I’m supposed to know what this means, and I simply shrug and return to my perusing my menu.

Suddenly the Cupid Shuffle comes on, and the servers line up directly behind Mr. Fantastic and start dancing. YAY! Naturally, I begin table dancing, much to the chagrin of Mr. Fantastic, and Shaq, our oldest. “I LOVE THIS SONG!” I happily declare, and our youngest agrees. Fun...fun...fun...comes to a screeching halt when Shaq tells me in his outside voice that I am embarrassing him. I roll my eyes, and return to boring mom demeanor, and tell him, "You and your father are officially FUN HATERS!"

Shaq can’t decide what to get, so I agree to get the other entree he wants, so he can try calamari...which, sadly, was mostly breading and had no taste. While we were waiting for our food, Mr. F. suggests Shaq get a ‘Got Crabs?’ shirt to wear to the upcoming Winter Formal, and he and Shaq have a good laugh. How declasse! Now I am rolling MY eyes.

As we are finishing up our meal, the shack starts rocking to, appropriately enough...LOVE SHACK! YAY! Mr. Fantastic tells us all to get a move on so we can leave what he now refers to as Joe’s Crazy Shack. Kill joy.

We head inside to the mall, ostensibly to look for Winter Formal attire...However, Mr. Fantastic needs some new pants for work, so we begin the hunt for pants. He really likes the Ralph Lauren pants he already has, but all we can find are pleated ones. In case you don’t already know...pleated pants should be outlawed. The only people they look decent on are prepubescent 60 pound boys. I am stricken that Ralph Lauren’s peeps can’t follow this one simple fashion rule. As we can find no appropriate pants, Mr. F. has changed course, and is now trying on pullovers. He has the good sense to ask me what colors he should try, and I hand him a couple to add to his stack.

The first two look absolutely fabulous! And then...he comes out wearing the same style in, well...poo brown. Having been married so long, I feel free to tell him he looks like Mr. Hankey from South Park (who is actually talking poo), and he stomps back into the dressing room. (After thoroughly thanking me and telling me I’m Number One, of course.)

Then we’re off to look at dress shirts and ties for Shaq. (Thank God he already has dress shoes that fit, or I’d be waiting tables after my other two jobs to pay for them.) Shaq defers to me...smart boy that he is, and lets me suggest colors. We find the perfect shirt, and then remember he needs a belt. Oh, this looks nice. I flip it over, and see it’s $50 and say...um, no. Keep looking! We find a nice belt that won’t leave us eating Ramen Noodles EVERY night this week, snag a tie, and head out to finish up our other shopping.

As we pull out of the parking lot, I notice my check gauges light flick on and go off at the stop sign. Hmmmm...We drive across town to finish up our other shopping, and it comes on again, but goes off right away. Now, my JUNCK truck is getting up there in years. But it’s paid for, hauls kids, dogs and LOTS of stuff, AND I don’t have the money for a different vehicle, so ‘nuff said. We begin the trek home, and I notice my oil gauge is dipping and rising in perfect rhythm to my starting and stopping. GAH!!!

Me: (Getting a bit yelly) When was the last time you checked the oil in my car?!

Mr. Fantastic: It’s YOUR car...When did YOU last check it?

Me: That’s not my job! You’re the MAN...You’re supposed to do it.

Mr. Fantastic: (With a sly grin on his face) So, I DON’T have to clean the bathroom & do dishes, because it’s WOMEN’S work...Is that what you’re saying?

Me: NO...DAMMIT! That’s NOT what I’m saying. I’m saying this is YOUR job, because I say it is!

Mr. Fantastic: Uh-huh.

Me: DAMN! DAMN! FRICKIN’ DAMN! Don’t listen to Mommy boys, I said some bad words. I’m sorry.

Shaq: Pfffft! Like we haven’t heard them a million other times.

Me: Don’t roll your eyes at me YOUNG MAN! I will SO stop this car and THEN you’ll be sorry.

Shaq: And that would be different from now, how exactly?

Me: GAH!

Luckily, there is a new WalMart between us and where my engine would most likely seize up...SOOOO...I head for the exit and make a beeline for the automotive supplies, while Mr. F. laughs his ass off in the car. DAMMIT! I decide I need a frappucino to get me home, and toss my stuff onto the checkout conveyor and stomp back across the parking lot.

Mr. Fantastic instructs me to stay outside with him while he puts the oil in my truck.

Me: (Whiny and annoying) Bu-bu-bu-bu-butt, I’m FREEZING!

Mr. F: Oh, like I’m in Florida over here?

Me: Well, YOU have your jacket on.

Mr. F: And you don’t because???

Me: BECAUSE...It’s in the back of the truck...

Mr. F: And that would be because why?

Me: SIGH...I’m being a girl.

Mr. F: BINGO!

So, I stand there rolling my eyes, and cursing him out under my breath (only because my lips are frozen, and I look like a ventriloquist). He finishes up as snow flakes begin to fly, and I stomp across the parking lot to throw away the empty oil containers. (Yes, as in multiple containers, because...Say it with me...I, am a DUMBASS.)

So, after the majority of my day was spent talking about how stupid other women can be, it came back to bite me square in the ass. Oh...but it’s not over yet... There’s more.

Once we get on the road, and my fingers thaw out enough to release the steering wheel for a second, I ask for my Frappucino...the kind in the glass bottle, with the metal cap. I take a swig, and hand it back to Mr. F. who puts it back in the cup holder.

We drive a few miles further down the road, and I reach out to get another drink. Without taking my eyes off the road (because that is what careful women drivers do), I begin twisting the cap off the bottle, without looking, and shout “What the HELL?! How hard did you put this cap on for cryin’ out loud?! ASSHAT! You might notice I’m trying to drive here!” Then...my fingers discovers there is a hole in the top of the bottle. There IS no cap on my drink. I have been trying to twist the neck right off the bottle. CRAP! The car erupts in laughter at my dumbassedness, and I toss out a quick ‘Har dee har har,’ and then attempt to drive in silence the rest of the way home. However, every five minutes, Mr. F. keeps saying, “Here, Hon...let me open that for you. Oh wait! It’s already open.”

Just wait...revenge is a dish best served cold, and it’s STILL January in Iowa.

JUNCK Chick Vocabulary Lesson #1

2011-01-22T05:48:00.000-08:00

As you may well be aware, if you read my blog with any regularity, I have a propensity for using descriptive made-up words, and calling things by other names...such as:

HOOPTY - My own personal cheer of celebration. Usually connected by several exclamation points to other words. Ex: WOOT!!!!HOOPTY!!!YAY!!! and...

ELEVENTY - which is a REALLY big number. Less than a gazillion and more than ten.

Fluffy Pony-Puppy - Whose real name is Ripley. However she is
a.) VERY fluffy
2.) The size of a pony
III.) Obviously a puppy (DUH!)

I also tend to be a bit um, outspoken...If you have wronged me, or done something stupid, like walking through the grocery store with your dress tucked in your pantyhose, people are SO going to hear about it.

I may seem a bit harsh at times, but, I can assure you, that it is all for the greater good of mankind. Plus, several people have had NO problem being cruel and unpleasant to me and other members of the general population over the years, so I figure that in order to keep the universe in balance, the JACKWADS have it coming.

On the upside of my seemingly um, STRONG personality is the fact that I can throw down a huge pair brass balls on the table during a business meeting with the rest of the guys. Seriously, talk around me, go behind my back, or take the credit for my shit, and I am SO coming after you. However, everyone that meets me, gets their introductory manual to the JUNCK Chick in the first five minutes of meeting me, so it’s all good.

PLUS...if you’re my friend, I will take a bullet for you. Seems like a pretty fair trade-off in a world of wishy-washy to me.

ANYWAY...Mr. Fantastic and I have been together a LOOOONG time...Since there were dinosaurs. Well, okay not THAT long...(even though some of his family dinners resemble the Land Before Time...), but he’s loved me since I had big 80’s hair, so that’s all you need to know.

He has been putting up with my imaginary vocabulary from day one. Seriously, when we lived in Woodland, California, I can remember standing in the front yard talking to one of our friends, and I was trying to think of the word ‘cartilage’ of all things. When I couldn’t, after pausing for a whole tenth of a second (I am nothing, if not impulsive), I chose to insert the word ‘bendy-bones’ into the conversation. Since our friend also happened to be a woman, she didn’t miss a beat. She nodded, and the conversation would have kept right on going, were it not for Mr. Fantastic...Who immediately forced it to come to a screeching halt, by shouting “BENDY BONES?!”

We both looked at him like HE was the weirdo, shrugged, and then continued talking. This incident has been fueling his fire of making fun of my vocabulary whenever the opportunity presents itself. Which is usually on a daily basis. (Yes, I am rolling my eyes.)

He refers to what I do, as my own personal version of ‘Speaking in Tongues’. (No offense to those of you who attend a church where this actually happens, but I am a Methodist, and we think you’re the DEVIL! Just kidding...See, it’s more of my effervescent wit and charm that my friends, who are strong and sturdy people, and who put up with my crazy-ass ways, are willing to embrace.)

ANYWAY...many evenings when we are watching television...I will begin to channel words that apparently come from somewhere other than this planet. (Seriously, it’s too freakin’ cold to be outside lately...unless you’re our friends, Rich & Reagan, who have actually built their own Zamboni for God’s sake! Silly Colorado transplants!)

Case in point: Last night we were watching television, and I began rambling about something that I thought was TOTALLY relevant to what we were watching. Some craptacular bad 70’s movie, as Mr. Fantastic seems to have a penchant for the ridiculous. (He just looked over my shoulder on his way out the door and said ‘Of course I do...I married you.’ He’s SO romantic!)

Everyone in the movie seemed to be dressed in stuff they stole from Rob Halford’s closet. (He’s the lead singer for Judas Priest if you’re not up to speed on rock and or roll.) And NO...it wasn’t Mad Max. Which means there’s more than one REALLY BAD post-apocalyptic movie. GAH!

Apparently, I made too much fun of the movie, and he began channel checking, and ran across, get this...PROFESSIONAL WRESTLING. Being in ‘make fun of everything mode,’ I immediately squealed with delight, because how can you NOT make fun of it?! (My apol...Oh screw it! If you watch the WWE on a regular basis we are probably not friends anyway. And if we are, well, then you’re just that kick ass! However, my high school boyfriend used to go home early on Saturday night to watch the WWF, and that SOOOO should have been a clue it wasn’t gonna’ work out. Of course, that meant I got to watch SNL when it was AWESOME...so I guess it’s a wash.)

Anyway, last night, while we were channel surfing, WWE was having an ‘amateur’ wrestling match between some guy who was actually wearing a singlet and headgear(Yes, I AM horrified that I know what they’re called!), and some dude with dreadlocks and what appeared to be the wrestling equivalent of red Speedos. Talk about too much information! Sorry, but I SO don’t need the camera to zoom in on that!

Since I was so appalled by the entire show, NATURALLY, Mr. Fantastic decided we should watch it for a bit. ASSHAT! Anywho...they began their little wrestling dance thingie, where they hop around the ring with their arms outstretched like the Jets and the Sharks from West Side Story. (Seriously, all that was missing was the snapping!)THEN the big guy, who looked like Biff, from Back to the Future, made his move.

I began spouting things like “Ooooh TAKEDOWN! That’s 2 points! YES! A reversal! Oh no! Dreadlock guy got a point for an escape!” Then I realized Mr. Fantastic was staring at me, with his mouth hanging open, like I was from another planet.

“HOLY CRAP! Where did THAT come from?!” I asked out loud in disbelief. “That’s what I was wondering,” said Mr. F., still staring at me like I had sprouted horns & giant neck tats. (Shhhh, I try to keep them hidden.)

Hmmmm...I guess that whole ‘speaking in tongues’ thing might exist after all. Now if I could just channel someone who liked to exercise...THEN I would be onto something!

Say It With Me...OMG

2011-01-19T06:45:00.000-08:00

SO...this past weekend, I went out with my theatre peeps & came home so wound on Saturday night that I couldn’t go to sleep. Which was perfectly fine with the dogs, because they wanted to go outside & play in the snow. Being the wonderful dog mom I am, I naturally lurked in the background, listening for the roaming pack of coyotes that seems to have taken up residence in the ravine outside our bedroom window about every third night. I’m not sure where they are the other two nights, but I suspect they may be staying at Motel 6, as the national media has made it abundantly clear that they have low, low rates.

Since I was up until the wee hours (I know, I just said wee...HA), I decided to exercise my prerogative (Hey! That should be a song!..Oh wait, it is...nevermind), and haul my fat sorry butt back to bed. Craig’s nephew had a wrestling tournament, and while I love little E to death, the thought of a gym full of sweaty wrestler stink on a Sunday morning was a bit more funk than I wanted to embrace.

Of course, my decision to luxuriate in bed, instead of going to the Hootenanny with the Kettle Clan, made Mr. Fantastic a bit testy. He then had to ask me 20 times if I was coming (Noooo...hence the fact that I am lying in bed in my pajamas with the pillow over my head trying to ignore you.) So slammity-bang, out the door they all went in the wake of Mr. F.’s huff, and I began receiving messages from our oldest, thanking me for letting his dad haul HIM out of bed on a Sunday morning to go watch Sea Monkeys wrestle. Seriously, what weight class does 27 pounds fall under?!?! (Oh, and by the way Honey, you’re welcome.)

After Mr. Fantastic made so much noise, the dogs decided they wanted to play, and I was pounced upon by a set of ginormous Fluffy Pony Puppy feet that for some reason undiscovered as yet by science, smell like Fritos. Seriously, I’m not sure why they do, but when I wake up wanting Mexican food for breakfast, I know Pony Puppy has been flopped across the bed.

Not too long after I got up and poured myself a mug of wonderful Greene Bean Coffee, the menfolk arrived home. Apparently, the Kettles has commented a little loudly about some little girl wrestling, to her parents...only ‘she’ wasn’t a girl...and with the waiting in between matches...well, my menfolk decided to cut & run. Nothing against wrestling mind you, it’s just not my cup of tea. For some reason, singlets give me the willies...

ANYWAY...when they got home, Mr. Fantastic told me to sit down. This is NEVER a good sign....

He said Pa Kettle is planning on attending his Army reunion this summer. Of course, this announcement caused me to get a bit yelly. They won’t fly...because they had to travel in transport planes when he was in the Army. Which, given MY personal flight experiences with the airlines & security, actually sounds like a more attractive option. However, this personal ban on flying means the man who can’t stay awake after Sunday dinner, or navigate the bleachers at a ballgame due to his instability is planning a 1,000 MILE ROADTRIP to New Orleans! Um, no. Sorry, but no.

In all fairness, their new van has already been broken in, as Ma Kettle slid in to the ditch next to their mailbox, while attempting an extremely tricky manuever...called backing out to go the grocery store. And she’s the better driver of the pair. GAH!

Which began the following conversation...

Me: What the HELL?!

Mr. F: I know...

Me: They CAN’T go...You know that right?

Mr. F: They SHOULDN’T go...

Me: What the HELL does THAT mean?!

Mr. F: Who am I to tell him they can’t go?

Me: YOU...are the son who is going to march into their house & take their car keys...THAT’S who you are!

Mr. F: I can’t do that.

Me: The HELL if you can’t.

Mr. F: He’s my dad, and I can’t MAKE him do anything.

Me: Damn straight he’s YOUR dad! Unless you want to spend the next five years settling lawsuits from the accidents he causes...

Mr. F: SIGH

Me: What?!

Mr. F: There’s more...

Me: Sweet Jesus...what else?

Mr. F: He said he’s thinking about packing.

Me: Well, of course. You always pack for a trip. DUH!

Mr. F: No. Packing...and he wants your opinion.

Me: Ooooh...I GET it. Since I traveled for work, they want me to help them.

Mr. F: Nooooo....PACK-ING.

Me: Come again?

Mr. F: You know EXACTLY what I’m saying.

PAUSE

Me: IS HE OUT OF HIS EFFIN’ MIND?!

Mr. F: He wanted to know what I thought.

Me: AND?

Mr. F: Then he asked me what you would think.

Me: Sweet Jesus, Mary & Joseph!

Mr. F: Well...

Me: Well WHAT?! N-O...NO! It’s totally out of the question. I forbid it. (Because I AM Master of the Universe you know...Well, when God’s busy doing other things besides dealing with totally ASININE things like this!)

Me: The man can’t get through Sunday without a nap.

Mr. F: Neither can you.

Me: Har dee har har! But I don’t want a gun now, do I?! (Unless it’s chocolate & shoots a stream of ooey gooey caramel, that is.)

Me: Case closed. Not gonna’ happen.

At which point we stopped talking about it. So there you have it people. Thanks to everyone panicking, and name calling because of some crazy-ass off his rocker kid, who should have been in a mental facility getting treatment and medication...and people like Julian Assange making EVERYONE on the planet feel vulnerable, old people think they need to pack heat to go to the grocery store.

Not quite sure how I’m going to fix this one, but Plan A is Brownies laced with Ambien...

S-A-T-U-R-D-A-Y Night!

2011-01-16T11:42:00.000-08:00

SO...I went out with my theatre Peeps last night for Karaoke. Since we thespian types are all about attention, it’s only natural that we would want to stand up in front of complete strangers and say, ‘LOOK AT ME!’ Since most of us tend to be type A personalities with a bajillion things on our plate, when we finally go blow off steam, there’s a show.

We went to a ‘quaint’ little bar in a nearby village that apparently has little contact with the outside world, and hasn’t gotten the memo that smoking, especially indoors, is um, BAD for you. It was pretty cold last night, so when we opened the door and smoke rolled out, we mistook it for warm air. However, there was so much smoke hanging around in that place, Cheech & Chong could rent it for a prop. I may, in fact, have to burn my clothes. This morning, there was still a little cloud hanging over them in the corner of the bedroom,where I dropped them like a hot potato in an effort to quickly escape their toxicity.

Mr. Fantastic didn’t come along, as he was watching the Packers kick butt in the comfort of our smoke-free living room. Dammit. So I was unleashed on the world, like a babe in the woods. Um, yeah. Anyway...So there we were, singing and dancing and laughing when my friend, Jenny & I decided to make a trip to the ladies room. (See above photo for verification of the fine, fine establishment we visited.) Being the kind, generous & loving person I am, I let her use the facilities first.

So, I’m staring intently at the door waiting my turn, when some big guy in a safety-green shirt approached me. He introduced himself (Forrest Gump of Bubba Gump Shrimp) and told me where he was from (SO don’t care!), and since I am all about etiquette and manners (OK...quit laughing dammit!) I extended my hand and gave him my first name (no town). I THOUGHT he was going to shake my hand, but instead he apparently decided my left boob looked lonely...Which left me no other option than to say, “What the HELL was THAT?!” Then...he said, “You’re pretty.” Um, yeah.

Jenny exited from the bathroom with a quizzical look on her face, and I bolted inside, and locked the door. I waited until a decent amount of time had passed in the hopes he had quit stalking the ladies room. Whew! He had moved back to a table. Then I walked up and punched my friend/biz partner, Robby, in the arm for failing to protect me, even though I am sure I would be the LAST person he would think needs protection. Plus, he was watching the Packer game on the bar’s tiny little TV, and had no idea why I was accosting him. This, no doubt, led him to conclude that I was being a drunkety pain in the ass. And that’s why we get along so well...he totally gets me.

My peeps and I gathered at our group of tables blowing off steam & perusing the catalog of available karaoke songs. I, of course pick 1985, by Bowling for Soup. Because, being the portly, middle-aged bad singer I am, I KNEW everyone wanted to hear me sing about “shaking my ass on the hood of Whitesnake’s car.” Seriously...picture Alfred Hitchcock with hair...shaking what the good Lord gave him.

Which of course, SHOULD have deterred anyone from harboring any type of romantical-type thoughts about me. But NOOOOOO...this time on my trip to the bathroom, some younger guy sitting at the bar told me I had “a nice big pair,” and reached out to touch someone...ME! Seriously people, you’d have thought they had never seen boobs before! I’m not quite sure what was going on in the land that time forgot last night, but it was obvious that there are some mighty desperate male-type folks out there. I would SO not date again if anything happened to Mr. Fantastic, and my heart goes out to those of you who are on the front lines everyday.

My friend Nick, (of the fabulous couple, Nick & Lindy) has promised to clone himself the next time we go out, so he can keep me company if Mr. F. doesn’t come. At some point during the evening, I switched over to mom mode, and in lieu of cookies, I began patting people while we talked, so apparently I am a bit of an old lady-type stalker myself. SIGH...Oh well, they know me here, and they’re all still talking to me...I think. Well, I’m off in search of my inhaler...I just hacked up a pack of Marlboro’s and a quarter. Not sure where the quarter came from, but I’m keeping it!

Happy Metal New Year

2011-01-14T06:28:00.000-08:00

OK...So we had a snow day a couple of days ago, and I helped our youngest go through his portfolio folder for school. Bear in mind, this is a kid who couldn’t ever QUITE get his desk closed at school because there was SO much crap in it. Yeah, so NOW he has taken to hauling it all around with him. Seriously, it’s like my mother-in-law’s purse. I know he’s only 12, but he’s such a collector of crap, I’ll bet you could rifle through there and find enough stuff for MacGyver to rappel down Mount Rushmore while noshing candy necklaces, wearing a belt strung with every McDonalds giveaway toy...EVER. (Yes, I AM rolling my eyes so hard, I just gave myself a headache.)

Anyway, I knew he had worked on a Christmas booklet as a present for us at school in language. (Hey, I WORK at the Middle School...I can tell you ALL SORTS OF THINGS you don’t know...like, “OMG...He has on a TOTALLY CUTE outfit today! I about passed out walking up the stairs behind him, and I followed him all the way down the hall to class. He is F-I-N-E!”

SO...before Christmas break started, I asked our little dear where said booklet was. He said “I don’t know.” Which is pretty much his standard reply for every question you ever ask him, unless it involves food, presents or money.

Well, it is now WELL after Christmas, and we are going through his portfolio folder thingie, which now weighs more than he does...And what should we find? The Christmas booklet! So I jump all over him, and say, “What is that?!” To which he replies, “I don’t know...” GAH!!!!!! “Weren’t you supposed to give us this BEFORE Christmas?!” You know what he said? Yep, you guessed it...”I DON’T KNOW.”

The booklet was filled with the usual ‘What I Want For Christmas...Best Christmas Present Ever...Fun Things to Do in Winter...and my two personal favorites...

The first, is a letter to Mr. Fantastic, telling him he is the coolest, most fun dad ever. I suppose I could have my feelings hurt a bit, since I do EVERYTHING for my family, but I digress, it was nice to see Mr. F get some props. Plus, I am a mean, mean mom. Yep, you heard it here first.

Case in point...the other night he had lied about not having any homework for the BAJILLIONTH time. I’m not sure at what point he’s going to figure out “Oh! My mom works at the school and knows EXACTLY what homework I have, because she sees the assignments EVERY DAY!” Apparently that epiphany is a bit off for him...Anyway, I knew he was lying...AGAIN...and therefore I was reading him the riot act.

My tirade ended with “Do you think I ENJOY being angry & yelling at you every day about not doing your work?!” His response? “Well, you ARE pretty good at it.” Um, yeah. Frankly I was SO happy he didn’t say “I don’t know,” it was hard not to laugh. However, I have to keep up my mean mom rep, so I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling.

I thumbed through the booklet quickly to see what it said before handing it off to Mr. Fantastic, and began snorting with laughter. Naturally, Mr. F. had to come see what had me laughing so hard I was snorting, and here is the page our little cherub devoted to his Favorite Holiday Songs:

Yes, that’s right...Our little guy’s favorite tunes to get in the Christmas mood and celebrate the birth of Jesus are by classic holiday artists such as Ozzy Osbourne, Slaughter, Metallica and the man who launched the rock & roll devil horns on the world, Ronnie James Dio.

Naturally, this has spurred Mr. Fantastic to create new Christmas-themed lyrics for these songs such as:

“Up all night...On Santa’s sleigh...MERRY CHRISTMAS!”

“Like Rudolph in the Dark...”

AND my personal favorite...

“We’re goin’ off the rails on a Crazy Sleigh!”

We are SO proud. (In case Weird Al hasn’t twisted Christmas yet, we ARE willing to cut a deal for Mr. F’s lyrical magic.) Well, I’m off to work to see who will take the prize for most alternative middle schooler today. My money’s on that Justin Beiber-looking kid. I hear he’s got Pop Rocks and soda in his locker.

JUNCK Chick Gangsta Rap...Word

2011-01-07T07:18:00.001-08:00

OK...So this is may not be what you expect from the JUNCK Chick, self-proclaimed Queen of Mean. (Hell, Leona Helmsley is dead, so the gig was available.) However, this post is TOTALLY going to humiliate my kids and Mr. Fantastic, so you might still be mildly entertained. I must come clean. I...am a huge dork. Yes, it’s true. You heard it here first. I feel like there should be some meeting I should go to...

“Hi, my name is Kristin, and I dance around my house and sing made up songs.”

Whew! That’s a load off of my mind! I can start the New Year with a clean slate.

With the Christmas spending extravaganza behind us, I was talking with our oldest the other day, about well, stuff. He was being a little less than grateful about what we could afford to do this year. I was explaining to him that his dad & I made an agreement when we bought this house, that we would no longer use plastic. If we don’t have the cash, we don’t get it. (Which, at this point in my career, means we don’t get it.)

He was wistfully remembering the days when I had to travel for work, and would arrive halfway through his baseball games in the scorching heat in a Ralph Lauren suit...bearing gifts. I suppose I fell into that all-too common, I’m gone a lot, so Mommy’s going to buy you stuff since I can’t spend as much time with you as I’d like syndrome. (I TOTALLY blame that whole ‘Momma’s gonna’ buy you a Mockingbird’ song for this! Seriously, have you sung that song to your kids??? IT...NEVER...ENDS!!!!)

Well, once I gave up the traveling, and meetings with Senators and other high-rollers, I began to make less money. CONSIDERABLY LESS MONEY. Sigh. There were no more trips to the mall just because we felt like today was a good day to shop. No more ordering stuff randomly because, “Dammit! I work hard, I deserve it.”

Let me tell you something...there’s a LOT to be said for having money! Uh-huh. Yep. Money...is...FAB-U-LOUS! WAIT! No, that’s not where I’m going with this. I just got distracted momentarily by something shiny.

OK. So, our oldest, Shaq, and I were sitting in the living room talking about life, and how EVERYONE ELSE has it better. I assured him that it might LOOK like that, but, in fact, a billion people a day are starving in the world. A FRIGGIN BILLION!!!! WTF?! Seriously, we have got to do something about that.

Of course, this brought on the eye-roll. Seriously, he rolled his eyes so hard, I thought I was going to have to spring up and snatch them back before Pony-Puppy ran off with them.

I thought to myself, how can I explain this to him in language he’ll understand. I know! MUSIC! More specifically a rap song. I mean what teenager doesn’t want to see their mom beat-boxing in the living room?! I know...ALL OF THEM! Which is precisely why I chose to horrify him in this manner. I knew he wouldn’t forget it. HA!

So here’s my song...You’ll have to get your groove on by yourselves, because I don’t have enough frequent flier miles leftover from my previous life to come serenade you all personally. Try to get a repetitive beat going that goes something like this while you read...

Chunk chunka-chonk a-chunk-chunka-chunka-chonka

OK...Here goes:

If every kiss begins with...things you can’t afford,
Does love mean buying stuff, or else you are ignored?

The ones who would love you, for you and nothing else,
Are the ones we don’t see, we leave up on the shelf.

Life is a game of kickball in the gym...the ones we don’t pick,
Could be sent by Him.

Can you afford, to make that mistake?
If it’s things that make you happy, not the people that you’re with...
You need to change and rearrange to get the biggest gift.

That’s love.

Word...from your mother.

Then...he threw up in his mouth a little, and made me promise NEVER to do it again...especially in public, and then ran to his room and hid. So of course, I thought I’d put it on my blog.

I’m Audi 5000 Peeps!

(P.S. I sincerely apologize for embarrassing Ralph Lauren in this manner. The man makes a fabulous suit!)

Viva La Cupcake!

2011-01-04T03:09:00.000-08:00

I just read an NPR story predicting trends, with the title "Cupcakes are Dead. Long Live the Pie!" Pfffft! Unless they figure out a way to stuff a pie crust made from chocolate cake with fluffy creme filling, and slather it with frosting, this is SUCH a loseriffic prediction.

Now, to back up my claim as Fatass Queen of All Things Desserty Who Knows Pretty Much Everything, I recently worked at a fundraiser thingy where they served desserts, and let me tell you, the little individual pie tart thingies were crying in their beer at the end of the night. Oh wait, that was me...Oh sure, there were the prerequisite number of older people whose eyes glazed over the minute they saw pecan pie. OK, so I am all for pecans, especially the praline variety...But mix it in wallpaper paste & scoop it into a pie crust, and I am SO not eating it. Let’s face it, unless pie disguises itself as oh, say, a candy bar (aka Peanut Butter Cup Pie, Snickers Pie, Heath Pie...Well, you get the idea...There is NO WAY IN H-E-DOUBLE HOCKEY STICKS that pie will overtake cake in popularity.

Let’s face it, pie was originally invented to repackage stuff that you really don’t want to know you are eating in the first place. Like ‘overripe’ (aka rotten) fruit, four and 20 blackbirds (seriously how icky is THAT?!), leftover turkey & gravy that’s still hanging around in the fridge near Christmas that’s been there since Thanksgiving, and God only knows what else.

Yeah, I can SO see wedding pie. Seriously, if you suggested “Hey, cake is SO last year... NPR says so. Let’s go look at wedding pies,” to a bride-to-be, she would use all of her pre-bride energy to put you into a coma. And if you tried to shove wedding pie into her face during pictures, I can tell you EXACTLY where she’s gonna shove the rest of that pie.

I mean come on. Envision yourself at a kids’ birthday party. The kids are all hopped up on Pixy Stix and soda...(Hey, don’t judge me! This is an imaginary birthday party for someone else’s kids for cryin’ out loud!) They have their eyes set on playing with that new Robotic-Transformer-Lego thingamajig they brought for the birthday boy. Sure, it’s the birthday kids’ toy, and there will be a tussle over who gets to play with it first, but you know moms, she’ll make him SHARE his plunder. Mwah hah hah haaaa!

OK. Sooooo anyway, the little cherubs are sitting there, all fresh-faced and dewy eyed, with great expectations of dessert. It doesn’t matter that little Johnny ate too much, and hurled red Kool Aid laced with hot dogs all over his little sister. That was 30 minutes ago, and besides, he was just making room for...DOOT DOOT DOOOOO!!!! Birthday... PIE???? WTF?!?! REALLY? Um, no. You get us all worked up into a frosting frenzy, and then...Hello Boysenberry? I think not. (As for the Boysenberry Farmers of America, you can suck it. THIS is a birthday party, not Great Aunt Sally’s Thanksgiving dinner, where some old fart is going to have a conniption if there isn’t mincemeat AND pecan pie. Really? Who eats mincemeat? Oh that’s right...MY IN-LAWS! I’m sorry, but the word ‘meat’ SO doesn’t belong anywhere near dessert. Of course, the recipe I saw said add Brandy to suit your own taste. Which totally makes sense...I mean if you’re eating dessert with fruited meat, you’d HAVE to be liquored up to eat it. Listen up Sally, skip the meat pie & just grab a glass. You can thank me later.

Besides, no one ever fought over who got to lick the candles stuck in a pie. Frosting and melted wax = good, gooseberries and melted wax = bad. Let me put it to you this way...When you think back to your happiest birthday memories, is everyone singing Happy Birthday as your mom carries frosted fluffy-topped bliss, with her smiling angelic face aglow in the golden candle light? Or is she wielding a spatula and a pie tin containing alternately soggy & burned crust filled with congealed gelatinous cherries, that in all actuality look like over-engorged giant ticks? I rest my case.

Happy Birthday to you all! Cupcakes for everyone!

Midwestern Winter Craptacular

2010-12-18T05:44:00.000-08:00

SO...We had the first blast of our Midwestern Winter Craptacular. It started with rain...which, yep, you guessed it glazed everything in its path like an impenetrable donut.

I donned my big, red, puffy Land’s End parka, which, since I am the puffy part of that equation, leaves me looking like the Michelin Man interrupted The Shining, and headed out to the JUNCKmobile.

Of course my vehicle is parked outside...because there is still some stuff I have yet to find a place for in our now JUNCK jam-packed basement. Unfortunately, some of the lovely treasures won’t make the turn coming in from the garage...So, if it’s going to the basement, that means we will end up lugging it clear around the house, through the snowy, slippery, dog-turd filled yard, down the hill to the door downstairs. Which means we will have to move everything that’s already down there to make a path. HOOPTY!!!!HOORAY!!!!

At this point in time, I’m seriously considering a giant bonfire on the front lawn, which could probably be viewed from space. However, Mr. Fantastic has forbidden me (yeah, right...pfffffftttt) from burning the frozen creeping charlie and dandelions, er...grass, that is our yard.

ANYWAY, I get to the edge of the garage, and nearly knock myself unconscious. (Please, hold your applause.) For some asstastic reason, the floor in our garage has been polished to a glasslike finish, and the minute there is a single drop of water on the floor, it beads up like a ball of mercury, with the evil intent of taking you out. Since there was snow on the floor, I went skating like a hog on ice. Luckily, the garage still has plenty of JUNCK stuff lying around, and I grabbed onto a table, successfully keeping my fatass upright. Whew! That was close!

I shuffle out to my Tahoe and reach out to open the door. No go. Perhaps I locked the door? Keys in hand, I shove my key into the icy lock, and...still no dice. It’s frozen. I skate around the vehicle trying all the doors. Naturally, the only one that opens...the barn door in the back.

SO...I haul my enormous girth into the back of the truck, and squeeze my fat parka-wearing ass over the back of the middle seat. Then I shimmy between the two front bucket seats, trying not the crush the console into dust, and WHEW! Here, I am in the driver’s seat. However, I have to get out to go back and close the back doors from the outside. DAMMIT!

I let the vehicle warm up for a few...seconds. I am nothing, if not extremely impatient. It’s a newsflash, I know. I surmise it will be MUCH easier to open the door from the inside. Come on, I’m built like a tank. One, two, three...I shove the door with my shoulder. Nothing. Okay, you want it, here it comes, you frozen bastard. One, two, three! I lay into the door like it’s William ‘Refrigerator’ Perry, and OH FUCK! DAMMIT! SHIT, SHIT, SHIT! I think I just broke my elbow! OWIE! OWIE! OWIE! I WANT MY MOMMY!!!!

While I am swearing a blue streak that could be single-handedly blamed for global warming, the door slowly creaks and pops open. I slide my legs around, cradling my injured limb, still swearing. My feet slip off the running board, due to the ice, and I am left hanging...Feet dangling, big white tummy hanging out of my parka, like Orca, half-swearing, half-crying. Since it’s about 35 below, it doesn’t take long for me to realize that I can’t lie here indefinitely. I start the car, and turn the heater on high, and then slowly S-L-I-D-E out of the car, like snake, managing to get my feet under me, and stand upright. I practically slam the friggin’ doors off the hinges...because DAMMIT, this is their stupid fault! (Uh-huh...I know, it’s ALL my own sorry-ass fault, but can you throw me a bone?! I’m injured!)

I tromp into the house, sniffling and holding my arm, and plop into a chair in the living room to assess my horrific injury. I can still wiggle my fingers, AND...I can bend my arm VERY slowly, although it hurts like Hell. Oh well, I guess I’ll live.

Which is super, because, today, I get to entertain Pa Kettle and my bro-in-law’s kids at a basketball game. Oh yeah, there will SO be a blog.

WikiLeaks...We Have a Problem

2010-12-09T06:43:00.000-08:00

This post may rile some of you up and piss you off. Hey, I’m married to Mr. Fantastic, and HE still talks to me...so hear me out.

Today I am sharing my view on this asinine WikiLeaks mess.

SUCK IT UP WikiLeaks, and put on your big girl panties! (I’m sure Julian ASSange(r) has some lying around from one of his little dalliances.) Being well, me...I am ALL for free speech. However, if someone takes something I have written and decides they have publishing rights without getting permission, THEN we’ve got a problem. I may be wrong. However, I believe the law states that as soon as you write something, it’s copyrighted...so you don’t even need to play the espionage card as your first hand. AND...fines for copyright infringement are levied per instance of distribution...which means WikiLeaks owes the U.S. about a bajillion dollars at this point. Can you say GOODBYE NATIONAL DEBT?! WOOT!

Having been asked to run for state office and withdrawing due to an ill relative, I’ve seen the belly of the beast up close and personal, and I will be the first person to say the political system is effed up 20 ways to Sunday. However, WikiLeaks is going about changing things in all the wrong ways. They have essentially declared war, which goes WAY beyond stirring the pot, and aiding transparency. Seriously...shutting down Mastercard AND Visa during peak holiday shopping times?! BAD MOVE. BAAAAAD. THE WORST. Julian Ass & Co., you are sooooo far past fucked, that it will take the light from fucked, a billion light years to reach you. Just thought you might want a head’s up, in case you haven’t figured that out already.

Another question I’ve got is this...If Julian Ass is from Australia, why is he never there? Did they kick him out, or what? Boy, when you get the boot from a country founded by ostracized criminals, that’s pretty bad. Come to think of it...All the people I’ve met from Australia, who don’t call it home have been pretty cranky and insecure. Hmmmm....They might want to get that checked out. I think they’ve got a leak.

Which brings me to the point of all the low life people feeding AssMaster and friends these documents. Seriously, do you NOT enjoy living indoors? Or being able to buy fresh produce at the Farmer’s Market, or stuff from artisans online...or even bread and milk at the grocery store any old time you like? Because if you don’t, I can put a donation button on my website to take up a collection to send you somewhere else...Say...the Middle East, where the guys who are fighting to protect your right to free speech can look after you personally.

Happy Holidays from the JUNCK Chick!

P.S. If you send so much traffic my way, that my blog crashes, those will be AWESOME numbers to show my prospective book publisher. Thanks!

Thanksgiving with the Bickersons

2010-12-03T03:26:00.000-08:00

OK... So Pa Kettle called fishing for an invitation to Thanksgiving dinner. Of course, Mr. Fantastic TOTALLY ignored the fact that the phone was ringing...once he saw Caller ID. If I were as hard-hearted as I pretend to be, I would have feigned deafness as well, but it’s hard to be a total witch when your youngest knows it’s their number...and is well within reach of the phone. Besides, if he doesn’t get an answer here at the house, he will begin his round-robin of speed dialing all of our other numbers. First, he will call my cell phone...multiple times. Then he moves along to our oldest, who he knows will answer....because he has promised him a chunk of change to help him buy a car. Devious old coot! Sometimes they’ll just ‘pop in’ if they’re feeling especially chummy. They asked for a house key once, a long time ago, and both Mr. Fantastic and I, with a look of abject horror on our faces shouted ‘NO!’ so loudly that their hairlines both receded about three inches.

So, I sucked it up and answered the phone since their devoted son was busy surfing the ‘Net’, watching people impale themselves on YouTube. Here’s the conversation that followed:

Me: Hello

Pa Kettle: You’re home, huh?

Me: Apparently so.

Pa Kettle: What’s that supposed to mean?

Me: What’s what’s supposed to mean?

Pa Kettle: That.

Me: What that?

Pa Kettle: You know.

Me: Yes, we are home.

Pa Kettle: I thought so.

Me: Um, yeah.

Pa Kettle: What are you doing?

Me: Talking to you.

Pa Kettle: Oh.

(Crickets and silence...)

Me: What are YOU doing?

Pa Kettle: Besides being old and poor? (He ALWAYS says that.)

Me: Yes, besides that.

Pa Kettle: Oh...Just seenig what everyone’s doing for Thanksgiving...

Me: (Silently...DAMMIT!!!! I KNEW this was coming!) Oh...(SIGH) So what IS everyone doing for Thanksgiving?

Pa Kettle: Oh you know, your brothers (meaning my bros-in-law) are always busy with THEIR families. (Meaning their wive’s families...which ALWAYS take precedence, and we are sick of being treated like chopped liver dontcha’ know?!) HEAVY SIGH (that actually knocks down small nearby trees.)

Me: (OK...Listen up SUCKWADS! It wouldn’t kill you to include your OWN damn parents in your holiday dinner plans ONCE in the last 15 friggin’ years or so! Why is this always MY problem?!?!?)

Pa Kettle: Soooooo...What are YOU doing for Thanksgiving?

Me: (Shit!) Oh, just cooking dinner here at home...(Wait for it...1,2,3...SIGH) Do you want to come have dinner with us? (DAMMIT!)

Pa Kettle: Well...Do you have a turkey?

Me: Yes.

Pa Kettle: Pie?

Me: Yes.

Pa Kettle: What kind?

Me: Pumpkin. (DUH!)

Pa Kettle: Are you making dressing?

Me: Sigh....yes.

Pa Kettle: Sweet Potatoes?

Me: Yes

Pa Kettle: Mashed potatoes and gravy?

Me: (Deciding to derail the interrogation.) No.

Pa Kettle: Well, I want some.

Me: Then bring ‘em.

Pa Kettle: Well, I uh...nevermind. What else ya’ makin’?

Me: Green bean casserole.

Pa Kettle: How do you make that?

Me: (Ever the smartass) With green beans.

Pa Kettle: Well, I KNOW that!

Me: I guess you’ll see how I make it when you get here.

Pa Kettle: Fine.

Then there is yelling back and forth on the other end of the phone...

Ma Kettle: Who are you talking too?

Pa Kettle: None of your business.

Ma Kettle: Fine! I don’t want to know anyway.

Pa Kettle: Good, ‘cuz I’m not telling you.

Ma Kettle: Good.

Pa Kettle: Fine.

Ma Kettle: Who is it?

Pa Kettle: Our #1 son just invited us to Thanksgiving dinner.

Me: (EXCUSE ME?!)

Ma Kettle: He is SUCH a nice boy!

Me: Pfffftttt!!!!

Pa Kettle: Yep. We raised him right.

Me: Oh puhleeze!

Pa Kettle: What’s that?

Me: Sigh...Nothing.

Pa Kettle: What time’s dinner?

Me: Be here about 1 o’clock.

Pa Kettle: We’ll be there at 11.

Me: No...I said ONE!

Pa Kettle: I know, but I want to come at 11...There are football games on to watch. See you then. CLICK.

I’m suddenly furious, and go stomping into my offie/studio, where Mr. Fantastic is trying to get the low-down for his Fantasy Football picks.

Me: GAAAAAAAHHHHH!

Mr. Fantastic: Hey, what’s up.

Me: Besides my blood pressure?

Mr. Fantastic: Uh, yeah.

Me: Guess who just called and invited themselves to dinner?

Mr. Fantastic: Oh, did the phone ring?

Me: SHRIEKING like a banshee...Yes the phone rang, you Moron!

Then I proceed to go off on a rant, while he sits calmly and takes it all in. (He’s such a good guy to put up with me and my evil meanness.)

Mr. Fantastic: Well, they do this every year you know. You should be used to it by now. Besides, now we’re off the hook for Christmas Day.

Me: Oh. OK.

Anyway...they came...Pa Kettle complained because I hadn’t baked him cookies, or prepared extra snacks, and then the day ended with this conversation...TWICE.

The Kettles: Um...Honey?

Me: What?!

The Kettles: Does this always do this?

Me: Does WHAT always do this?

The Kettles: Does this toilet just not flush?

Me: GAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!

Maybe I’ll recover before Christmas.

Mmmmm....Cheesecake...NO Not THAT Kind

2010-11-15T07:18:00.000-08:00

SO...We had to go shopping for basketball gear and band concert stuff for the boys. Let’s just say after two pairs of shoes for ‘Ed Too-Tall Jones’, and the various other needed purchases that go along with having kids, I felt like a spendthrift buying myself pantyhose. I felt such guilty pleasure eyeing new towels, and thinking about things I’d like to do to the house. You know, extravagant things...Like toilets that work, and a chimney that doesn’t leak.

Since we don’t get out much, we decided we’d go out to eat for lunch. Of course this led to several circles around the Jordan Creek-West Glen area. I, of course, being female, think that eating out should be special...Have something we don’t often fix ourselves...or well, ever. Like Joe’s Crab Shack or the Cheesecake Factory. As I’m driving around everyone is bickering about where to go...

Mr. Fantastic: We are NOT going to Hardees! I don’t want a hamburger! If I had wanted that, I could have stayed home.

Shaq: But we don’t HAVE a Hardees...

Mr. Fantastic: You heard your mother, let’s go somewhere different.

Me: Wait! How did I get drug into this argument? I haven’t said anything.

Mr. Fantastic: Do you WANT a hamburger?

Me: GOD NO!

Mr. Fantastic: See! Your mother wants to go somewhere NICE. NOT Hardees!

Shaq: I didn’t realize Hardees wasn’t an option...

Mr. Fantastic: Well, it’s not.

Shaq: How come?

Me: Because it’s clear across town, that’s why!

Shaq: OK...Geez.

Mr. Fantastic: Let’s go to Red Robin.

Spud Webb: (In the singsong voice direct from commercial) Red Robin. YUM.

Me: I thought you didn’t want hamburgers? I thought you said we were going someplace nice?!

Mr. Fantastic: WHAT?! It IS nice. You don’t have to cook, right?

Me: Riiiiiiiight. That’s EXACTLY what I was thinking when I mentioned the Cheescake Factory...Just not cooking is the exact same thing...NOT!

Mr. Fantastic: FINE! Let’s go there then. (SIGH)

Me: (Not being one to miss my chance, I cruise on over to the Factory of Said Cheesecake, only to find there is nowhere to park within a mile, as people apparently picked TODAY to kick off their Christmas shopping.) SHIT!

Shaq: What?

Me: There’s nowhere to park.

Shaq: That’s okay, we can walk.

Me: No...really...There’s NO place to park.

Shaq: Oh. I’m sorry.

Mr. Fantastic: So, Red Robin it is.

Shaq: I thought Mom was picking?

Mr. Fantastic: (Turns to me with the innocent I’m confused look all husbands get...when they want their way, but know better than to say so.) Mom likes Red Robin, right Hon?

Me: Yes...Ordi...

Mr. Fantastic: (Interrupting me) All righty then. We’ve decided, let’s go.

Me: WTF! YOU MORON! (No...I’m not yelling at Mr. Fantastic...I’m yelling at some ASSWIPE that has decided the jampacked parking lot at Jordan Creek is an A#1 place to do a U-turn in oncoming traffic, and nearly T-bones us.)

Mr. Fantastic: That was close! Well, let’s go.

Me: (Now...the crabby dieter emerges, having narrowly escaped the clutches of death without dessert, via the JACKWAD in the blue minivan.) OK...Listen up Bitches. This is my CARB MEAL! I am NOT, I repeat NOT, having a hamburger and french fries for my CARB MEAL!

Yes, I actually said this, but bear in mind it wasn’t me...It was the angry carbohydrate addict, who, had cheesecake, and quite possibly pasta with some kind of alfredo sauce snatched right out from in front of her.

The car is completely silent.

Shaq: Um....There was an Applebees back there...That way everyone could get something they like.

Me: Fine. (Although it is entirely NOT fine, as I am STILL thinking about sloooowly savoring some kind of fabulous cheesecake.)

Sooooo...We make the trek to Applebees. Now, every other Applebees I have been to, has had extremely good food and wait staff. However, the chain MIGHT want to rename this particular outlet ‘Crapplebees’.

While we do get a table and drinks right away, our ACTUAL server, who introduces herself right away, slinks off, and doesn’t return for a DAMN long time. While we are eyeballing the menu, which appears to be oddly different than every other Applebees menu I’ve ever seen, Spud Webb and I decide to use the ‘facilities’.

There are already three women in the three stalls, and the two that emerge first appear to be alternates for the Jersey Shore. They quickly inform me there’s no toilet paper in either of the stalls they’ve just left, so I opt to wait.

Meanwhile...The 20-something chick wearing an Iowa Hawkeye hoodie, hoists up her shirt to show her girlfriend her new, um...well, you know, PROCEDURE. They oooh and ahhhh over her new boobs, and she tells her girlfriend to grab one. (How LONG is this other broad going to be in the stall for crapsake?! I SO don’t need to see, or hear this!)

Boob Job: Go ahead. Grab em.

Boob Job’s Friend: WOW! They’re like really um, firm, ya’ know?

Boob Job: I KNOW! You should have felt them right after. They were hard as a rock. They’ve really softened up.

Boob Job: Where'd ya' get 'em?

Boob Job: That place over by the mall.

Boob Job’s Friend: Whoa.

(I too, am thinking WHOA! This SO isn't the kind of cheescake I wanted, AND...You can get boobs at the mall?!)

Boob Job: Like I know, right? Hey, let me send you a picture of ‘em.

Boob Job’s Friend: You have them on your phone?!

Boob Job: DUH! NO. But they’re on my iPod. Here, let me show you.

OK...Come on! She’s just seen them in person! Does she really need a digital photo of your boobs?! I think not. FINALLY, the stall with the toilet paper open up, and I dart inside. I hastily do my business and wash my hands, while the Jersey Shore girls giggle about their little ‘secret.’ Trust me, if you’re flagging them around the bathroom at Applebees, they’re no secret. They walk out of the bathroom just ahead of me and past our table, and out into the lobby.

Of course, I have to tell Mr. Fantastic what just transpired in the bathroom with the broads that just traipsed past our table, while Shaq and Spud are arguing over Spud’s cellphone usage at the table. Naturally, he asks if she sent ME a picture of her boobs too. Har-dee-har-har.I wonder aloud why someone in their 20’s NEEDS a boob job in the first place, and Mr. Fantastic pipes up and says, “Well, what’s a 70-year-old going to do with a nice new rack?” Which leads me to inform him, “You’ll never know.”

Anyway, I am finally done ranting about the freak show in the bathroom, when guess what? Here they come back! Apparently they were waiting outside for a table, and now here they are...right...next...to us. NICE!

Mr. Fantastic leans over and asks me what I would give him if he asked her “Hey, don’t I know you from somewhere? Are those new?”So, I told him I’d give him a whack upside the head. FINALLY, the waitress reappears to take our order, and guess what? We all ordered hamburgers. Like, I know, right? Whatever...

Broke Chair Mountain

2010-11-11T05:39:00.000-08:00

OK...So apparently Mr. Fantastic thought it would be a good idea to try to fix his recliner (piece of crap), which has pretty much been a complete nightmare since day one. When we bought this leather beauty (piece of shit) at Redekers in Boone, they told us it was 100% leather (they left out ‘everywhere you touch’), and since it was a Lane, it had a fabulous warranty (NOT)...not that we should need it.

When they delivered the chair, it quite obviously was different than the one we thought we were getting, as the back is pleather. Come on people! How many hair bands have to die to satisfy your craving for pleather furniture?! Seriously, I think I can see ass prints worn into the back, which is why the back ALWAYS faces the wall. When I called the store about it I was met with “Oh darn, we JUST sold the last one,” (and there is no possible way you can tell we are big liars because the evidence is gone. Mwah hah hah haaaa!) Don’t even get me started on our ‘solid oak’ tables. Pffffft!

Anyway, as the chair has been listing to one side like the Edmund Fitzgerald heading to it’s untimely demise for well, forever, and about rolled Mr. Fantastic in the middle of our living room, like a couple of gangbangers looking for drug money, he decided it was time to take matters into his own hands.

Let me tell you...turning the recliner over and attempting to fix it is one thing. Completely dismantling it, and having to unfasten the leather (ACTUAL LEATHER) from one of the arms, as that entire side of the chair is now strewn on the floor in the middle of the living room, is an entirely different matter all together.

Not that I doubt his prowess with tools, God no! He can break stuff down and make something new like no one’s business...But as I have already mentioned, this chair is a complete piece of shit. The wood inside the arms appears to have been shimmed with what looks like Ritz crackers. Which would explain the chairs tendency to tilt to one side. So, as he’s trying to re-attach the bolt with this freaky vampire looking thing with teeth around the edge, the teeth fold over like they’re made from aluminum foil. Which TOTALLY makes sense. How else are you going to keep the Ritz cracker shims in the arms fresh? DUH! Seriously, it’s like the dumbass people at Lane were making a friggin’ Lunchable, and decided to make it into a Transformer that turns into a recliner! ASSHATS!

So let’s see...Mr. Fantastic is now having to reach his meaty muscular arm up under the upholstery (which may, or may not be made from an old pair of Vince Neil’s pants) and clear around the wooden frame to try to put this piece of shit back together. Well, of course, him having big man hands doesn’t help. Especially when the vampire-like collar thing slips from his grasp and wedges itself between the upholstery and the frame. This leads to a bunch of swearing, and bloody fingers, as the vampire hardware has apparently decided it’s time to feed.

I offer to help, as my hands aren’t QUITE as big as Mr. Fantastic’s, but...being a man, he declines my assistance, as this is a manly job, which involves tools. Um, really?! He apparently forgot who he’s dealing with. I am the JUNCK Chick, DAMMIT! So I let him suffer in his solitary manliness. TWO DAYS LATER...the chair is still lying in pieces on the floor and he asks me...

Mr. Fantastic: Um, Honey?

Me: Yes??

Mr. Fantastic: You wouldn’t happen to have a couple of washers in all that crap in your office?

Me: HA! Of COURSE I have washers! What size do you need?

Mr. Fantastic: (With his arm wedged painfully into the side of the chair) Size? How the Hell would I know?!

Me: Well, it would be helpful.

Mr. Fantastic: Have you even SEEN the top of your desk in the last six months?!

Me: What the Hell does that have to do with anything?!

Mr. Fantastic: Well, you’re standing there all smug about what size washer I need, and I’m sure you’ll just dig through your crap until you find a couple of likely candidates.

Me: Um...have you SEEN my studio space? What do you need? A size 10 washer? A 12? A 14? Bring it!

Mr. Fantastic: So why don’t you keep your desk organized?

Me: It’s a writer’s thing. Every writer I know has a desk that looks like mine, if not worse.

Mr. Fantastic: That’s just dumb.

Me: Look, do you want washers or not?

Mr. Fantastic: (SIGHS) Yes...

He hands me one of the bolts, and I take it to my neatly organized parts library, and quickly assess that he needs a couple of good old #12’s. I return and give him the washers, and he immediately gets a horrible cramp in his left side, and begins writhing in pain. It goes away, and he resumes work. Then, the cramp comes back...worse this time. Being a careful and concerned observer, I point out it’s on his left side, and ask him if he is having chest pain, and he shoots me ‘the look’.

If you’re married, or have been part of a couple for a serious length of time, you know this look. It’s the one that says “How the HELL did I wind up with such a dumbass?! I wish you would leave me alone now before I have to kill you.” Granted, I, myself, have perfected this look, but I am not usually on the receiving end, and I will admit that I probably throw it around WAY more than I should. However, this is my hunk o’man...in pain...and I don’t like it. I open my mouth to speak, and he says, “Just walk away...leave me alone.” So I do.

Mr. Fantastic recovered from the stitch in his side, and even asked me to help him! Of course, most of my time helping was spent hanging upside down, with my left foot turned the wrong way for FAR too long, and my right foot lifted up on my tiptoes, in an attempt to keep the arm of the chair in place.

After all this, the stupid piece of crap chair is still in pieces in the middle of the living room floor, and I am beginning to eye other furniture. Of course, I also plan to skin the piece of shit one for its hide (the actual leather parts, that is), to use for accents for my new line of handbags. Can you tell I’m kind of rooting for the chair to die?

P.S. If you read my blog, send me a message or ‘friend’ me on Facebook, and mention you’re a reader. You can see some of our cool JUNCK stuff, and keep up with me and my crazy shenanigans. Have a good one!

Life With the Bickersons

2010-11-05T05:34:00.000-07:00

OK...Mr. Asstastic has done gone and tromped all over my last good nerve. And...may I point out to you that it is not yet the weekend, when I would have plenty of time to dig a hole big enough to accommodate his bossy carcass.

Not sure why, but he has been in ‘Old Man Control Mode’ this week...and let me tell you, I am SO not in the mood to be told what to do at the moment. After I had worked, gone grocery shopping, gone to the hardware store...twice, the drug store, the whatever the hell you call a 5 & Dime nowadays, fixed dinner, did laundry, helped with homework, walked the dogs (okay, well chased Fluffy Pony puppy around the yard for a half an hour trying to get her big fuzzy ass back in the house before the stupid possums and raccoons take over the yard for the night, and am standing at the sink hand washing the pots and pans, it is not the smartest move to tell me the counter needs be cleared of mail and various and other sundry junk that collects there.

Of course, Mr. Snores-in-Recliner-with-Remote, did say WE need to clean off the counter. However, HE would not file insurance forms, organize tax receipts, pay bills or any of that other stuff. Which is why I don’t LET him do any of that. But, if you are going to sit on your ass drinking Guiness, watching television, and then tell me I should go to bed early because I’m always tired, you might want to think about WHY I am tired, you fricking moron!

For instance, the other night, while I was trying to work on some stuff for the shop, after everyone else went to bed, he comes blasting into my office/studio and bellowing...

Mr. Fantastic: “Where are my tan pants?!”

Me: WHICH tan pants? You have like 5 pair.

Mr. Fantastic: You know...the ones I like!

Me: Which would be????

Mr. Fantastic: Quit messing around! I have to get up in the morning.

Me: As do we all Sunshine.

Mr. Fantastic: Are you going to help me or not?

Me: Only if you ask nicely...say pretty please.

Mr. Fantastic: (Giving me the You’re #1 salute) Just come here.

Me: How do you ask nicely?

Mr. Fantastic: Oh for God’s sake! Just come here!

Me: Well, since you put it that way...Where did you last SEE said tan pants?

Mr. Fantastic: I put them in the hamper.

Me: Well then, they would be folded up on top of the washer with all your other crap.

Mr. Fantastic: Where?!

Me: Walking the foot and a half past him and picking up said pair of tan pants, which, may I add, are in plan sight.

Mr. Fantastic: (Grabs them and begins rifling through the pockets) DAMMIT! These are the wrong effing pants!

Me: Well now, that’s YOUR effing fault, because YOU said THE tan pants were in the hamper.

Mr. Fantastic: Well, they’re probably still in there...When was the last time you did laundry?

Me: (Dumping the two mismatched socks that are the only items in the hamper on the floor) Excuse me?! Wanna think about that statement, or shall I just club you to death here?

Mr. Fantastic: THESE pants have a hole in the pocket, and I am NOT wearing them.

Me: THIS cupboard has the needles and thread in it, and I am NOT sewing them Mr. Smartmouth.

Mr. Fantastic: They have to be here in the laundry room!!!

Meanwhile, while he is pawing through the piles of washed and folded clothes, making the clean clothes indistinguishable from those in the hamper; I walk down the hall to our bedroom, locate said tan pants in a pile on the chair, and carry them back to the laundry room and shove them in his face.

Mr. Fantastic: Where did you have them?

Me: I...didn’t have them anywhere Jackwad! YOU left them in a ball on the chair in the bedroom, along with that red striped polo shirt you accused me of misplacing.

Mr. Fantastic: Well, I need these for tomorrow. I’m going to bed.

Me: Well, of course. Since it IS Make a Wish Day for Stupid People...Your wish is my command, ASSHAT!

I look at the clock and it is 10:30. Great! This means I will be up for at least another hour waiting for them to spin out, and THEN put them in the dryer, and wait another 45 minutes for them to dry, so they aren’t a wrinkled mess. DUMBASS!

Well, I have more chores to finish before I can go to bed, so I’d better get a move on...that hole out back isn’t gonna’ dig itself.

Too Much JUNCK in the JUNCK Chick's Trunk...

2010-11-03T07:28:00.000-07:00

UNCLE! OK...Today is THE day. I’m sure if you are of the feminine persuasion, you have probably declared several days THE day...But today, I have declared war...on my fatass. And all the other repulsive, jiggly parts of my anatomy...except, of course, my boobs. Because, hey, besides my acidic personality, I don’t have many other selling points.

Last night I pulled out my handy dandy, carbs-are-evil reference book, and decided it was ‘Game On!’ This will be just fine with 2 of the 3 men in this house, as they would eat bacon wrapped bacon with bacon sauce and a side of bacon if I’d let them. However, since this is war, AND I have a boy who is not a carnivore like the rest of them, I will be forced to police myself where carbs are concerned, as they will be lurking around the perimeter, looking for their opportunity to attack. Little Debbie, you are officially on notice...If you try to lure me in with your delicious creme filled siren’s song, I will make it my personal mission to expose you as a cross-dressing exotic dancer, and your treats will FLY right outta’ those school lunches packed with love. Got it?! Good.

The only way I can pull this off, is that I can have carbs at one meal per day...Because let’s face it, I can’t see myself NEVER having rice or birthday cake again. Puhleeze, what’s the point of that?! Unless you plan on being a personal trainer, which I most certainly do NOT. I will gladly leave that to the professionals. (And let me tell you, I have one KICK-ASS birthday party to go to this weekend! SA-WEET!)

Now, I HAVE been thin before...it involved eating 300 calories a day, and working out obsessively 3 hours a day, until the sweat dried in a crust on my face. Oh, and then there was that whole feeling guilty for eating ANYTHING, and making myself puke once in a while. I do NOT recommend it, and if I catch any of you doing this, I will beat you senseless. I mean really...I am what bulimic bounce back looks like, and you SO don’t want to be here. Besides, when I was thin, my blood pressure was like 84/58...I couldn’t even give blood at the blood bank.

You might be asking yourself why I would want to trade in being a fat, happy, Sharpie Marker? Easy, I want a book deal in the WORST-BEST way, and at this rate of fatass gain, they would have to make the book jacket photo, a fold-out...Kind of like a Playboy centerfold that no one (including me) wants to see.

Lest you worry that my blog will turn into some happy horse-shit about how everyone would feel SO much better if they exercised and ate right, I promise I will still be hysterically funny...I mean seriously, have you ever been around someone on a diet...They are mean bitches! Losing this amount of weight is going to be HELL, and I expect to have more Sam Kinison screaming moments than blathering about how my exercise endorphins make me feel all puppy-kitty-fluffy happy. Pfffft! Really?! This is ME we’re talking about. Plus, my son invited me to tag along to his training session at the gym. If THAT’S not potential blog material, I don’t know what is! Of course, we’ll probably have to give the trainer hazard pay...and ear plugs, because he is a really nice guy, who probably would not appreciate the amount of vile gang-banger type vulgarities I will be spewing.

Tomorrow I promise I will continue the saga of “Where are my DAMNED pants!?” But for now, thanks for listening.

Marriage...Land of Arguments & Compromise

2010-11-01T04:07:00.000-07:00

The latest battle between good (me) and evil (Mr. Fantastic) here at the little wood hut is over...get this...tableware. Yes, you read that right. Our latest argument was over dishes. It seems as though Ma Kettle taught her pack of wild ones nothing about taking care of, well...ANYTHING.

It all started innocently enough while we were sitting on the patio this weekend....Listening to the neighbors' little cinnamon puffs of adorability bark incessantly. Seriously, their little high pitched bark has launched me into Cesar Milan mode here in the Mayberry ‘Hood’. However, their increased level of yipping has very nearly forced Mr. Fantastic to don sniper gear. I saw him eyeing the shovel as he walked through the garage yesterday with that look serial killers must get before they select their next victim. YIKES!

Now, you would THINK that if you had itty-bitty tiny dogs, like miniature Pomeranians (or whatever the hell they are), you would take them inside at some point, would you not?! Well, of course not! Why in the hell would you want to actually interact with your pets? Silly us, for having nearly 200 lbs of furry fury INSIDE our house. What were we thinking? Pfffftttt!

These tiny little defenseless dogs are out all night, and it has gotten below freezing. They are also outside all damn day long! Simply put, there is no peace in the valley, and it is working on our last good nerve. Last night, their incessant barking reached a fever-pitch, when the coyotes started howling by the river. While I was worried about their safety, being left out...Mr. Fantastic said they were simply ringing the coyote’s dinner bell.

So, naturally this led us to start discussing tableware. I mentioned I would like to get some new dishes for Christmas (HINT, HINT). Nothing fancy or expensive, mind you. Just something cute from Target or somewhere. This is how the conversation unfolded...

Mr. Fantastic: Why in the hell would you want to do such a stupid thing?

Me: Ummm...I don’t know. Perhaps, because you and your male spawn have broken or chipped the majority of the dishes we have?

Mr. Fantasic: Well, if we get new ‘good’ dishes, they would just get cracked and chipped like the ones we have now. DUH!

Me: Honest to GOD! Did your parents teach you nothing?! We had one set of ‘good’ dishes my whole life growing up, and I’m the youngest of seven! What is WRONG with you people? Perhaps if you cavemen weren’t winging dishes from the living room door to the kitchen sink like frisbees, they wouldn’t GET broken in the first place!

Mr. Fantastic: Here’s an idea...Why don’t we just use, oh I don’t know...PLASTIC BOWLS?

Me: You mean like your mother?!

Mr. Fantastic: And what is wrong with my mother?!

Me: How long have you got?

Mr. Fantastic: Nice! My mom loves you and you are so mean. Your mom wasn’t a peach all the time either you know.

Me: No...but she’s DEAD, so shut the hell up!

Mr. Fantastic: SIGH

Me: If you expect me to cook dinner...

Mr. Fantastic: That would be nice.

Me: Did I not just say Shut the Hell up? Yes, I think I did. ANYWAY...If I am going to cook dinner, then we are NOT...I repeat NOT, using the same table service you get at effin’ McDonalds!

Mr. Fantastic: Who do you think you are?! Martha Frickin’ Stewart?

Me: Obviously NOT...since I live here in Mayberry with YOU! That doesn’t mean we still can’t be civilized.

Mr. Fantastic: Fine! Go waste money on fancy dishes & use them for everyday. They will just get chipped and broken like the ones we have now.

Me: What part of I AM NOT EATING OUT OF FRIGGIN’ COOL WHIP CONTAINERS, do you NOT understand?!

Mr. Fantastic: It doesn’t make sense to eat out of real bowls that will chip & crack.

Me: FINE! We’ll just go to your parent’s house and get some of your mom’s 8 MILLION fricking Cool Whip containers. Oooh, and we can use the lids for our plates.

Mr. Fantastic: Now you’re just being sarcastic.

Me: You...are a genius.

Mr. Fantastic: What the hell is wrong with plastic bowls?

Me: Life is not a friggin’ picnic!

Mr. Fantastic: You’re telling me!!!

Me: Shut up. Plastic bowls are disgusting! YOU always use them in the microwave, until they look like the Crypt Keeper, and I refuse to eat out of them. You can’t get them clean after they’re all melted.

Mr. Fantastic: Well, if the food can get into the melted part, then so can the soap.

Me: Never mind.

Mr. Fantastic: See, problem solved.

Me: Hardly...You’re still here.

Mr. Fantastic: Oh...har-dee-har-har. You know I love you.

Me: Yeah, I know.

Well, I’d better go and see what happened to the neighbor’s dogs. They have stopped barking. Which means they are either frozen, or the coyotes might need some Cool Whip containers for their leftovers. I’m just kidding...Cold-hearted though I may be, I would never wish anything unfortunate on an animal. However, stupid people beware. You...are not exempt.

Be sure to tune in tomorrow, as the Bickerson's continue their saga of marital bliss with the next chapter...Where Are My Damned Pants?!

The Donut Dolly Takes a Powder...Sugar, That Is

2010-10-27T20:41:00.000-07:00

Sorry I haven’t blogged for a while, but I’ve been kind of busy trying to scrape together enough money to remodel the barn into shop space, buy supplies & keep the lights on here at the little wood hut, since I have told the Landpimp to suck it. When last we left off, I was working the overnight shift at our local bakery, Bunker’s Dunkers, for my friends, Randy & Phyllis.

Now, you would THINK someone who qualified to join Mensa would be capable of correctly packing and counting donuts into their respective delivery boxes. However, YOU...would be wrong. (No, I have not joined Mensa, as I am apparently averse to success...which you should have figured out by now, if you have read even a few of my previous blog entries...AND the fact that I am frosting and packing pastries in the middle of the night should be a not-so-tiny clue.)

Now, these tasty donuts, apple fritters, scones, creme & custard-filled gems of sugary goodness don’t just magically appear. They are skillfully hand-crafted, one tasty morsel at a time...and those frickin’ fritters are ALWAYS throwing off my damn count! DAMMIT!

So, while we wait for the twisted apple fritters and fried cinnamon thingamabobs to cool off so their glaze doesn’t perma-bond them together into one giant 50 pound pastry, we attack the frosting and stuffing, er...creme-filled portion of the evening.

As a fatty, I can’t begin to tell you the number of times I have dreamt of being faced with a giant bucket of creme-filling, and a tub of frosting, and being forced to eat my way out in order to save the world...or send the cardiologist’s kids to Harvard. Either way, I am making a positive contribution to the planet, right? Unless, of course, the cardiologist’s son turns out to be a giant crack-head. Because then, I’m really not doing anybody any favors...Of course, these have always been followed up by dreams of running a marathon and fitting into that lime green and black bikini I had in California. (Yeah...Like THAT’S gonna’ happen without a writing deal, so I can afford a trainer to kick my fatass into shape. Hmmm...THERE is a marketing ploy...If you don’t hire me, I will continue to expand, eventually taking over the universe, blotting out the sun, one butt cheek at a time...No. Too scary.)

Anyway...(Gee, can you tell I am having trouble focusing today? Look! Shiny!) I am in the stainless steel kitchen of the bakery, facing a big bucket of delicious creamy frosting. I take my spoon and begin to spread the golden pastry with a generous dollop of sugary goodness, and artfully frost the top. Ahhhh...I may not be painting custom pieces of furniture at the moment, but it’s still creating.

Then, I become aware of the fact that Phyllis is standing over my shoulder, with a kindly smile on her face, and words of advice on her lips. “Um, hi. After you frost these, we need to switch to the creme filling and chocolate frosting for the Bismarks.” I nod and say, “Sure, not a problem. How many of those do we have to do?” She waves her lovely manicured hand at the row of racks behind me, in a move that would make Vanna White weep, and smiles. “Ohhhhh...So, what you’re saying is I need to speed up, huh?” She nods and says, “Um...uh-huh.” I suddenly realize that Todd (Randy’s brother, and donut chef extraordinaire), has to go on his delivery route in about 2 hours, and I SO don’t want to be responsible for him having a stroke if I am still frosting donuts when the sun starts to come up. YIKES!

I shift into high gear and start my marathon of frosting, filling and packing. Frost, plop, frost, plop...move that tray, grab that rack...Hup 2, 3, 4! I have become a donut dolly on a mission!

In all this hurry, I forget that the jelly pump is double-spouted, and squirt a big gob of jelly-filling all over my jeans, most of which, then plops onto my shoe. YAY! Of course I didn’t lick it off with my finger! That would be HIGHLY unprofessional. (Eye roll) Besides, if you have been paying ANY attention whatsoever, you would know that I am all about the creme filling. Jeez!

I clean up the mess, and finish injecting the jelly-filled lovelies, which Phyllis has taken over the frosting duties of, due to my slow-assed uncoordinatedness. SIGH. Well, at least I can begin packing the donuts for delivery. I grab the trays of cooled donuts and take them to the rack in the back room, and begin to distribute them to their respective boxes. Wait! What was that?! M,W,F the Gas n’ Sip gets 12 bismarks and HOW MANY glazed vs....let me see, what day is today? Eenie meenie miney moe...which would make today ummmm...Thursday! I think...Is there a calendar back here? Wait. I came to work on Wednesday...Yep, and it has since turned into Thursday. Seriously, I feel like I’m trying to teach some kid the ‘i before e, except after c...’ rule! GAH!

OK...I think I have the donuts done, and I’ve got, let me see...how many minutes to spare? Um, that would be minus 13 minutes! That is why Todd is standing out back tapping his foot, trying not to strangle me. (WHICH...I greatly appreciate, by the way.)

Then, Phyllis tells me we have to do a second count, since sometimes the fritters and fried cinnamon’s getting done later can cause us to miss packing them. What she REALLY means is, which can cause ME to miss packing them. SIGH. OK...Let me see, this box gets 4 dozen glazed, and they have 1,2,3 4....15...Fifteen?! How the hell did I stop counting at fifteen, and forget to put the rest in here?! Oh wait...SHINY! That’s how.

Just great, I have gone from Marketing Director of an international entrepreneurial development non-profit bringing home $5K a month, to not even being able to count donuts for minimum wage. LOO-A-HOO-ZER!

I had the next night off (let’s face it, they probably wanted to get the donuts delivered before New Year’s), and was sitting in the darkened living-room at 12:30 a.m. waiting for the washer to spin out, when our youngest walks into the kitchen. I watch him open the cupboard and begin rooting around for the Little Debbies. Using my stealth mom powers, I sneak up behind him and say, “What the HELL do you think you are doing?!” He jumps nine feet into the air, whips around mid-flight, and lands facing me. He pauses a minute, and then puts his hands on his hips and says, “WHAT are YOU doing home?!” Um, EXCUSE ME?!

I tell him I am off tonight, and that HE is in big trouble. He has apparently been sneaking around in the middle of the night having junk food picnics and playing video games while I am at work. As Mr. Fantastic snores, and would sleep through an F5 if the tornado siren were on his bedside table, he has been oblivious to the RAVE parties going on in our living room, where our son is getting lit up like a Christmas tree on Suzy Q's and Cosmic Brownies.

I decide Sugar Monkey’s grades, which are in a state of serious decline since he isn’t getting any sleep at night, and general well-being (he hasn’t eaten a vegetable for over a week) are more important than dough (HAHAHA! I slay myself...), and I sadly turn in my apron.

As if the mean-mom crack-down on our little sugar addict wasn’t making his life miserable enough here at home, I got a call about another job the very next day...At his school! Mwah hah hah hah! Oh, Karma...you naughty little flirt.

JUNCK Chick aka The Donut Dolly

2010-10-05T07:05:00.000-07:00

A few days ago, while I was sitting around on my fatass, trying to decide which shop stuff to shuffle where, the phone rang. (Yeah, if only the iPod shuffle worked for a mess like THIS! Seriously, it’s not getting ANY prettier around here...anybody want to buy a pink plaid Victorian sofa with down cushions...anybody? I have got to get it outta’ here before Pony-Puppy finds out just how much fun feather-filled cushions are!!!)

Anyway, one of my friends, who happens to own the bakery here in town (Bunkers Dunkers), where they just so happen to make the world’s BEST doughnuts, was calling to see if I might want to work nights at the bakery...to earn money for the barn remodel. Um, lemme’ think about it...me, and about a million doughnuts, and only a couple of witnesses to deal with...HELL YES!

Since he wanted me to come in right away that night, I got to do one of my OTHER favorite things...take a nap...in the middle of the day, with NO interruptions. Woo Hoo! Could this day GET any better?! I think not...Especially since they don’t draw PowerBall numbers today.

So, off I trot to take my prerequisite nap, accompanied by Pony-Puppy and Wilson. Who’s a good dog?! YOU are! Yes you ARE! I set my alarm so I am sure to be up in time to pick up the boys after school, and the nap was on, like Donkey Kong. When my alarm went off, I drug my sorry butt out of bed...after hitting snooze a couple of times. What’s a decadent middle of the day nap, without snooze?!

I picked up our high schooler first, and he took one look at my puffy, bed-head, sheet-wrinkled face and lovingly said, “What the hell happened to you?! Busy day?” Then he snorted that maniacal teen-aged laugh that can induce therapy in adults. “Nice,”, I replied, giving him the stink eye. “Oh come on, you know I love you...Even when you look like a homeless person.” (For those of you from my hometown, I am now panicked by visions of Christmas and Easter on their bicycles, and how I may not be far behind in my appearance. GAH!) “Um yeah, thanks!” More snorting from Sir Talks-Smack-Alot, and we are off to pick up our youngest, who is oblivious to my fashion and beauty faux-pas and launches right into “I’m hungry!”

Now you would think that ‘napping’ during the day would leave you refreshed and rejuvenated. However, I forgot the hard and fast rule from my days when I traveled internationally for work. Naps must never exceed 20 minutes...otherwise it’s sleeping. And if you are sleeping, you have got to sleep a normal amount, at least six or seven hours. Otherwise you are going to be left puffy, bitchy and groggy...In other words, ME!

I drag my sorry ass around fixing dinner, looking like something the dogs threw up. And believe you me, with these two pooches conducting daily expeditions in our little corner of the woods, you SO don’t want to know what I’ve seen.

Dinner and dishes are done, and I am back in bed. I look at the clock, and it says 6:50 p.m. WTF?! I am in bed before most centenarians! I decide that my fate, now that I have become the newest Donut Dolly in town, leaves me no other choice than to retire to Florida, and search out all the ‘Early-Bird’ dinner specials, so I can maintain my schedule of going to bed while it’s still light out. With a heavy sigh, I close my eyes.

As soon as I doze off, here comes Mr. Fantastic in chat-tastic form, and decides that NOW would be a good time to visit about our day. Um, NO! I need to sleep, thank you very much, so I don’t fall into a vat of boiling oil...No one wants a pork rind THIS gigantic, trust me. Frosting, on the other hand, would be a MUCH nicer way to go. Mmmmm....frosting.

Tune in tomorrow to see how I fare between the buckets of creme filling and the jelly pump...

JUNCK Whisperer

2010-10-02T07:36:00.000-07:00

SO...Mr. Fantastic has a HORRIBLE cold. Which if you couldn’t tell by looking at him, or listening to him hack, would be made totally clear by his increased grumpiassedness. Anyway, after our oldest and I came home from the Homecoming football game last night, he hauled his sorry ass to bed. I went into the bedroom to change, and at first his breathing sounded like the downbeat of a distant car alarm. Then it morphed into what the boys used to sound like when they were little and had a bad dream, and would yell for ‘Momma’ in the middle of the night. Nothing like a flashback game of worry-tag to make sleep TOTALLY elude me.

Of course, the whole not sleeping thing last night, can also be partially attributed to my good friend, Carol Vonn. Yes...THE Carol Vonn...Milwaukee’s own morning B93.3 FM DJ darling (nothing against Jane, she is totally fabulous too, I just don’t happen to know her in a personal ‘let’s have too many tequila shots and then kick some random guys butt’s playing darts way’).

You see, Carol had to post something on Facebook about this dumbass show, ‘Ghost Adventures.’ (Of COURSE I have seen it! DUH!) OK...I’ll admit it. I am drawn to stupid shows that have anything to do with ghosts, hauntings...the paranormal. You get the idea. I don’t know what the attraction is to such cheesy shows (Note: This does NOT include Ghost Whisperer, because it is TOTALLY awesome!!!) It’s like a car wreck...I’m horrified, yet I can’t look away. (Kind of like family dinners with the in-laws.)

This is KIND of like my other guilty pleasure...Yes...vampires. I can’t believe it has been so long since I have mentioned Robert Pattinson from Twilight (TOTALLY Team Edward!) or Ian Somerhalder (Damon Salvatore) from the Vampire Diaries! SIGH...If only they were attracted to overweight, middle-aged overly opinionated chicks...who also happen to married.

I HAVE figured out the whole Ian attraction thing. Not that he isn’t TOTALLY wonderful all on his own. However, the FIRST time I saw him he reminded me of what Rob Lowe used to look like. Which was when I was um...younger. SO...when I see Ian, I am all like, young again. SO...that makes it TOTALLY appropriate. See, it all works out. (I have no explanation for the RPattz, thing other than he is, well...RPattz.)

Anyway...back to the cheesy Ghost Adventures show. Naturally, the minute Carol posted her comment on Facebook, I had to totally sprint to the television and begin speed-surfing through the channels. Oh my God! What if it’s not on here?! What if it’s different in Milwaukee?! Aaaaaaarrrrrgggghhhh! WHEW! There it is.

They were at some bad honky-tonk place that they had been to before, where they were previously accosted by evil spirits. OK people! Did you learn NOTHING from watching the Amityville Horror? When a building tells you to get out...You haul your ass right on outta’ there. DUH! This particular episode utilized some ‘NEW’ piece of ghost-monitoring paraphernalia, which allowed Casper, aka the ghost, to speak to them. Um...yeah.

Anywho...This fabulously entertaining programming would have filled my entire need for stupid. However, the thing made the ghosts sound like Peter Frampton...’Do you feee-eeel like I do?’ Bah Humbug!

So, I went back to pissing around on the Internet via my phone. Until...our older dog, Wilson, began to growl this guttural-sounding heinous growl. Just then, there was this creaking in the hallway...like footsteps. I am now on the edge of the couch, thinking, ‘Man, I should SO not have made fun of that dumbass guy’s hair on the show!’ I am watching the hallway expectantly, waiting for some spectral mist (or Marge Schott) to appear and tell me to eff off, when there is this HUGE banging of doors in the halllway! I jumped about three feet...Holy effin’ shit! I knew I was going to get it someday for being such a mean bitch. DAMMIT!

Then, out of the darkness comes a gravelly voice...“Are you going to get your butt to bed so you can get up for Band competition tomorrow or what?” Turns out my ‘haunting’ was Mr. Fantastic stumbling around in the dark in search of more cold medicine.

Well, I’d better skedaddle. The band competition won’t watch itself parade by...

The JUNCK Chick and Minnie Pearl

2010-09-18T05:52:00.000-07:00

OK...So now that I am D-O-N-E with the asshat landlord, we have um, a ton of crap...er, fabulous and quality inventory stuffed into our house, the garage and the barn. Don’t get me started on the lost parts we had to leave behind, or I will cry...and trust me...No one wants to see that. I am one ugly cryer. Let’s not go there. That’s probably why I don’t do it often. Well, unless there’s a REALLY good Hallmark commercial on...or there’s a soldier returning from overseas on the news surprising his family...or one of those shelter commercials comes on talking about all the dogs and cats they are going to have euthanize due to dumbass people, with Sarah McLachlan singing in the background (Damn her anyway! Now I can’t even listen to that effin’ song without seeing visions of dead animals. Thanks Sarah!)

ANYWAY...People are always saying, “Gee, I want to see YOUR house. You are so good at staging and creating!” I always respond with “Um, thanks...But no. You really don’t.” Our house does NOT look like something from a Meredith home decor publication. (Try as I might to get gigundo clumps of Fluffy Pony-Puppy fur and random burrs stuck to the furniture to catch on as a design statement, it SO hasn’t happened. Plus, the dumbasses who put off-white carpeting in this house had SO not calculated for multiple sets of muddy dog paws, and housebreaking enormous shelter dogs. I SO need to get the carpets cleaned. GAH!)

Truth is, while I know how to decorate, and cook, and do all that other finer-things-in-life junk, and DO have the tools to do it with...I HATE to clean. And I am tired of cooking stuff everyone else likes. I mean really...how the hell do you not like casseroles and creamed peas and potatoes and live long enough to be a grown up? Apparently, you live here...that’s how! Seriously, thank GOD I met Mr. Fantastic and we both like to make stuff from other stuff, or I would have probably devolved to the point of having a sofa, a bed, a television, one table, with a candle on it...and some books. Oh, and I would be a Van Goghesque canine version of the crazy cat lady. I would probably eat Spaghettios out of the can with a spork, while standing over the kitchen sink. (DAMMIT! I just slopped Spaghettios on my keyboard. WHAT?! I’m using a REAL fork and I’m NOT at the kitchen sink am I?! Geez! Give me SOME credit.)

Instead, I have turned into what Minnie Pearl would look like if she dressed like a homeless person. Seriously, I had some guy I don’t know come up behind me and pick a price tag off of me at the grocery store, after I had been shuffling stuff around here that we hauled home from the shop. NICE. He asked if I really thought I was worth $600, and I...told him to shove it up his ass. (I am a joy to behold...I know.)

Our house has also taken on that same Grand Ol’ Opry Queen’s joie de vivre. (That’s French for ‘joy of life.’ Which if you are French, means you revel in never having to buy deodorant and don’t know how to fight. Yeah, I went there. Trust me, I knew a guy in college, Pierre. He was the biggest no-fun wuss on the planet, and he thought he was above the rest of us minions. Well, I’ve got news for you, Pierre...You’re from f@#%*ing Canada, so knock it off! Seriously...have you ever been to Canada? It’s AWESOME! They probably kicked Pierre fancy-pants out when they found out that he was such an unfunny puss.)

As I was saying...Our house looks like Minnie Pearl exploded. For some reason, when we moved here, I never really decorated the house. Let me see...Why was that? Oh yeah...because I had the BIG job, and was planning on buying NEW stuff. Then I quit the big job, and well, we have been staring at the same blank walls ever since. However, our lack of stuff is a good thing at this point in time, as there is plenty of available space to store, um...‘display’ the shop stuff, until we work on the barn. However, I had better sell some of it, so we actually have money to work on the barn, Funny how that works.

SO, I began working pieces from the shop in around the house, and Mr. Fantastic came home from work and stopped dead in his tracks. Here’s the conversation...

Me: Hi Sweetie! How was your day? (Because I’m nice like that.)

Mr. F: What the hell is that? (Pointing past me)

Me: What’s WHAT? (Because really, there is a TON of shit behind me.)

Mr. F: All of THAT.

Me: (Glad he clarified what THAT was, eh?) Oh...THAT?

Mr. F: (Nodding) Yes. That.

Me: Stuff from the shop.

Mr. F: Aaaaand it’s in here because why?

Me: Because it has to be somewhere.

Mr. F: So we are just going to KEEP all of this stuff?

Me: Define KEEP.

Mr. F: Bring it into the house, and you know...look at it...and stuff.

Me: Um, yeaaaaah....Why?

Mr. F: I thought the whole point of having a shop was to SELL stuff.

Me: It is.

Mr. F: Soooo?

Me: So what?

Mr. F: So what’s it doing here?!

Me: Oooooooh.

Mr. F: Oh what?

Me: No.

Mr. F: No what?

Me: The stuff.

Mr. F: What about the stuff?

Me: What do you MEAN, what about the stuff? You’re the one that asked!

Mr. F: What?

Me: You never listen!

Mr. F: (Throws his keys into his catch all, his hands into the air, and says...) I need a beer.

Me: Where are you going?!

Mr. F: To get a drink.

Me: STOP!

Mr. F: (Sighs) What?

Me: The stuff isn’t staying here.

Mr. F: Uh-huh.

Me: Really! See!

Mr. F: See what?

Me: Look! I left the tags on (or in) everything!

Mr. F: So our house has turned into an homage to Minnie Pearl. That’s what you're saying?

Me: Um, no. That’s what YOU just said.

Mr. F: I need a drink.

And THAT, my friends, is how our humble home, aka Firefly Farms, has turned into a bit of a furnishings freak show. Stay tuned to find out if I manage to find an indoor home for my drill press. Poor thing.

The JUNCK Chick Flies the Coop

2010-09-16T07:30:00.000-07:00

OK...My apologies for not blogging more regularly recently. However, the exodus from the Landpimp’s building was neither expedient, nor pleasant.

However, I am now FREE!!!! Of course, Pa Kettle had to come and supervise the major moving over the weekend...which would be why I was forced to leave so many of our parts behind. I would begin sorting a pile of what he affectionately referred to as ‘garbage,’ and then the guys would holler at me to come help them move some behemoth piece of crap that I really don’t give a rat’s ass about. However, since Mr. Fantastic is in on this whole JUNCK thing, he gets to pick the stuff he needs to work with too. DAMMIT!

Mr. Fantastic decided that in addition to the HUMONGOUS work bench (seriously...this thing is the size of Utah, for cryin’ out loud!), that he needed to dismantle and take the cupboards that we used for our work counter that we had salvaged from a house that was being torn down.

This would have all been well and good, had he let me leave long enough to unload the JUNCKmobile so I could get another load of MY STUFF. But NOOOOOO....these big strong men might need me in some sort of EMERGENCY capacity in the 20 minutes it would take me to drive home, unload, and return. So...there sit tons of my parts...in the darkened shop....headed for the landfill. Which is precisely what I am trying to avoid by repurposing!!!! ARRRGGHHH!!!! It’s a fate worse than death, for this Green Girl.

Here’s how it went down...I would juuuuust touch something I wanted to load into MY truck, when Pa Kettle would yell...

Pa Kettle: “Hey! Wrong name (Because he still thinks it’s funny to call me the wrong friggin’ name after oh, say...20 effin’ years! Guess what? It’s not), Hey! Come here!”

Me: What?

Pa Kettle: I said...come here.

Me: And I said WHAT?!

Pa Kettle: (Rolling his eyes) Well, you don’t have to be so nasty!

Me: I’m kind of busy right now...What do you need?

Pa Kettle: I need for you to come here.

Me: (Heavy sigh...setting down the oak boards I have been sorting...AGAIN.)

Pa Kettle: What are you going to do with all of these? (Pointing at some random crap I could care less about that got left on the shop doorstep while I was gone.)

Me: Leave it here.

Pa Kettle: NO! You’re kidding me?! You are not leaving those here...

Me: YES! Yes I am!

Pa Kettle: Girl, those are valuable! Here’s what you do with ‘em...blah, blah, blah.

Me: (Yes, I have already walked away...as this same exact scene has played out 20 times today.)

Pa Kettle: Can I take ‘em?

Me: Sure. (Heading back to MY stuff that I want to load up and take home.) Knock yourself out.

Pa Kettle: Hey! Can you box these up for me and load ‘em into my pickup? I’m an old man, and can’t lift heavy things.

Me: (Silently...THEN...WHY...THE...F@#*...ARE YOU HERE?!?!) I’ll get them after bit.

Pa Kettle: Can’t you do it now?

Me: I am going through MY stuff right now.

Pa Kettle: Harrumph...Won’t even help your old man....all we’ve done for you...blah...blah...blah

Me: (Making that scary Jack Nicholson ‘Joker’ face before I turn around, and silently recoiling at the thought that he just considers himself MY dad...Then forcing myself to admit they ARE nice to me...MOST of the time.) SURE...(I spit through clenched teeth...I am SO going to need to see the dentist when this is over, as I have been doing so much power-clenching lately, I broke my newest filling. YAY me!)

Pa Kettle: What have you got to eat around here? I’m hungry. Did you bake some cookies or something for us today?

Me: Nooooooo...

Pa Kettle: That’s too bad. You should have. Because I’m hungry.

I return to where my pile was, and it is GONE...Thrown haphazardly into the darkened corner by my brother-in-law, who, while doing some SERIOUS work here today, is not pausing long enough to ask for instructions. He doesn’t see any value in the ‘parts’ I want to take, and only sees value in the stuff he recognizes as useful in ‘Guytown.’ (Can you smell the testosterone?)

By the time everyone else got the hell out of the shop, it was pitch black, and the batteries in all of our hand-held lights were dead. I was SO friggin’ tired by dark-thirty that I no longer cared about my parts, and seriously thought I might be having some kind of an attack. My right hip was out of whack, the sweat had dried on my face in a white crust, and I had felt like I was about to puke for the last four hours, so I was SOOOO not going to rummage around in the dark until I had a heart attack. I can see the headline in our local paper now. ‘Local B*@#% Found Dead Under Pile of Rubble Due to Own Fat-Assedness’...Nice, huh? (On the bright side, it has forever cured me of wanting to compete on the Biggest Loser...I am SO not going to be on national television puking my guts out on the treadmill. No way, no how.)

So I decided to let it all go, and quit obsessing. Until today. My wooden windows....my screens....my old secretary-desk-thingamajig that I was going to turn into a bar...my chairs....SOB!

Well, at least it’s nothing a heavy dose of carbs and a vicodin won’t fix.

2010-09-10T05:37:00.000-07:00

So, we have been working on getting all the stuff from JUNCK moved from the shop to the home studio (presently known as our non-renovated crappy barn and our house), and are waaaay behind! We are going to have burn the candle at both ends this weekend to get it done. My hope for Monday, is that I will at least be able to roll out of bed and walk upright, but I am not holding out hope. I believe that it’s already a forgone conclusion that I will be hunched over like Marty Feldman in Young Frankenstein (I know, I know...It’s Fraanckenshteen!)

Since moving furniture and packing all manner of various and sundry parts (like greasy bike chains and car parts) that are waiting in the wings to be made into cool stuff, is a dirty job (Hey, where’s that Mike Rowe guy when you need him?!), I have been looking a little less than attractive as I run around town. OK, to be blunt, I have been dressed like a homeless person, and have been so stressed out, that I have de-evolved to the point where I am speaking in grunts and clicks.

Seriously, I walked into the corner drugstore, where I know EVERYBODY, and they all just stared, until one of them finally said, “Ummmm...hi?” I would have shuffled off into a dark corner like the movie monster I’ve become, yelling “ Don’t look at me...I’m too hideous!” Well, except that place is lit up like Times Square. So I just pretended it was perfectly normal for me to be running around in a stained T-shirt with a clippee shoved haphazardly into my unkept hair. Hair that definitely needs a trip to the salon next week. GAH! I look like someone who lives under the freeway overpass for crap’s sake! The next thing you know, I’ll be roaming around town in a flannel shirt, pink sweatpants and bedroom slippers. I need a fashion intervention when this is all over! Help me....For the LOVE OF GOD, someone burn this pair of capri jeans I’ve been wearing and get me to the stylist!

Yes, it has been an ugly couple of weeks here, and I apologize if I have scared anyone. I think I quite possibly have sunk to an even lower point, than when Mr. Fantastic told me that I looked like Nick Nolte’s mug shot, when I chose not to straighten my hair. NICE. However, it is unfortunately true. SIGH...

Also, as I am possibly one of the most uncoordinated people on the planet, and Mr. Fantastic has been forcing me to walk backwards EVERY FRICKIN’ TIME we are hauling something the size of say, Rhode Island, that would surely crush me (or at least turn the lower portion of my body into a gigantic crepe...Mmmmmm, crepes), I have been waiting for it to happen. I have totally been avoiding moving the worst of the stuff...(Read things that can cut my legs off like a Ginsu knife through a tomato, or squash me like a bug.) So we indeed have a fun-filled weekend ahead of us.

However, I am TOTALLY excited about finally getting to try out the kiln once we get the barn rewired. However, since I can’t even manage to remember to use potholders on a regular basis as needed, this could be a VERY bad thing. I mean come on, there is burning your hand while taking something out of an oven set at 350 degrees, and then there is burning all the flesh off of the front side of your body when you open a large burny thing that is hotter than the surface of the sun, and can melt glass. OK...I know you have to let it cool off before you open it, but I am one of those impatient, I want it NOW people, and it’s going to be EXTREMELY difficult to wait for things to cool down to zero, from say, eleventy million degrees.

Plus, we get to use the BIG ladder to take down the shop sign, and a bunch of other sharp and cutty ENORMOUS potentially death inducing things we have hung up at the shop. Let me just say this...Fat Asses + Big Ladder =Probable Death. I can’t imagine trying to get the huge sign out front down with just the two of us. It took four of us to put it up, so I’m sure it will be entertaining. I’m just hoping we don’t kill any passersby, or have a gust of wind take it, and sail it through the air like a big hurty magic carpet into some old blue hair’s Lexus, who happens to be dining at the tea room on the corner. Plus, it will probably be raining, which will add MUCH excitement to being on a tall metal lightning rod, er ladder. YAY US!

Seriously, we have SO much stuff left to haul, that if there is anything you can’t live without, PLEEEEEEEEEEASE come and buy it, so we don’t have to move it 47 times before we get the shop remodeled. I am seriously toying with the idea of a giant bonfire on our front expanse of lawn. Just dump the stuff out of the back of the pickup, and voila! A huge fire they can see from space! (Plus you can roast marshmallows over it and make smores...It’s totally a win-win, right?!) AND...Homecoming IS just right around the corner, you know. Hmmmmm....It’s a thought.

We have also been dealing with a contractor for the utility company, who informed me a couple of days ago, that they want to bury new power lines directly behind the barn, and plan for us to grant them an easement. (Uh-huh...) Which in simple-speak means, they take a 10’ x 400’ strip of our land, and do whatever they want to with it (except mow it, maintain it, or pay taxes on it) and we can’t build anything on it. Oh, and you got the part where they want to do it RIGHT BEHIND OUR BARN...which we plan to add on to for the shop?!?! Yes, as a matter of fact, I AM having a small stroke, but I am sure I can still haul stuff with only one side of my body functioning, for as Mr. Fantastic says, “I am strong...like bull!” Or maybe it’s “I’m full of bullshit,” I’m don’t quite remember.

Oh well, with my current attire and grooming choices, the stroke and its ensuing slurred speech will simply fuel the rumor that I have become all drunkety. (Which I totally plan to be once this is all over with.) Hey, it worked for that guy on Andy Griffith! So, if you see me around town, just wave and give a shout out to the JUNCK Chick...aka Otis.

Who The HELL Does She Think She IS? Well, I Am the JUNCK Chick...

2010-09-07T11:49:00.000-07:00

WARNING...If you are easily offended by harsh language, swearing and grumpiness, you are OBVIOUSLY in the wrong place...

OK...So here’s the dealio. I have been busy trying to get all the stuff from our shop space (uber huge MASSIVE building) moved to the home studio/shop (NOT so uber huge) while we work on renovating the barn...WHICH we have not even begun to work on yet.

Every time I go to the shop, I get sick from the mildewy, sewagey, lead-paint goodness that emanates from many older buildings with ASSHAT landlords. I am seriously thinking about starting an online campaign to update the word slumlord, to something more hip and happening, such as landpimp. I mean really, they own a bunch of rundown property that nobody else with good sense would take on, unless they are desperate (and with this economy, yes, I was). Plus you end up sick with some kind of nasty funk. (Which is not be confused with good funk, like say Earth, Wind and Fire or George Clinton.)

As I do indeed suffer from major respiratory problems EVERY...FRICKIN’...TIME I’m at the shop, and it takes me 3-4 days to get back to quasi-normal, where I can actually breathe enough air to remain lucid, OK, well, upright, for more than five minutes, it’s a totally appropriate verbiage update for someone as special as my gem of a landpimp. BTW...I also LOVE it when he tells me how the money I am paying him is going toward building his vacation house on some lake in Arkansas. (If you’re from Arkansas, you’ll easily recognize him, because he looks like Super Mario, with plumber’s butt.)

I am supposed to be organizing our basement and my current office/studio at this very moment, in order to accommodate the vast array of fabulous stuff the JUNCK Rural Renaissance Posse has made and accumulated over the past two years at the shop. Let me tell you, this task would be akin to me attempting to stuff myself into my skinny jeans from looooong ago. SOOOO not gonna’ happen without breakage...and someone MAY lose an eye, or an appendage when it all blows.

Mr. Fantastic and I held a sale here at Firefly Farms this weekend, to try and pare down some of the inventory, and let me just say this...it did not go well. Here’s the skinny...

The first day of the sale, the weather was absolutely fabulous! Seriously, if I were Bill Gates and had a weather machine, I could not have created more perfect weather. However, operator error cannot be controlled, and about a half an hour before event time, things began to go to complete and utter shit.

The first shoppers on the scene of JUNCKapalooza, arrived half an hour early, and drove their ratty-ass pickup right into the middle of the staged displays. Mr. Fantastic politely approached them and told them the sale didn’t start for another 30 minutes, and walked away. They remained parked and ogling the goods, until he walked back toward them, and told them to move along, as he needed to move his vehicle, and they were blocking the way.

We thought it would be better to set things up on the large concrete portion of the lane turnaround up by the house, instead of on the uneven, soggy ground in front of the barn...because that’s ALL we need, is someone twisting and ankle and knocking themselves unconscious on the marble top of the rolling wine cabinet the JUNCK Team has created and has for sale.

So, I instruct Mr. Fantastic to pull his truck down the lane, and park it facing out, just this side of the barn, so people can park in front of the barn and still have room to turn around. You would think this would be a simple task...but as he apparently doesn’t see the same pictures I see in my head (Yes, Reagan...I know you SO get this), he parked crossways in the middle of the effin’ driveway, somehow blocking nearly all access to the space in front of the barn, thereby blocking parking, AND access to turn around. As people have now arrived and are trying to ask me questions about things, I am forced to try and redirect my loving soulmate with hand signals.

Me: NO! (Waving my arms wildly...) NO...NO....NOOOOO!!!!!

Him: (Shrugging, palms skyward) WHAT?!

Me: NOT THERE!!!! (under my breath) JFC! Do I have to do everything myself?! Honest to GOD, I live in the land of idiots! WHAT?! Oh, hi there. Yes, that is made entirely from reclaimed parts, with the exception of the trim around the marble top and the casters. It IS lovely isn’t it? (More flagging around of my arms, trying to indicate parking lengthwise in the drive.)

Him: (Throwing his own married couple signs)

Me: NICE! Just never mind...I’ll do it myself!

Him: Ohhhhh...(Finally figuring out what I mean, and shaking his head as I am now vibrating with frustration, and trying to keep a Chesire Cat grin plastered on my face, so as not to scare people away.)

Next begins the part of the show, where I try to keep it under control, and not throttle people, who have taken our retail relocation sale for a garage sale, and who are asking where the ‘good' junk is. I, in turn, wonder aloud, what junk might that be?

(This is from an actual conversation, and I have attempted to translate the phonetic spelling as it occurred)

Customer: Oh, ya know, used kidses’ clothes...my boys is alluz gettin’ in fights, and then they bleed all over ‘emselves. Ain’t no sense in gettin’ ‘em nuthin’ nice, ‘cuz they jes wreck it.

Me: Um, no...We don’t have any clothes. We are relocating our retail shop and are trying to decrease our inventory. We’re renovating our barn into shop space, but we don’t have enough room to store everything.

Customer: Ya don’t say? Hmmmm...What kinda shop ya’ll got?

Me: (As we are both standing between two vignettes...one a staged display including a lovely pink plaid Victorian sofa with down cushions, and a tea set on a wicker coffee table, and the other a refurbished dining set with funky reupholstered mismatched chairs, sporting a display of funky birdhouses and a birdbath made from a reclaimed sink and salvaged art glass.) Well, THIS kind of stuff is what we have.

Customer: Oh. So ya don’t got no Tupperware?

Me: No.

Customer: Ohhhhh...So it’s like one of them artsy kinda’ stores.

Me: (Smiling broadly) Yes.

Customer: Ya got any of them plastic canvas Kleenex box covers? I jes love them.

Me: (Smile wiped clean from my face.) Um, no.

Customer: Well, good luck to ya. Though if you want some advice, I’d lower my prices a WHOLE bunch if you’re gonna’ do these here garage sales. I don’t know who you think you are, but ain’t nobody gonna’ buy none of this stuff with these kinda’ prices.

Luckily for this lovely shopper, Mr. Fantastic is NOW channeling the pictures in my head, and can see that I am envisioning clubbing them over the head with the vintage pick-axe in an adjacent vignette, and dragging them off into the ravine to feed the wild animals. He grabs me by the elbow, and steers me back to the front porch, and says, “Just ignore them. You know this is EXACTLY why we are moving home and creating a bigger outlet for online sales.” I nod, and then we agree we are SO going to need some drinks when this is all over.

While it wasn’t a HUGE success, we did make some sales the first day. However, we also overheard people we thought were friends talk smack about our prices and products...Such as, “Who the HELL does she think she is, to think she’s special enough to charge those kind of prices?” “MmmmmHmmmmm, I know.”

Rebuttal 1.):
HELLOOOO?!!!...Do I go to YOUR work and say, Geez, they pay you HOW much?! Here’s a dollar, it’s all you’re worth. NO...I don’t, but I SO might now. (P.S. In past jobs, NOT here in Mayberry, I have gotten paid $250 an hour for writing, so suck it! I know, I am such a lady-like delicate flower, am I not?)

Rebuttal B.
Um...It IS me we’re talking about, and I’m standing like 5 f@#*ing feet away! Who the HELL do I think I am? Let me see...I think I am just as special as the next person. Well, not the one standing next to you that came here with you, because she’s obviously as tacky and full of baloney as you are! I work hard, I volunteer in the community, and I am not some phony. If I don’t like you, you’re SO gonna’ know it. (Friend update: I DON’T like you.) However, since I am NOT as petty as you both are, I will not name names.

Anyway, the next day the wind picked up, and blew over a bunch of stuff, and smashed it, so I spent time sweeping up broken glass and hauling stuff inside. The most interesting person we had the second day was someone who brought their digital camera to take pictures, and interrogate us about how we make stuff, so they could make it too! HOORAY!!!!!WOOOT!!!!HOOPTY!!!!!!YAY!!!!! Mr. Fantastic told me next time we host JUNCKapalooza here, we should call it something else, because calling it something with a horse name in it obviously confuses people. (Gotta' love him!)

Well, onward an upward...you will never be a prophet in your own land. (Advice from someone with that $250 an hour job.)

Psssst...I’ll be in the frozen food section at the local Fareway store around 3:30 today if you want to know who it is.

Epic FAIL! Text Mehhhh...

2010-08-27T10:31:00.000-07:00

And so it has begun...yet another sporting season with Ma and Pa Kettle. Last night our niece was playing in a volleyball triangular here in town that her mom invited us to, but Pa Kettle also called us to tell us about it. When I told him that we were already aware of the meet, and were indeed planning on going, he seemed surprised that the rest of us actually talk when they are not around. Um, yeah. So my sis-in-law texted me a couple of times before we arrived at the meet. RU coming?! We r upstairs @ rec. “Yes, we ARE coming...” You won’t have to bear this public humiliation alone. SIGH...

Mr. Fantastic’s bro WOULD have texted him, but he has learned the hard way, that texting Mr. F. is a one-way street. He has refused to enter the 21st Century in some areas...Meaning the ones HE doesn’t like. Oh, he is ALL about high-definition, surround sound, new power tools, video games and Apple products (as long as said Apple products are a desktop computer...SIGH), but if HE doesn’t like it, it doesn’t need to exist. Tyrant. Oh well, we just ignore his little antiquated views of the kingdom and dance around the house to our iPods and text each other 24/7. OK, I’ll admit it, sometimes we text each other across the living room while he’s watching TV just to piss him off. Just like Love Story around here, eh? “Love means never having to say you’re sorry...” Because there’s no use saying it, if you don’t mean it. Somehow, we have managed to turn “Pffffttt! Whatever...” into “Sure, go right ahead,” and “Eff you,” into "XOXO." Hey, we are the ‘now generation’...Thank you Fergie & Black Eyed Peas for your words of wisdom.

Anyway...back at the gym, the fam has sprawled themselves out over a portion of the elevated walking track, allowing them to take in the matches from above...and no doubt to avoid annoying the rest of the general public. (My sister-in-law is one smart cookie!) Ma & Pa Kettle have already taken over my bro-in-law and nephew’s canvas chairs, as they must always be sitting...well, sitting and eating. Of course, Ma Kettle has to complain that these chairs are MUCH too low, and VERY uncomfortable. I tell her they look perfectly fine to me. She informs me that I may have her seat if I think it looks comfortable...Of course, I would have to help her up, and would be seated directly next to Pa Kettle. I politely tell her “Don’t be silly, I wouldn’t dream of taking your seat!” Which translates into, ‘No, I am NOT going back out to my car to get you one of OUR chairs, and I am SO not sitting directly next door to Hell in Pants.’

Shortly after this little exchange of pleasantries, I run downstairs and grab some drinks from the vending machine. Naturally this cues Pa Kettle’s Pavlovian reflex, and he immediately begins a line of questioning in an attempt to satisfy his feeding frenzy...

Pa Kettle: What have they got to eat?

Me: Nothing.

Pa Kettle: Where’d you get that drink then?!

Me: Ummmm...The pop machine...It’s right next to the elevator. (That I KNOW you took up here, since neither of you would exert yourselves and take the stairs.)

Pa Kettle: Surely they are selling snacks. Run downstairs and tell me what they’ve got.

Me: There...is...no...food.

Pa Kettle: Well, what kind of sports thingie doesn’t have snacks?!

Me: This one.

Pa Kettle: Pfffffftttttt. There has to be something to eat here SOMEWHERE!

Me: (Smiling sweetly) I might have some furry fruit snacks floating around in the bottom of my purse.

Pa Kettle: What the...(Grimacing)

Pa Kettle: Who wants to run across the street to the convenience store and buy Grandpa a snack? (Looking around expectantly)

DEAD SILENCE

Everyone takes a step away from the old man, and resumes their conversations, totally ignoring his pleas for food.

Pa Kettle: Well, I am hungry! Someone needs to go get me a snack.

Me: You should have eaten dinner before you came.

Pa Kettle: (Giving me the stink eye) We DID go out to eat before we came here.

Me: Well, then I guess you’ll live.

Pa Kettle: I’m STILL hungry...

No one pays him ANY attention whatsoever...

Pa Kettle: (Mumbling) Can’t believe nobody will go and get me a snack...

My sis-in-law and I roll our eyes over his head, and I see Ma Kettle trying to flag someone down to help her out of her chair. I nudge Mr. Fantastic and tell him his mom needs help getting up to go to the bathroom. He rolls his eyes and looks away. (He’s a gem some days.) Our oldest sees her flailing and comes to the rescue...When I tell him what a nice boy he is, he rolls his eyes and says “Well, it’s not like we want her to make a scene, right?!” Then he immediately removes himself from the vicinity to go sit with one of his friends.

We watch the games and chat, and then pretty soon it is time to go...But as all of you know, that means AT LEAST another half hour of yammering before we can tear ourselves away from the old people.

A friend of our oldest is trying out some of the weight equipment in the gym next to the track, and we walk over to tell him good luck at his football game today. Of course, being in a room full of testosterone, the equipment is calling with its Siren’s song. Mr. Fantastic sits down and curls the weights a few times. The boys are gaping in awe that overweight old people really do have muscles in there somewhere. (Yes, we CAN still kick your butts...for about the next 5 minutes.) Naturally, Pa Kettle has to sit down and try and curl what this young kid and his own grown son have lifted on the machine. 120 pounds...really...I don’t think so.

After he nearly gives himself a brain hemorrhage, and turns 14 different shades of purple, he admits he can’t lift it, and tells our oldest to adjust the weight. He adjusts it to 10 pounds, and the curl bar practically goes flying across the room. Our oldest is laughing his silent shoulder shaking laugh at his own naughtiness, and then fixes the machine. Pa Kettle gets up to 70 pounds before he about passes out, and Mr. Fantastic peels him off of the machine.

Our son gets off of the butterfly machine and says 60 pounds is kind of heavy. I sit down and do a few, and shame him. Then he turns around and tells his friend I can leg press 450 pounds (Of course I can...It’s about 1,000 pounds less than I weigh, so it’s not a big deal...LOL) This kid’s eyes bug out of his head, and I beg off, because I am wearing these really cute little slides, and tell him they aren’t appropriate shoes for lifting. However, the truth is, my friend, Heather and I walked for an hour today, and let me tell you, we were FLYING around that track. Naturally, I was stupid and didn’t stretch out after, and my leg muscles have now shrunken to the length of a two year old’s. Ow. Ow. Ow...

We walk the Kettles to their new minivan, and after showing them how to work their remotes for the van doors, Ma Kettle hugs our oldest, and then our youngest hugs her (without prompting, may I add), and she says...I already hugged YOU! Nice...And they wonder why the kids don’t want to come visit.

Anyway, on the way home in the car, the guys get to discussing the Packer game, and our oldest says he ‘liked’ one of his friend’s Facebook comments about the game. Mr. Fantastic starts a line of interrogation that plays out like a modern day Who’s on First...

Mr. F: So what did you like about his Facebook comment?

Son: It’s a post.

Mr. F: Whatever...That’s not what I asked now, is it?!

Son: I was just telling you what it’s called.

Mr. F: Just be quiet! Now tell me what you liked about their statement...

Son: It’s a post...

Mr. F: Jesus! Can you just answer my question?!

Son: Nice language...

Mr. F: Don’t smart off!

Son: (Under his breath) Like you’d understand anyway...

Mr. F: WHAT...did you say?!

Son: Nothing.

Mr. F: SO...WHAT....DID...YOU...SAY about his comment.

Son: THAT...I...LIKED...IT! THAT’S what I said. Jeez!

Mr. F: What did you say you liked about it?!

Son: That I LIKED it!

Mr. F: DAMMIT! It is like pulling teeth to get you tell me anything.

Me: There is an actual LIKE button on Facebook! You can click it, and it says LIKE! Jesus! If you would listen when we try to talk to you about things, you might be able to follow the conversation!

Mr. F: Oh sure...Take HIS side! I’m trying to find out WHAT he liked about it!

Me: JESUS! WHAT...DO...YOU...NOT...UNDERSTAND?!

Mr. F: FINE! If you don’t want to tell me, I don’t care anymore!

Me: SIGH...There is a BUTTON to click under someone’s COMMENT...You can either type a COMMENT in the box, or click LIKE...and LIKE, with your name attached, pops up under their comment. NOW do you understand?

Mr. F: So he just clicked a button that says LIKE?

Me and Son: YES!!!!!!!!

Mr. F: Well, that is the DUMBEST thing I’ve ever heard! Facebook is such a monumental waste of time! I don’t know why you both like it.

Then my son texted me...FAIL! LMAO...and I replied, Ikr! LIKE ;-)

Thanks for Calling...

2010-08-25T11:37:00.000-07:00

OK...So we have eleventy-million things to do to get this move done from JUNCK’s brick and mortar shop uptown to our place, which we call Firefly Farms. (Hard to believe I actually came up with such a cute name for the place after um...several...drinks, as I usually cut straight to swearing every other word when I get a bit drunkety.)

I’ve got the JUNCK hotline, (okay it’s just a regular phone) poised to take the place of my current office number here on Monday. I like to refer to it as the hotline, because I get a vision of me in some killer vintage upcycled outfit, answering my oh-so collectible Ericaphone (yes, I DO have one) and hopping on my Vespa (which I SO don’t have) in response to the JUNCK signal. Hmmmm....this sounds more like my one of my most fun friends, Angie. She has a MUCH better figure for say, June Cleaver’s clothes, AND she has a VESPA...and an MG convertible! I told you she was F-U-N. I would be more likely to revamp a man’s suit into something with cleavage and LOTS of JUNCK Jewelry. (Hey, when you’re climbing all over what some people see as trash, hunting for hidden treasures to funk up, pants and sensible shoes are...well, sensible.) However, I DO like the idea of a JUNCK signal...”Wherever there is a repurposing emergency, the JUNCK Chick, and her Rural Renaissance Posse will be there...” I wonder if Mr. Fantastic and Dean could revamp an old stage light into the JUNCK signal? Hmmmm...Oooh, perhaps that can be my super-cool ‘Open’ sign!

Anywho...I was updating my outgoing JUNCK voicemail message this morning, and in true creative adult-onset ADD, I jumped right in with both feet. My old self, who used be the uber Finance/HR & Communications Queen would have scripted something & read it. But what fun is that?! I have progressed to the point, that I have to wrestle things into their respective places on a daily basis, even though there is PROBABLY (OK...almost ALWAYS) an easier or smarter way. Yes, apparently I am experiencing what most people would call their second childhood. However, since I was a 35 year-old soul trapped in a kid’s body during my childhood, I am going to call this Round 1. YAY! It’s like being a kid, except you DO know what you wished you knew back then! Pretty SWEET, if I do say so myself!

SO, here I sit, trying version #137 of my outgoing message, and I am STILL not happy with it. Then...Wilson and Fluffy Pony-Puppy start going ballistic. Probably that friggin’ damn squirrel that has been prancing back and forth on the ledge under the picture window in our living room. Stupid effin’ rodent! I step outside my back office door, and he is now trapped, as his only escape is through me. Mwah hah hah haaaaa! He begins to pace and do that annoying squirrel clickety thing they do when they are cussing you out. He’s unsure as to whether he can make the leap from the railing to the locust tree at the far end of the ledge, which keeps bringing him back to me. My eyes gleam with evil delight at his growing pissed-offedness with me, as I refuse to budge.

He tries to stare me down, and I laugh in his face. Then I remember that a squirrel jumped through my sister’s car window a few years back and bit my nephew. (I know...WTF?!) I have no other choice than to...arm myself with projectiles and a BIG stick. What, you thought I was going to move? HA! He continues cussing me out in Squirrelese, growing increasingly bolder...waving his fluffy tail at me as he stands with his little rat paws on his hips, giving me what for.

So...I throw a stick at him, and knock him off the railing. DUMBASS! He scampers off into the woods, and I am flush with the adrenaline of victory. “I...am the Champion...my friends...”

I head back into the office, where the dogs are now dancing with delight (I believe it’s the Conga) at the thought of squirrel tidbits. I get them to settle down and resume the task at hand...recording my new outgoing shop message. I am in the midst of recording the perfect message, when the dogs freak out again. DAMMIT! Since I am still all jacked up on my squirrel-victory endorphins, this is the message that got recorded...

“Hi! Thanks for calling JUNCK. You’ve reached the JUNCK Chick...What the HELL are you barking at now?! Shut the F@#% up! NO! NO! Come here...Get your ASSES in the house! IN...THE...FRICKIN’ HOUSE! NOW! DAMMIT! What the HELL?!”

Right then, the phone rings...and goes straight to voicemail. Needless to say, the caller didn’t leave a message. I turned around, and there was the squirrel. Perched on the window ledge, giving me the finger. Furry little bastard.

Well, I’m off to keep moving stuff around so I can haul some more stuff home...Oh, and I better re-record that message before anyone else calls...

The JUNCK Chick Agreed To Do WHAT?!

2010-08-24T05:39:00.000-07:00

My friend Kim, who is as wonderful a person as you could possibly find on the planet, has offered to take me running with her in the evenings. The first words out of my mouth were “Will you call 911 when I collapse?” I fully expect this to happen prior to jogging out of their driveway. She laughed and told me I would kick her heinie. (As someone who relates Heinie to Heineken, I MAY be in trouble.) Um, nooooo, my kneecaps might blow out and hit her in the rear-end, but I’m pretty sure she will regret the offer about 30 seconds into our first outing. Do they make asthma inhaler on a rope, so I can wear it around my neck to offset the impending wheezing attack brought about by my lungs going ‘Just WTF do you think you are doing Fatacus?!’

I actually have NO clue as to WHY Kim is my friend, as she is all golden sunshiney fabulousness, and I am about as abrasive and unpleasant as an angst-riddled goth teen. However, she IS my friend, and has offered to help me get rid of this truckload of spare tires I have been hauling around since my mid-twenties. YAY!!!!WHOOPTY!!!!!HURRAY!!!!ELEVENTY!!!!! Yeah, I know, as soon as I actually have my first session of ‘Fitness for the Fatty,’ I will be spewing such awful hatred for air and sunshine that a noxious cloud of out-of-shapeness will materialize & follow us along the course of our run. Which, given my state of er, fitness... will not be long. (Be sure to look for the toxic cloud, so you can track my progress, or lack thereof.) Ooooh, perhaps I will make as far as the end of Kim’s neighbor’s driveway, which is where my friend Heather lives!!!

Now, I could say that Heather ALWAYS has some type of delicious snack at the ready (she has a houseful of boys, need I say more). However, Heather was a Junior Olympic swimmer, and will more than likely chase me about 10 miles with a stick to get me moving, and keep me on task. (With friends like that, who needs a personal trainer?)

In preparation, I have ordered myself some new clearance-priced (YAY! ALWAYS love a sale on shoes!) Asics from Eastbay, as my old shoes are trashed from having worn them to do yard work, and I don’t think I would get the support my ginormous self needs if I merely duct-tape my old ones. That being said, I have been trying to mentally prepare, and gauge my level of fatassedness by testing myself in little daily activities.

During orientation for our youngest, who lives life in a very literal sense, we decided to walk him through his schedule of classes at the Middle School, since it’s a new building, and there are many changes to his day this year. Well, naturally, this took us from the basement of the building to the third floor in non-air conditioned glory. Now let me say, I am a dumbass, who cannot adjust her pace. My mom was a no nonsense gal, who practically sprinted from task to task, and I learned to keep up. Seriously, with seven (sometimes 8) other people in the house, she was the kick-ass and take names type of mom.

About five steps from the top of the 3rd floor, my legs were Jell-O, and I was sucking wind so badly, that I was siphoning papers from the newly decked-out bulletin boards down the entire length of the hallway. Then the sweating kicked in. Now let me tell you...I...am a ‘sweater’ of monumental proportions. Teachers who know me, were apparently extremely concerned that I was going to drop dead on the threshold of their classrooms upon viewing my red-faced uber sweatiness, as they ALL invited me into their air-conditioned classrooms to get cooled off. NICE...Now, I have always been afflicted by flopsweat...so just because you see me sweating buckets, it doesn’t mean I am going to keel over. Unless of course, I do. Which I am hoping I don’t.

So, if you see what looks like Jabba the Hutt staggering down the road about three miles behind some fit and fabulous great looking blond woman, don’t be alarmed...It’s just me and Kim, who is attempting to convert my creme filling back to actual heart-pumping blood. Oh, and if you see someone chasing me with a stick, it’s probably just Heather shooing me away from her snack cupboard.

OK, I’m off to organize my iPod playlist and locate my workout pants.

What's At The End of THIS Rainbow? That...Would Be Me

2010-08-16T11:35:00.000-07:00

You would THINK the third time around would be a charm for all of our bad mower mojo...But no. We had the loaner from the shop while our mower was getting worked on, and had originally set it out for them to pick it up...Then it stormed & I ran out to the barn to put it inside, where I promptly forgot about. Outta’ sight, outta’ mind.

Now, you would THINK that with the big push coming to get things from JUNCK shifted over to our new digs here at Firefly Farms, I would run across something the size of, say, A MOWER. However, renovating the barn is going to be a slow process, as it takes a LOT of money...Which I do not currently possess. I figured the money tree would have sprouted by now with these Brazilian Rainforest-like days we have had here this summer, but alas, it has not.

Anyway, since the mower was still sitting here, we decided to tag team our ginormous lawn (we mow around 4 acres). But, with my luck being what it is...mostly bad, the loaner mower wouldn’t start. Deader than a doornail. (If you want to know where this colloquialism comes from, just ask me...I will be happy to share my knowledge of building with nails, circa 1572.)

So, I decide to phone my sis to see if they have a battery charger. I know I have seen one sitting around at her house. Yep, they have one. Nope, they don’t know where it went. DAMMIT. But wait! They will borrow one from a friend. YAY!!!!WOOT!!!!HOOPTY!!! So, they bring it over, and hook it up to the battery. Which is a good thing, because I am not overly confident where jumper cables and electricity are involved. Especially, when one of the main switches on this contraption has been jammed INSIDE the unit, and you can only adjust it by shoving a screw-driver into said electricity transferring device. Now, I KNOW how jumper cables work, and will use them if I HAVE to. Meaning there is not some man around who will do it for me, thereby taking on the possibility of death by electrocution, or at the very least, a bad cartoon-like curly perm makeover complete with singed eyebrows.

You see, I like to avoid death at all possible costs. Unless of course it means eating right and exercising. Puhleeze...I have done that whole work out three hours a day routine. (How do you think I snagged Mr. Fantastic?) However, at this point in life, I am all about comfortable shoes and jeans that fasten, yet don’t make me look like I have a load in my pants. (Not all fat people are bottom heavy you know! Some of us are built like basketballs with arms and legs thank you very much!) DAMN...I can see several trips to the gym in my future after that little outburst. I WOULD like to be able to play tennis again without my knees exploding, and killing innocent bystanders...and then, there’s that whole dropping dead from a cream-filled heart attack.

ANYWAY...Back to mowing...We manage to successfully charge the battery, without turning our garage into the detached variety...YAY! And we’re off...Now I HATE mowing the hill by our house, because while the slope isn’t nearly as steep as the ravine by the barn, being a top-heavy variety broad, I am afraid of tipping over and being cut into a bajillion slices of extra fatty bacon. (Thank God for Mr. Fantastic...otherwise major portions of our property would SO become native prairie) This time, I decide to go up & down the hill, like I am supposed to. Naturally this takes WAAAAY longer, and results in Mr. Fantastic coming over to see what is taking so long. He of course, shakes his head and calls me a wuss. I blow him a kiss and say ‘eff off’ under cover of the RAWR of my mower. Hey, if he doesn’t want my help, I am perfectly fine with napping.

I finish up around the house portion of the day’s Mowapalooza, and head for the BIG section of the front lawn. (See photo, which shows about a quarter of the actual size.) Now I am trucking right along, and have finally worked my way up under the big maple tree, which has some dead branches hanging from summer storm #534, that are poised to gouge my eyes out. Since...

a.) They are already dead
2.) I am lazy
III.) I am tired of getting stabbed in the face with said dead branches

I ease on up to them, still astride my mower, and SNAP THOSE BASTARDS OFF! HA! SO THERE! I am feeling pretty smug and satisfied with myself at having bested the wilderness that is our front lawn...and then...I get to the big weeping willow tree.

Let me just say, I LOVE this tree! Mowing underneath it...not so much. As in NOT in any fricking tiny way do I enjoy navigating the machine of cuttyness under this canopy of mosquitoes and arena of deer poop. UGH. So, like the true achiever I am...I opt to mow AROUND it for the time being. However, on my next lap around the lawn, it is standing there, taunting me, with its branches blowing in the breeze. Hey! Did it just flip me off?! Oh, it’s ON!

I head directly for the tree, my game face on. I make it up underneath the dome of certain doom, with only a few minor welts popping up on my face from my initial entry into the underworld. I make a few circles under the tree, and am satisfied that it is good enough. I have now rolled through a giant pile of deer doo, and the right front mower tire is coated and smells, well, like poop. As I go to exit this den of wildlife debauchery, a wasp flies directly into my cleavage, and I let go of the steering wheel in an attempt to rid myself of this Ow!!!!! Hurty!!!! Stingy....die, die DIE!!!! nasty little critter. Of course, I neglect to let up on the gas, and wind up directly in the middle of a clump of low-hanging branches.

As I try to rectify this situation, and escape the now pissed-off wasp, I realize that the giant clippee in my hair has become entangled in the branches, and unless I want to scalp myself, I need to stay put, and try to extract my hair from this mess. A while later, I am finally free, and exit Mother Nature’s fun house (BITCH). My hair is askew with bits of twigs and leaves tangled in it, the clippee dangling off to one side, and my bangs are hanging in my face, so that I look like Cousin Itt from the Addams Family. Naturally, Mr. Fantastic has come charging across the lawn on the other mower to see what the hell is taking me so long. I shoot him the death stare, and he rides away guffawing so loudly, I can still hear him over both the mowers.

I think I will stick with indoor chores today...

Stupid Is, As Stupid Does...Yes, I Would Be Stupid

2010-07-30T21:14:00.000-07:00

Oh how the mighty have fallen...Yes, that would be me...the not so mighty.

My Bestie and I drove to Des Moines to pick up Mr. Fantastic’s crapmobile from the shop a friend had recommended. Now, having my own business here in town, I try to shop local whenever I can...However, since this guy was neither buying me dinner, nor trying to get lucky...I opted to pay his MUCH lower prices and skip the getting screwed portion of the entire transaction. (Seriously...A few years ago we paid someone local TWO friggin’ GRAND for a new transmission we never got...SO...’nuff said.)

Anyway, we drove the JUNCK Wonderbeast down to Des Moines, and had a nice girlie lunch. Well, until I got sick and spent the rest of the day running the bathroom. If it’s possible to get food poisoning of some sort from lettuce being left out five seconds too long...I will, so don’t even bother to factor in that we had um...seafood. Laura, was of course fine. So it must just be me. (Yeah, yeah, I know...It’s ALWAYS something with me.)

We get all of our (okay, well, MY errands run) and head over to pick up the crapmobile. Seriously, this piece of...well, you know, has had so much cash sunk into it over the past couple of years, that if life were fair, it would have morphed into a freakin’ Cadillac Escalade by now! But NOOOOOO... It’s still a rusty piece of crap that’s only apparent mission is to break down when we have no extra cash and completely drain our savings. Well, crapmobile...MISSION ACCOMPLISHED! Hope you don’t need gas to run, because you have sucked us dry, you evil heap!

Now, this mechanic has his business in a shop behind his house (What a concept...wish I had thought of that! It would have saved me a bundle on expenses to my Landlord, Beelzebub, and the Evil Overlords of Energy aka the greedy utility company.) Now, don’t take this the wrong way, because I know everyone has to live in some kind of neighborhood...but if I had been driving through here with the parentals, they would have locked the doors. I, however, choosing to walk on the wild side do not. In fact, I smiled right in the face of danger...Seriously...that’s what his tattoo said anyway.

So, we get to where the address SHOULD be, and there is...well...an empty lot. Um, hmmmm. This is a head scratcher. I turn to Laura, since she grew up in Des Moines, and said, “Is this the right street?” She sighs, rolls her eyes and nods. (I get that a lot from Laura, because she is MUCH smarter than I am. She is also WAAAAY nicer...I really have no idea why she is friends with me, but I’m glad she is. Maybe it’s my ability to lift heavy things and trim her dog’s toenails...Ooooh, or perhaps it’s the fact that when I go into the grocery store for food on a road trip, I always come out with stuff Cheech and Chong would buy! I am ALL about the creme filling in a Hostess Suzy Q!)

I pull into a parking lot, along with another SUV, who is also apparently lost, and phone the mechanic. I confirm the address, and start out again looking at the building numbers...and again I am met with an empty lot. SO, I call my friend, Kelly, who arranged this whole mess, and hauled the crapmobile down here in the first place. The first words out of his mouth are, “Are you SURE you’re on the right street?” I look at Laura with panic, and mouth his question. She again rolls her eyes and nods yes. So, of course I have to get all pissy and retort...’Well of COURSE we’re on the right street! Do you think I’m a complete moron?!”

I...am a complete moron. We were NOT on the right street, as the road diverged into split a couple of blocks back, and neither Laura or I noticed. Kelly, has said he is meeting us at the mechanic’s, so NOW I have to call back and tell him, I am NOT smarter than a dumbass, and yes, in fact, I WAS on the wrong street. DAMMIT!

We pull up in front of the house, and I phone Kelly to tell him we finally made it. I walk up and shake hands with the mechanic, whose yard is immaculate and his home is freshly painted...which is a miracle in this neighborhood. However, since he is saving us BIG money, I am accepting miracles at the moment. A couple of minutes later, up saunters Kelly with his chocolate Frosty from Wendy’s, and he says “SOOOO...do we have trouble reading street signs?” I fight back the urge to feed him his friggin’ frosty through his nostril, via his yellow-stripey straw, and smile sweetly. Har dee har har. He winks, and I forgive him. DAMMIT! I hate being wrong...

I get into the truck, which is parked down the street, and Laura promptly phones me to tell me to haul my dumbass back to my truck, because I never gave her the keys. WHOOPS! I’m really batting a thousand here today, eh? So I pull up behind my car, hop out, and give Laura the keys, and we drive off into the sunset...well, not quite.

Since the crapmobile’s air conditioning is ALSO broken, I have my windows down, and am treated to some hideous scraping noise as I pull up at the stoplight, where Danger is still leaning against the lamp post and says ‘Nice ride...’ and bursts out laughing. DOUBLE DAMMIT! Some gangbanger who doesn’t even have a friggin’ car is making fun of Mr. Fantastic’s truck! It is at that precise moment that I realize that being self-employed has taken away the very thing that kept me from being poor white trash...a paycheck!

I call Laura and tell her we have to go back to the mechanic’s and I put on my best ‘I’m a big bitch face, that lets the mechanic know in no uncertain terms ‘You are SO gonna’ fix this truck right now, Mister!...’ (Yes, I know...you people around here see it ALL the time...but these are NEW people!) The mechanic listens a second, nods, crawls under the truck...while it’s running...and I am in the driver’s seat. Boy, talk about taking your life in your hands! He pops back out and says the dust cover on the right front wheel had gotten tweaked and it should be a-okay now. I raise one eyebrow, and shoot him my most skeptical ‘you’d better be telling the truth’ look, and Kelly pops in my window, and says...“Yeah, you’re so tough,” while he continues to shovel his Frosty in his little skinny face. DAMMIT! Why can’t I be mad when he is around? Oh, that’s right...because he continually saves my ass when mechanical things go wrong.

The truck still needs an alignment, and the drive home was what I can only describe as what it must be like to juggle epileptic kangaroos (Yes, I HAVE juggled them before...SO SHUT THE HELL UP!) But the truck runs, and the wheels aren’t going to fall off, so all in all it’s been a successful day...Well, except for the food poisoning...and the fact that I had to admit I was wr....temporarily incorrect.

The JUNCK Chick Meets Jimmie Wayne Halfway

2010-07-27T10:10:00.000-07:00

So...My fabulous sister, Keri and I had the good fortune to see one of her oldest and dearest friends this past weekend. Keri met Barry while they were both in the Air Force. She repaired jet engines and he worked with missiles and stuff. I first met him when they were both stationed in Georgia and the parentals and I went to visit when I was like 12 (Which was only like 10 years ago...um, yeah.) Barry is Georgia born and bred, and while he is a true southern gentleman, and a definite man’s man (He just bagged a wild boar while he was out deer hunting!) He is well, still a guy...who will tease the snot out of a 12 year-old girl.

They lived in these duplexes in Warner Robbins, Georgia which were just down the road a piece from this little tiny grocery store. I had walked to the store with my sister a couple of times while we were there. Across the road from her duplex was a wooded area bordered with trees hanging full of Spanish Moss...which is both beautiful and a little creepy-looking. So, Barry decided to find out just how big of a wussie-girl I was. He asked me to go to the store to get him something, and he waited out in the yard until I was practically down to the corner, and had walked past this wooded area when he yells in his in Southern drawl “Ya’ll keep an eye out for the gators that live in that swamp next to the road y’hear?!” Let me tell you...you have never seen a fat girl with a bad 70’s shag haircut run so fast in all your life!

ANYWAY....He has retired from his job at Kennedy Space Center, and now manages musicians on tour...for the fun of it. I know...How great is that?! Well, as luck would have it, he happened to be on the road with Jimmie Wayne, and they were in the area playing at Country Jam, so Barry invited us to come and spend the day with them and see the show. Let me just say...YAY!

For unknown reasons that only affect women, Keri and I flitted around as the day drew closer, getting progressively more excited. Our conversations progressed from talk about what Barry and his wife and kids are doing now, to repeatedly asking each other “What are you gonna’ wear? What should I do with my hair? Why didn’t we go on a diet?! GAH!”

We head to the show, which is at a casino-resort type of thing, as we are going to meet Barry at the hotel before the show and have lunch or dinner and visit. Keri talks to him a few times while we are en route and once we arrive, I change from my driving shoes to my awesome black sandals. I’m wondering why I never wear them, as they feel REALLY comfortable. Hmmmm...how awful to have relegated them to the back of my closet when I could be wearing them!

Barry texts us that he is lining up some stuff for the meet and greet before the show and will meet us in a few, so we park it in the lobby. I stand for a while, and then plop down next to my sister who is having a total girl meltdown. “What if he doesn’t recognize me because I am so old and fat?! Why does it have to be so humid?! My hair is frizzing out and I look hideous!” I tell her to stand next to me, as she will look thin, petite and cool as a cucumber. Seriously, as sisters go, we are two ends of the spectrum...She is short and has naturally curly hair, and I...well, I am so gigantic that I blot out the sun, and in this humidity, my hair turns into greasy angel-hair pasta and plasters itself to my head. Plus, she is much, MUCH nicer than I am. She says it’s because short people have to be nice...whereas I tell her it’s just because I am a big bitch.

I decide to get up from the bench we’re sitting on, which I comment that for someone tallish, like myself, seems rather low to the ground. To prove my point, my enormous feet get caught under the bench, and I propel myself face first into the carpet in the lobby. Smooth! As I am uninjured, and it made my sister feel better, I am happy to have provided the comic relief...sort of...as long as the guys in the band aren’t down here yet.

We begin pacing around, looking for Barry, who has come in behind us, and is standing at a kiosk facing the wall in the corner of the lobby. Keri sighs, and says, “See...he didn’t even recognize me...” I reply, “Um, he just got off the elevator and is facing the wall, in the corner...are you tap dancing on top of the kiosk? No? I didn’t think so.” Barry turns around and breaks into his big grin, and Keri feels better.

He has a radio interview to do with the band in a few minutes, so he takes us up to their hotel rooms and gives us some room keys and tells us to make ourselves at home. Being boring people, we flick on the television, decide there is nothing good on, and my sister and I flop on a bed. She dozes off and I grab my notebook and do some writing while we wait. I don’t know what kind of mattresses these are, but they are extremely comfortable, and I could SO nap. I don’t...but I could. One of us has to stay on celebrity alert. God forbid it would play out like an updated version of Goldilocks...with the pretty people coming back to find bears snoring in their beds. GAH!

Barry comes back, and we head down to the Casino. Since the hotel is full of um, ‘stalker-type’ fans, he has to fend off some broads in the elevator who have already started drinking. Classy! “Hey, did you know the logo on your beer koozie matches your tattoo? Well, of course you did.” I begin to see that life as a celebrity is SO not all that glamorous. Oh, it’s still pretty amazing, having people adore you and love what you do...but it’s kind of creepy when people come up to you and think you’re going to remember them from some show three years ago in Lincoln, Nebraska because “You looked right at me while you were singing, and I knew for that moment we connected.” Um, yeah...Hello, security? Plus, you have to be NICE to all of them...no matter how over the top they are.

Anyway, we had a great visit with Barry before the show, even though the time was WAY too short. We had a nice dinner with everyone and headed over to the stadium for the show. Since we could get really close...I took some great shots. There were four different acts playing, so we had time during the show to get on the tour bus, which was pretty darn sweet. While a $700,000 bus is extremely awesome, it IS still a bus. The sleeping berths made me feel a bit um, ‘caskety’, and I decided I would definitely prefer crashing on one of the leather couches if given a choice.

Once we went back out front from backstage, I commented on the fact that you could still smell cigarette smoke even though we were outside. GAH! SO hate that!

Then, the people sitting next to us pelted me with questions, and I had a reason other than smoke to be annoyed...

Wannabe Groupies: What’s back there?

Me: Stuff.

Wannabe Groupies: Is Josh Turner back there?!

Me: Probably.

Wannabe Groupies: I want to meet Josh Turner! Can you get me back there?!

Me: No.

Wannabe Groupies: Who are you?

Me: Nobody.

Wannabe Groupies: You lie! We saw you back there!

Me: Really, I’m nobody.

Wannabe Groupies: Who are you here with?

Me: Sigh...Jimmie Wayne’s manager.

Wannabe Groupies: WE LOVE JIMMIE!!!

Me: Uh-huh.

Wannabe Groupies: Will you take us back there?!

Me: No.

Wannabe Groupies: PLEASE!!!

Me: NO!!!! Quit asking!

Wannabe Groupies: Jeez...What a bitch!

Me: Glaring at them...You have NO idea! Now shut up and watch the show!

Wannabe Groupies: She must be personal security or something. Hey, how do you get a job like that? We wanna do that too!

Me: You can’t. Now be quiet...or else!

Funny, you would never think those quaint little mom phrases like ‘Or else’ will come in handy elsewhere, but they do. YAY for the mean mom!

After the show, we say our goodbyes to Barry and Jimmie at the autograph session, while some woman behind us bitches about us being at the front of the line, and another whips out her left boob to have Jimmie sign it. Which he flat out refuses to do. He doesn’t drink or smoke...and in fact, told the crowd at the outdoor arena to get away from the stage if they were smoking. Plus, he announces to the crowd in line for signatures that he will not sign skin. He is a class act.

While he is extremely talented, and kinda' sorta', oh okay...VERY good-looking...He is one of the nicest people on the planet. Which is probably why Barry is his tour manager...Because not only is Barry himself talented...He taught Jason Aldean to play guitar...because he also happens to be Jason’s dad (How cool is that?!) but he is one of the kindest, most generous people I have had the good fortune to meet.

Jimmie had a rough start in life, and asked me to post this link for the cause that is near and dear to his heart. (It’s also important to me, having been a foster and adoptive parent.) Having been a homeless teen himself, who had someone take a chance on him, Jimmie has walked from Nashville to Phoenix this year to raise awareness for youth homelessness. His big celebration for the cause takes place this week in Phoenix, and we’d both like you to cruise on over to http://www.projectmmh.org and pass the link along to your friends. Because EVERYONE deserves a chance.

The JUNCK Chick's Swan Song...Almost

2010-07-23T04:00:00.000-07:00

Let me tell you, there is nothing I enjoy more, than scrubbing a filthy bathroom...NOT! Living in a house full of guys (with the exception of Fluffy Pony-Puppy and myself), cleaning the bathroom falls extremely low on my list of necessary activities.In fact, on the list of the 473 things I do around here on a regular basis, it lies somewhere between picking ticks off of the dogs and getting rid of the dead animal carcasses that turn up on the acreage. Pretty much I am responsible for everything that makes the macho men in my life gag.

However, since Mr. Fantastic handles chores like all things that sting, creatures that have the potential to bite your face off, cleaning out the gutters, activities requiring Herculean strength, and working a regular job-job with benefits 6 days a week, it’s a trade off. Oh marriage...you delightful institution of grown-upness!

The other day, I decided it was time for a deep cleaning in the master bathroom, so that I could get ready to regrout & caulk the shower. So, I donned appropriate filth scrubbing attire and surrounded myself with crevice brushes, and a vast array of chemicals, that if mixed together would kill an elephant. (Thank GOD, I haven’t started my diet yet!)

Now let me tell you, my favorite cleaning products are ones that do awesome things like remove mildew and soap scum without much scrubbing. I know, I know, they are bad for the environment. However, having tried the organic route of gentle, natural cleansers, and having had our bathroom dirt laugh at them like they were France showing up to a military ass-kicking, I prefer to cut to the chase.

So...Tilex it is. Now, as I have mentioned before in previous posts, the dumbasses who lived here before, did A LOT of stupid shit to this house...Such as installing built-in appliances from Europe that you need a slide-rule to calibrate in order derive the correct temperature, including what is possibly the World’s tiniest baking unit. Seriously, it makes the inside of an Easy Bake oven look like Lambeau Field. Yeah, as homeroom mother, I always prefer to bake 20 dozen cookies, one cookie at a time!

The plumbing in this house is another matter entirely. None of the fixtures were installed properly, and in order to hide this when selling the house, they just slapped another coat of paint, caulk, grout and happy-ass rainbow unicorn glitter over whatever was an issue instead of fixing it. YAY US for being the new homeowners!

Anyway, as I launched into the scrubfest in our master bathroom, it became evident that they had indeed, recaulked over old moldy caulk. So as I’m peeling it off, it reveals a nice layer of blackish-gray older caulk underneath, which has apparently let enough water leak behind it, that mice could start a water park inside the walls of our bathroom.

As I grab at a loose piece of caulk that is near the track of our shower doors, its begins to peel off in a loooooong strip, and follows a path down the wall next to the tub. Underneath it lies a gaping crack, that has so much black furry stuff inside it, I think I may just have figured out what happened to Andrew Dice Clay. (Yeah, I went there....Ohhhhh!)

This little excavation also reveals that they didn’t care to spring for cement backer board for this particular part of the tub shower installation...which I am guessing is true for the rest of the bathroom, AND the shower in the boy’s bathroom downstairs. Man, this just keeps getting better and better! In fact, it appears that they just caulked this tile into place. DUMBASSES!

I am so pissed off, that I decide I’d better move along to the shower doors for the moment, as I know if I keep going, I will open up a moldy portal to Hell if I keep digging. So, after a thorough repeated rinsing of the mildew-remover, I move along to the hard water and soap scum remover.

Let me tell you right now, no amount of cleaning can make etched glass shower doors with swans on them more attractive. SO not gonna’ happen. I scrub away as I contemplate getting some etching cream and simply entirely blotting out this hideous affront to good taste...did I mention that our master bathroom is tiled with mint green floor tile, pink fixtures and white and dark green wall and counter tile? It’s like taking a trip through the Candy Land jungle...without the friggin’ candy! GAH!

I am done with the doors, and as I attempt to slide the shower doors back, they won’t budge...Oh great, now what?! I look down at the track and realize that both doors have come out of the track at the bottom. How the HELL is that even possible?!?! As my eyes shift upward, I realize that the top track was never fastened down, and just simply rests on the metal bracket thingie screwed to the wall. HOLY CRAP! Nothing like realizing your morning shower could end abruptly with decapitation.

The shower doors are perched precariously, swinging in the breeze created by my now panicked breathing. My only hope to not have them come crashing down and slice me up like a Salad Shooter is to simultaneously lift the entire top track up and align the shower doors in the bottom track without having them fall off and kill me.

Being well, me...I of course attempt to do this single-handedly instead of closing the bathroom door and taping it off like a crime scene until I can find assistance. So here I am, holding the top track up in the air with my left hand, shower doors dangling and trying to align them one at a time with my right hand into the bottom track. This leaves me using my face to maneuver the doors back into position. Thank GOD I am tall, and as a result have border-line freakishly long arms, or I would be diced like a truckload of hashbrowns right now. Oh...and did I mention that both doors have to be placed into the track at precisely the same time? Um, yeah.

I finally get the friggin’ shower doors back into the track and they are once again fully functional. HOORAY!!!!!YAY ME!!!!WHOOPTY!!!!!!!!!!!!!HURRAH!!!!!! So, I step back to admire my handiwork, and am again faced with the fact that there are swans...in my bathroom...swimming amongst cattails...in a sea of pink and green. It’s then that I decide I would rather have left the soap scum on the doors to obscure this visual pipe bomb until we can just buy new doors.

Right then our oldest appears in the doorway and asks "What is that smell?!" I roll my eyes and tell him it’s the smell of a thousand interior designers dying. He looks at me, and says “Pffffftttt...Yeah, whatever...” and wanders off.

Well, cross that off the chore list...I’m off to go inspect the dogs for ticks. YAY ME!

JUNCK Chick Battles the Devil Dog...Rounds 2 & 3

2010-07-21T08:54:00.000-07:00

When we last left our heroine, aka the JUNCK Chick, she was battling the overly energized Devil Dog, Zoey. Now, in all fairness, it has been a while since I had seen her, and who can blame her for getting so excited...After all it is moi, who often prefers dogs to people. Seriously, have you been around people lately?!

Anyway, on Day 2 of my early morning dog sitting routine, I walked into the house, and was met by...nothing. Now, let me tell you, when Zoey is within 500 yards, you are SO gonna’ know it. Cold panic began to creep into my already semi-icy heart and I was nearly overcome by dread. As I am standing in the entryway by the back door, trying to figure out how to tell my BFF that their dog was either abducted by aliens, or off filming Dogs Gone Wild with Cesar Milan, it occurred to me that the door between the kitchen and the basement was open.

My BFF’s fab aunt had been doing bedtime duty (God Bless her), and was apparently not aware of the ‘Keep this door closed at all costs’ memo. So I flick on the basement lights, and descend into what is sure to be hell with stuffing strewn everywhere. (FYI...This dog has eaten an entire Encyclopedia Britannica set, three sofas and a set of Ginsu knives, among other things.) As I reach the last step I am praying that my friend’s daughter closed her bedroom door, as I am SO not taking the fall for the dismemberment of her Team Jacob and Team Edward paraphernalia.

Sure enough, the dog is in the bedroom snarling at the bed, where the cat is perched hissing so vehemently that I am surprised she has any kitty spit left. I snag the dog, and drag her upstairs, while Mia, the cat gives me that condescending cat look, that says, “JFC, you dumbass! Can’t you do anything right?! Oh, you’re not a cat, so OF COURSE FREAKIN’ NOT! Pfffftttt...Moron.” I bow down and apologize to Mia, and let her outside.

Then, I make the trek to the side yard with Zoey, who is now acting like a Muppet on crack. She is jumping and leaping for doggie joy, and I am trying to simply make it to her tether in one piece. And that was my first mistake...

We are about ten feet from her doggie tie-out, when this train starts to derail...Zoey has now run between my legs, catching her nylon cord of death around my leg, and lodging it firmly between my toes. (Today’s lesson: Never wear flip-flops while driving...OR dog sitting.) I stagger along, hopping on one foot, and manage to free myself...just in time for her to run crashing into my last lone contact with planet Earth, knocking my left foot out from underneath me. I attempt to plant my right foot, in hopes of catching myself, and everything shifts into slo-motion.

I’ve got it...my foot is down, one...more...step...and I will have my balance! Just...need...to...shift...my left foot... almost there! GAH! It’s a hole! NOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

As I come crashing down (for what seems to turn into a 15 minute free-fall) a blue-streak of swear words comes blazing from my lips. GOD DAMMIT! Stupid effin’ dog! WTF?! You mother@#%&ing damn fricking she-devil from Hell! I hit the turf with a thud, luckily missing all the dog crap. (Whew!) As I attempt to stand up, I realize I have sprained my ankle, and crawl the last few feet to the tie-out, with Zoey meekly belly-crawling right next to me, like we are in combat. (Oh it is SO on Sister!)

I hobble in the house, hoping all the neighbors have their air conditioners going, as it is waaaaay too early to be exposing them to that kind of language. (Then, I remember my friend, Mel lives right next door...adjacent to the scene of the crime, and cringe at the thought of her rushing to cover her children’s ears, and directing them not to make eye contact with the crazy woman. Sorry Mel.)

I go back in, and fill the food and water dishes, and try to decipher what the bits of chewed crap strewn about the house are. Part of it looks like a mini tire, and a dish scrubbie...Hmmmm. Oh, it’s a flip-flop. Next, we have a journal, a pair of nail clippers that are now completely disassembled, and some bobby pins. Oh, and I have figured out that she hides the larger pieces of her bounty under the bed in the guest room. HA! I then scan the local paper for a couple of minutes (Hey, it saved me 75 whole cents), and limp back out to retrieve Zoey. Once inside, she is much calmer, and we have some quality petting and treat dispensing time. As I leave the house, I make a vow...tomorrow is going to be SO different.

Day three finds me entering the house with one of my own dog leashes in hand. THIS is a leash that means business, and the Devil Dog knows it. She hangs her head as I clip it on, and she walks as though we are entrants in the Eukanuba AKC dog show. I stop, and she stops and sits by my feet, waiting for me to tell her to go. Man, I could get use to this! She goes about her business, and we even go for a little walk. Who’s a good girl?! YOU are! Yes, you are!

When my Bestie comes home, she reports that Zoey has been good as pie, and didn’t even jump on her sister, who came to visit as a surprise. She comments, “Boy, she must have REALLY missed us, to be this good!” Yeah, sure...that MUST be it. Shhhhh...don’t tell her, or I may never get to visit Zoey again.

JUNCK Chick vs. The Devil Dog: Round One...Yeah, The Dog Wins

2010-07-20T08:50:00.000-07:00

OK, so this past weekend I put on my best BFF hat and happily agreed to help dog sit, for Zoey, aka the Devil Dog...who is my ‘sort-of’ dog niece. You see, her people mom and I aren’t REALLY sisters...but boy, if we were...Well, let’s just say her husband would be even more annoyed than is he now!

But I digress...Now Zoey, a petite, little German Shepherd, is right around two years old. However, to say she has the strength and exuberance of 10 men would NOT be out of the ballpark. (If you noticed the fact that I use petite and little to describe a German Shepherd, let me just say this...Have you NOT been reading my blogs about Pony-Puppy and her even larger canine companion, Wilson?!)

Now Zoey has a ‘tendency’ to jump on you when you come to visit. You know she’s a handful, when our youngest, whose Indian name is ‘Runs Blindfolded with Sharp Pointy Objects While Doing Backflips and Has No Fear,’ doesn’t want to go see her. Seriously, this kid would make a pet out of the badger we have living in our front yard if we’d let him.

However, in all fairness to Zoey, I often um, encourage...dog naughtiness. I like to roughhouse with my dogs, and unfortunately still have NOT learned my lesson about kissing them, despite the fact they most likely having been noshing something disgusting outside. (For all you Harry Potter fans...Let’s just say, there is ONE Bertie’s Bott’s Bean they neglected to make.) Zoey zeroes right in on this, and goes ballistic when I visit.

Once she gets the initial Iggy Pop-like doggie dance out of her system, she is fine. However, getting past the initial blood-letting takes a bit of getting used to. As someone whose 4-H project was a horse, I am used to taking a beating, but it’s Zoey’s spring-loaded demeanor that trips you up. Here’s how day one with Zoey played out...

Day 1...The Reckoning
Zoey greets me just inside the back door with her signature blood-letting move, the pounce and slide. She jumps up and wraps her little doggie paws around me and slides down my entire frame, then tries to climb me again with her talons, er...toenails, which are not unlike the telephone repairman’s spiked thingamajigs that he wears on his feet to climb poles.

Me: Holy Mother of God! WTF did Laura do with those doggie nail clippers I gave her?! JFC! Get the f@#% off of me!!!!! Shit, shit, shit!!!

Zoey: Thinking I said SIT, she does.

Me: GOOD GIRL!

Zoey: Wagging and jumping again...

Me: Getting all yelly and shouty and hopping around, trying to extract her claws from my bloody stumps. GET...OFF...OF...ME! OW, OW, OW!

I grab the leash, which is one of those retractable thingies, which I SO do not have, because my dogs are huge furry beasts who could pull a train. I take her out to her tether in the yard, and hook her up so she can do her business. After checking the food, and corralling the cat in the basement, as it is SO unfrickingbelievably hot that she doesn’t want to be outside, I head back to the other side of the yard to reclaim Zoey. She crouches down, assuming the position to pounce and tell me how much she missed me while I was filling her water bowl (that the cat decided to stick her head in and slop all over). However, I shout NO, with such vehemence, that she doesn’t maul me. YAY!!!!!!!YIPPITY!!!!!WOOT!!!!!HURRAY!!!!!

However, the minute we hit the corner by the garage, I discover that the locking mechanism on the retractable leash doesn’t work properly, and I am now holding what has become the nylon line of decapitation. I grab the line...BIG MISTAKE...and it whips across the side of my hand with such velocity that my hand is pratically smoking. SERIOUSLY! I stick my burnt finger in my mouth, and it is so hot, it burns my tongue!

I look at my hand, and the nylon has literally welded the skin on my index finger into the crease where it bends at the knuckle. Remember that Rambo movie where Sylvester Stallone cauterizes his open wound with a flare or something similar? Yeah...it’s like that. I head into the house and inspect my newest wound...HOLY CRAP...Is that shiny stuff I can see in my finger the bone, or the tendon?!

Zoey sits on the kitchen floor, tilts her head, and looks at me as if to say, “Where’s my damn treats, Bitch?!” So I get her a couple of treats, and then spy the doggie nail clippers lying on the kitchen table. MWAH HAH HAH HAAAA! That’s right, I am SO trimming her damn toenails before I leave.

I head into the living room and sit on the couch, and just as I planned, Zoey hops up right next to me. I grab a paw and begin snipping. I figured she would be a wild thing, but besides being all wiggly while she was licking my face...or perhaps tasting me for later, she was a GOOD GIRL! YES SHE WAS! Then, I spy blood on my shirt. DAMMIT! I must have trimmed one of her nails too short!

I take a quick inventory of her little doggie toes...Nope, all there and all intact. Hmmmm...Then she begins licking my arms, and I realize it’s ME that’s bleeding. Hooray! Holy crap! I look like I just went 3 rounds with a wolverine! I sit and rub her puppy tummy for a bit, and then decide I’d better haul my keister to grocery store.

Fast forward to the meat counter...I am standing there, staring mindlessly into space, when some snarky broad, walks past me, looks me up and down, utters ‘Pffffttt’, rolls her eyes and moves clear to the other end of the counter. I am about ready to go off on her ass, when I realize I feel a breeze. I look down, and see that, not only did Zoey carve me like a jack-o-lantern, and I am wearing a bloody shirt, but my shorts are ripped and shredded in a couple of places, and I look like I walked straight out of a homeless shelter. YIKES! Even I would be rolling my eyes at me!

OK...New plan to improve my lot in life...Step one...no more running to the grocery looking like crap. Well, as soon as dog sitting is over that is.

Tune in tomorrow for Parts 2 and 3 of JUNCK Chick vs. The Devil Dog...

Who Do I Know in WICHITA?!

2010-07-18T22:07:00.000-07:00

OK...While I AM working on a blog for tomorrow morning...Well, later today...I want to know why the JUNCK Chick has nearly 400 readers in Wichita, Kansas???!!! Who do I know? I was there ONE time for work & to look at houses. Is it you, Silicon Prairie techies??? Just give me a shout out so I know who I know...or who I don't. Because you are making me crazy. Good night & good luck! See you in the morning...after I ingest some Bunkers Dunkers donuts & a couple of mugs of delicious Greene Bean Coffee Co. Espresso, that is!

Oh Fluffy Pony-Puppy...What Is It Now?!

2010-07-16T10:45:00.000-07:00

Fluffy Pony-Puppy, who I also affectionately refer to as Fillthalissa, is approaching her first poochie puppy birthday. Her real name is actually Ripley. (BTW...It’s probably a good thing she has more than one identity with the number of crimes she commits around here.) However, never fear...she is officially considered a puppy until she is two, and word is, that these Great Pyrenees polar bear-sized pups stay...um, ‘stubborn’ for a looooong time. I know...YAY, right?

Last night she was acting out the classic kid in fur pajamas lament, “I don’t WANNA’ go to bed!” The was demonstrated by prolonged bouts of no-holds-barred cage match style doggie wrestling throughout the house. At one point, she nearly succeeded in riding Wilson, our Flat-Coated Retriever around the living room for the full rodeo count of 8 seconds. However, he body slammed her into the side of the sofa, and once again the match was up for grabs.

I finally corralled her in the bedroom in an attempt to get her to settle down in her pink fluffy dog blankies and go to sleep. However, my attempts to calm her were of no use...as the conversation went something like this.

Me: Lay down Honey. Go to sleep.

FPP: Arooooo Ahooooo, pant (and then she would rake my face with her enormous paw.)

Me: (Slightly miffed, as I feel the welts forming across my cheek) I SAID...LAY DOWN.

FPP: Woof.

Me: LAY down...NOW.

FPP: WOOF.

Me: Lay your furry ass down and go to sleep!

FPP: WOOOOOF! WOOOOOF! (And she is crouched to spring onto the bed and land in the middle of my chest.)

Me: Oh...all right! For cryin’ out loud...Come on!

So out the bedroom door we go, and despite the fact she has been out 57 times today, I take her to the back door. Hoping all the while she doesn’t run into the pack of raccoons that may or not have taken up residence in the wood pile out back.However, she doesn’t want to go out. She wants to play. (Which most assuredly guarantees she will leave a big steaming gift in front of Mr. Fantastic’s closet...YAY!)

Since I am ready for bed, and don’t want to play her version of fetch, which is for me to throw the ball, have her to bring it back and then decide to chew it and get it stuck under some piece of furniture eleventeen thousand times, and have moi fish it out, I decide to give her something to eat. Hmmmm....what will keep her busy and cool her jets?

I’ve got it! An ice cube. So I walk to the fridge with her at my heels, and pull open the freezer. She of course, sticks her entire head inside taking mental inventory. She was thrilled with the ice cube and tromped off into the living room with her prize. She wasn’t sure what to do with it once she laid it down, but after batting it around a bit, and dredging up a nice coating of fur and carpet crud (Shake n’ Bake for dogs) she crunched it right down.

Of course, this led to her promptly trotting back to the kitchen and staring at the freezer. She watched intently as I opened the freezer and retrieved another ice cube for her. I suddenly got a chill down my spine, as I could tell she was calculating how to use her giant polar bear paws to pull out the freezer drawer. Now I am all but certain that I will come home some afternoon to find she & and Wilson dining on a fine selection of frozen meats and lapping up Ben & Jerry’s from the kitchen floor, only to be followed by a rousing game of ice cube hockey. SIGH...

Uh-oh, she just wandered off in the vicinity of the powder room that is by my office. This was SUPPOSED to be MY bathroom...No Boys Allowed! So naturally, this means that my pack o’guys almost NEVER use the other two bathrooms. DAMMIT! My private bathroom has been defiled by icky boy germs (aka pee), and someone left the lid up again.

Now I am getting all yelly with my already owie sore throat (Did you know you can develop croup without the cough? Well, you can...more about that and my asshat shop landlord tomorrow.) Pony-Puppy has decided that the toilet in my bathroom is the optimal height for a doggie drinking fountain and adores the effervescence of Eau de toilette. Um, helloooo? That’s Sani-Flush, and I am sure it’s not good for you to be guzzling.

Get out of there this instant! Oh no...here she comes! Ugh...get her off! She just tackled me and licked me right in the mouth! GAH! Now, not only am I at risk for developing thrush form my croup medicine, but I have to worry about hard water stains.

Well, I’m off to see where the whirling dervish has run off to now...My money’s on her pooping in the hallway.

Mid-Week Mash-Up

2010-07-14T10:00:00.001-07:00

Today’s theme is mid-week mash-up...just some random things floating around in my overactive extremely disorganized noggin’ that I need to file away to make more space for other stuff. Don’t worry Laura...I’m not making room for more stuff at the shop. (That she knows of.)

Anyway...I spent the weekend doing laundry, which included making another run at salvaging my favorite pair of khaki shorts. I don’t want people at this restaurant chain to start spitting in my food, so I’ll use a ‘sounds like’ name. Here goes...Dead Hobster...what the HELL kind of French dressing do you use?! I apparently spilled some on my shorts (unbeknownst to me) and tromped around shopping all day, looking like I had a leaky ketchup sandwich in my left pocket. YAY ME! Of course, it was the one time in like the past five years I’ve even had French dressing on a salad...DAMMIT!

I have tried to Shout it out, done the Oxy-Clean paste scrub tango and performed the laundry room bleach pen ballet, to no avail. I guess I am going to have to JUNCK them up and cover up the crime.

*******************

Next on my list of weekday wonders...A while back, I overheard the following conversation between two moms at a school function...They were discussing their tattoos...um yeah.

Mom 1) Hey, is that a new tattoo?

Mom 2) Yeah.

Mom 1) It’s hot!

Mom 2) Yeah...It’s infected! Can you tell?

Mom 1) No way!

Mom 2) Yes way! I had to get a shot in my ass...but at least the Doctor was HOT!

Mom 1) Oh man...My baby doctor was so SMOKIN’ I’d have another baby if I could, just to...

Well, let’s just say the conversation went downhill from there...OK, I just threw up a little in my mouth. My apologies if you did too. GAH! What the HELL is WRONG with people?!
******************************

While I don’t watch a lot of television (much prefer books), and I have never gotten that whole reality television thing, there are a few shows I like. Such as Pawn Stars and American Pickers.

Mr. Fantastic is King of Bad Programming at our house...Seriously, last Sunday he watched some horrible movie about Nazi Gargoyles. Um...yeah. However, I may be about ready to take his title...

The other night while I was up reading in the living room, our oldest was having trouble sleeping, and came upstairs to chat. We began to scan channels and ran across the MOST insane reality show. Initially we were stunned, well, because it was like a bit like running across some of the in-laws on television. Our son commented, “Are you SURE you haven’t seen this guy at a family dinner?” Let me check...Um...no.

However, as we watched, it became clear that this southern guy knew his craft. He was actually well-spoken, and while his um...appearance may be a bit off-putting initially, the longer we watched, we actually found him to be quite...um...captivating. Of course, it might be kind of like seeing a horrible accident...you’re appalled, yet you can’t look away. I’m not totally sure yet.

Guess we’ll find out soon, as it’s on again tonight at 10/9C on A&E...What’s the program? Um...Billy the Exterminator™.

Perhaps my sister was right...the sound of my Mac e-mail sending a message isn’t a jet-like sound...perhaps it IS a giant flushing noise. SIGH...

Fluffy Pony-Puppy vs. Mr. Fantastic...Who Will Win?

2010-07-13T09:12:00.000-07:00

Oh Fluffy Pony-Puppy...will you never learn?! SIGH...This week she has chewed Mr. Fantastic’s nearly new Asics...again. And let me tell you...they are SO not nearly new anymore. GAH! He is totally not happy, as this is the first pair of really good tennis shoes he has owned. Now you would think, after the first couple of times, he would get a clue, and put his shoes away, wouldn’t you? (He is SO baiting her, as he ALWAYS put his work shoes away.) I mean really, since I have finally bitched long enough to get the boys to at least leave their shoes on the rug by the door when they come in, one would think he could fall in line. But no...he insists on wearing his shoes into the living room, and kicking them off by his leather recliner.

And there they sit...Until Pony-Puppy decides the Fantastic foot funk is a must-have, and sneaks off with them. You walk into the living room a few minutes later and there is padding and footbed liner strewn from one end of the room to the other. Oh yes, there has been a stinky foot fiesta going on here! However, as soon as she hears you approaching, she slinks off to hide under the dining room table in an effort to become invisible.

I told Mr. Fantastic to simply snag an outgrown pair of our oldest’s shoes, since he is in them about 5 minutes before his toes are butting up against the end. (Please God, let him slow down...We can’t afford Shaq shoes right now!!!) There is a fabulous pair of Asics that look brand freakin’ new, that are actually much nicer than the ones Pony-Puppy noshed on. But no...For him, “It’s the principle of the thing, DAMMIT!” (The stubborn ass.)

Now here’s a little insight into the Mr. Fantastic vs. Fluffy Pony Puppy war. He refuses to love this giant mountain of fluffy goodness, and she keeps attempting to crack his cold, cold heart. When he comes home from work, she dances around with happiness and runs to greet him, and how does he respond...he shoves her away. JERK! As soon as he sits in his chair, she is nosing him, and begging him to play with her, or just pet her for a minute. All to no avail... (Heartless Jackwad!) Sooooo...he has become her target. He will fall in line and love her, OR she will make his life hell. (I SO know who’s gonna win...despite his threats of returning her to the shelter. GO Team Pony-Puppy!)

Now, as a test of my theory that Pony-Puppy is targeting Mr. Fantastic, I have left MY tennis shoes by the coffee table all week. (When we first got her she chewed up all of my sandals, my leather Keds, my navy canvas deck shoes...pretty much everything that doesn’t go with a suit...well, and my Speedo pool shoes and a REALLY old pair of sandals in the back of my closet.)

Anyway, she has totally avoided MY tennis shoes, which are less than 10 feet away from Mr. Fantastic’s. Which leads one to believe that she is sending a message. However, one doesn’t have to rely solely (no pun intended) on the chewed shoe test to prove Mr. Fantastic is the object of her doggie tunnel vision. She has also targeted the area in front of his recliner for her um...‘accidents.’ Seriously, what more does he want as proof? A notarized affidavit?! If he would just make nice...this would all be over, and I could call the professional carpet cleaner once & for all, instead of attacking the spots with our crappy cleaning machine.

I thought I had her on the road to recovery, as this battle of the wills is undoubtedly going to get worse before it gets better...I know this because, when I told him “Pony-Puppy isn’t going anywhere, Mister!” during one of his recent tirades, he said “FINE! I’ll go then!” To which I replied, “Be sure and tell your mom hi for me.” He didn’t find that especially humorous, but he knows he’s toast.

Now, in the Queen of Fluff’s defense, she will have a week of good behavior, and then, like Moi...when I’m on a diet, she just implodes. That being said, the other day finds me cleaning up one her ‘presents’ for Mr. Fantastic, and I am grumbling under my breath about how I wish they would just make nice already. There I am with the steaming pile of dog doo in my hand, wrapped in several Kleenex, and as I’m on my way to flush it, I turn too short and whack my arm on the door jamb to the bathroom...Dropping the poop all over my Speedo pool shoe ensconced right foot. DAMMIT! I take a step to turn so I can grab more Kleenex, and whack my face on the door jamb, nearly knocking myself unconscious.

Filthalissa is now hiding under the dining room table, as she senses my poop-fueled fury. After I clean up the doggie mess, and quit seeing stars, I stomp into the kitchen and grab the air freshener, liberally dousing the entire upstairs. However, this has now turned my freshly poured steaming mug of Espresso into a Febreeze-flavored drink that really I don’t care to partake in.

And somehow, this bad start to my day has become...All Mr. Fantastic’s fault! Wait, he wasn’t even here. Hmmmm...Oh well, he knew what he was getting into when we got married. I am SO fixing him brussel sprouts for dinner.

Ten Reasons the Undead Are to Die For (YES...This IS a Vampire-Themed Entry...Suck It Up Buttercup...Or the Vampires Will Do It For You!)

2010-07-09T08:52:00.000-07:00

Even though I promised Mr. Fantastic that I would not speak of ‘They Who Must Not Be Named’ (No...not Voldemort...the Twilight characters...well, vampires in general...and okay...technically....Cedric Diggory), I just can’t help myself, given our recent gab session on the patio the other night.

When Mr. Fantastic gave into what he considers to be the lowest common denominator (chick flicks), and agreed to actually discuss this Vampire ‘sillyness’ with me (Um yeah...like he hasn’t watched the Fifth Element like a bajillion times to see Milla Jovovich...Well, and Chris Tucker. Ya’ gotta love Chris Tucker!) his question was this...How in the Hell do millions of otherwise reasonable women (well mostly reasonable and mostly women), develop such a wild infatuation with a bunch of make-believe vampires?! (He doesn’t know about my obsession with Ian Somerhalder from The Vampire Diaries yet, and I am SOOOO not telling him. On a scale of 1-10 of vampire hotness, Ian’s character, Damon Salvatore, is oh, I’d say...about 47 BILLION!)

Ahem...yes...anyway...So I got to thinking about it. It seems that Stephenie Meyer has developed the equivalent of book and movie ‘crack’ for what would otherwise be normal, productive citizens. It’s like she has spawned the carbohydrate cast of characters, because once you have a little nosh, you’ve gotta’ have more.

Thank GOD the movie cast is good looking, because as many times as SOME people (No...not me...yet) have seen the movie, you are too compelled to fish around for popcorn and Jr. Mints. Not that Edward Cullen or Carlisle would berate you for having a snack mind you, because we are all Bella, and we are all perfect (say it with me) just the way we are. What a nice world would THAT be to live in, eh? Well, okay...Emmett would totally give me shit for having a big fatass...but we love him too. Why is that?!

Here’s what I came up with...

1.) Vampires will NEVER ask you what’s for dinner. There will be no more annoying trips to the grocery store (think of the time and money THAT would save), and no more trying to find new and exciting ways to fix chicken for the billionth time.

This of course, leads us to the next fabulous reason the undead are to die for...

2.) No more dirty dishes! That’s right, you heard me...They always um, eat out...like in the woods.

Since they don’t eat or drink (well besides blood, which they burn off with their super strength and super hotness), there are no annoying bodily functions, which means (Halllelujah Chorus please...)

3.) NEVER SCRUBBING A TOILET AGAIN! This could pretty much be the SOLE reason to covet a coven, and it would be enough, am I right?

4.) You are frozen in time at your most perfect self,...which leads to...

5.) Never getting a bad haircut...and it’s companion...Never having to shave. Being a complete klutz, I am always nursing some type of injury...and this week it is a shaving gash across the tendon on the back of my right ankle, precisely where all my shoes rub...Except my flip-flops. So yes, I will be wearing my ratty pool shoes until it heals, and you will not say one word about it, capiche?!

6.) You will never...I said NEVER gain weight. WOOT!!!!YAY!!!!!PUPPIES!!!!!HAPPITY!!!!

7.) Instead of losing gazillions of dollars in the financial market, you can actually MAKE money, given your ability to see the future, and loooooong term investment strategy. (Disclaimer: OK...this part only works if you are a vampire like Alice, or have one like her around...and why wouldn’t you for cryin’ out loud?!)

8.) No more getting sick, or injured. (See #5 for an example) You are bullet-proof aka virtually indestructible. Well, as long as someone doesn’t try to rip your head off and light you on fire. (I had a boss once, El Diablo, who tried to rip my head off...but I was far too strong...and well, much, much taller.)

9.) You are super strong and super-fast. No more annoying CD & DVD paraphernalia you can’t open. Of course, I am old enough (barely, um yeah...) to remember the truly evil contraption they used to put cassette tapes in. For the love of GOD...just taser shoplifters on sight, and let the rest of get our jam on! When I buy some music...I wanna’ listen to it NOW...as in 5 minutes ago.

And finally...

10.) Living life 24/7...As you don’t sleep and are never tired, you get to live in crystal-clear Bose™ quality...FOREVER. (Gee, do you suppose I could get a free Wave Radio out of that?) How many times have you wished you had more hours in the day? Think of what you could do!

Anyway, I am still me...and Mr. Fantastic still doesn’t get it. As Fluffy Pony Puppy appears to have quit hurling things up that look like they came from the movie Aliens, I suppose I’d better hit the shower and haul my imperfect self to the shop.

Be Careful What You Wish For...’Cuz The Kettles Might Deliver It

2010-07-08T08:18:00.000-07:00

Mr. Fantastic’s truck is still parked in the driveway, as we are waiting for parts and a flat-bed ride to the fix-it shop. One of our friends has helped orchestrate all of this, and while we haven’t gone this route for repairs before, I suppose I could be nervous about all of this. However, he IS saving us like a grand, so YAY! After all, it can’t be any worse than when we paid $2,000 for a new transmission in one of our other trucks, only to find out a couple of months down the road, there WAS no new transmission, just a Band Aid on the original problem, and we were out the money...Or what we were supposed to have fixed on this truck 2, count ‘em two times, only to find out those improper (or possibly not even done) repairs are what caused this huge frickin’ problem.

Seriously, I am about ready to buy myself a ’67 Impala (see above photo...nice ride, eh?), just so we can make repairs ourselves, without all those electronic doo-dads and what-not. My dad believed that if you were going to use something, you should know how it worked. This is why, I have installed in a fuel pump, a water pump, changed my own oil, fixed a tire, and installed a car stereo. Ah yes, the stereo birthday...THAT was fun. NOT. I wanted a car stereo for my, let’s see...17th birthday (just a couple of years ago, I know), and I got one. In a box. With a wire splicing kit. Um...yeah. Several bloody knuckles later, I was cruising with tunes. However, I am SO not qualified to install a new 4 wheel drive front end...so that’s where our friend, Kelly comes in. God bless him.

Now, we having been getting by on one car, which has been a bit of a pain, so I have either been

A.) Stuck at home (Yes, that is why the shop has been closed)

2.) Getting up to take Mr. Fantastic to work, and then closing early to go get him

III.) Relying on my Bestie, Laura, or my sister, Keri to drive me around

I have not been without wheels, let’s see...since I was grounded when I was 16! And I don’t like it one bit. Having thought back over the years Mr. Fantastic and I have been together, I came to realize that whenever HIS car doesn’t work, he takes mine...leaving me to fend. Hmmmmm....Well, having had enough of that, I told him to suck it up and call his parents, and ask to borrow THEIR extra car. HA...SO THERE!

Of course, I got all kinds of whining...”I don’t want to drive my mom’s car...It’s an old lady car...with a dent.” (Let’s just say the day is coming when three boys are going to have to make their parents move to town and take their car keys, but they’re wussing out.) “Plus it’s dirty, and well, UNCOOL!” Oh, right...like the rusted crapmobile Mr. Fantastic is driving is an awesome chick magnet (True, he DOES have me, but he had a zippy sports car when we got married.) Puhleeze. His truck is so rusty, it could be patented as the Jack Kevorkian model. But he loves it...AND...it’s paid for.
Having spent the 4th with Ma and Pa Kettle and Co., Pa Kettle was inquiring about our truck in his friendly and not at all nosy demeanor.

Pa Kettle: Is your truck fixed yet?

Us: No.

Pa Kettle: How come?

Us: We had to find parts.

Pa Kettle: How come?

Us: So we could get it fixed.

Pa Kettle: Where are the parts?

Us: Being shipped to the mechanic.

Pa Kettle: Who’s the mechanic.

Us: Some guy you don’t know.

Pa Kettle: What’s his name?

Us: You don’t know him.

Pa Kettle: What’s his name?

Us: SIGH...Joaquin.

Pa Kettle: Sounds like a foreigner.

Me: Or an actor.

Pa Kettle: Huh?

Me: Never mind.

Pa Kettle: How much is it going to cost?

Us: A lot.

Pa Kettle: How come?

Me: Because the truck is a piece of crap.

Mr. Fantastic: HEY! It is not!

Me: SIGH (Roll my eyes)

Pa Kettle: Why don’t you buy a new car?

Us: Because this one is paid for.

Pa Kettle: So, trade it in.

Us: Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha

Pa Kettle: What’s so funny.

Us: Nothing.

Pa Kettle: Buy a new car.

Mr. Fantastic: Has your money tree sprouted, because ours died.

Pa Kettle: So you don’t have money for a new car.

Us: No.

Pa Kettle: How come?

Us: REALLY?!

Pa Kettle: Well, sounds like SHE needs to find a job.

Mr. Fantastic: She HAS a job.

Pa Kettle: You know what I mean...a REAL job.

Me: Thanks.

So ended our happy chat with Mr. Happy Sr., as I had to remove myself from the immediate vicinity, pronto, in order to avoid bashing him over his gigantic head with a folding chair.

Ma Kettle told Mr. Fantastic to take her car, as she doesn’t need it, because they rarely go anywhere separately (lucky her). Mr. Fantastic tried to politely decline, but I kicked him so hard in the shin, that it struck the proper reflex nerve in his brain, and he nodded ‘yes.’ We told them we would come and get it the next day, as this gives us control over the length of the visit. Smart, I know.

The next day, I am in my office, and the ‘boys’ are downstairs playing video games, when the dogs go ballistic. I tromp out to the dining room to see what they are snarling at. Seriously, it sounded as though they were ready to tear something limb from limb if they could only knock out the picture window...which they were attempting to do. What should I see, but Pa Kettle, peering through the window with his hands cupped around his eyes. Um...yeah.

So I put the dogs away, and let the Kettles in the front door, and yell at Craig to haul his keister upstairs. He hollers back “Just a minute...”

30 Minutes Later...

I have now yelled at Mr. Fantastic to haul his ass upstairs from gaming eleventeen times, with no results. Meanwhile, the boys (who came upstairs right away, because they have manners, taught to them by Moi) and I are sitting around in the living room making small talk with the Mr. Fantastic’s parentals. Here’s the convo:

Pa Kettle: Looks like SOMEONE needs to vacuum (staring at me)

Me: Yep. The boys have it on their chore list.

Pa Kettle: Seems to me that’s your job.

Me: Nope.

Pa Kettle: How come? You’re the little woman. Heh-heh-heh. (Pointing his lone Guiness World Book fingernail at me.)

Me: Because work is good for them, and it’s summer vacation.

Pa Kettle: They should be doing MAN work!

Me: I didn’t realize dirt was gender specific.

Pa Kettle: Huh?

Me: Well, I gave them a choice of this, or scrubbing the bathrooms, which is definitely MAN dirt, but they picked this.

Pa Kettle: Men shouldn’t have to clean the bathroom.

Ma Kettle: Brother! If you guys hit the target once in a while it would be a miracle!

Pa Kettle: Why...but...well...I...What are you saying?!

Ma Kettle: Do I have to spell it out? You pee all over the bathroom!

Pa Kettle: I do not!

Ma Kettle: HA!

Me: (Yay, Ma Kettle!)

Ma Kettle: It’s that way here too I bet...Except worse, because you have three of them!

Me: You know it. It’s like they get in there and say ‘Yep, I’m in the right room...close enough.’

This line of conversation results in Ma Kettle and I both partaking in LMAO behavior, much to Pa Kettle’s chagrin. He flops his leg over the arm of the recliner, much like an angry teen, and then shouts ‘Is your husband coming upstairs to visit with us or what?!’ Ma Kettle yells at him to sit in the furniture the right way, which causes him to kick the side of the chair with his dangling leg for effect, and cross his arms across his chest with a big HARUMPH! I haul it into the other room to the stairway to drag Mr. Fantastic up the stairs by the hair if necessary, only to meet him at the landing. ‘Hold your horses, I’m coming!’ he grouses. “Well, they are YOUR parents,’ I reply smiling sweetly.

Pa Kettle continues to kick the side of the chair and again pelts us with questions about the vehicle repairs, which we ignore. He then tells us he just got his flickers fixed. Mr. Fantastic, our oldest an I try to contain our fit of hilarity. Our oldest has to poke the bear, a skill he obviously learned from me.

Son #1: Flickers? I don’t remember anything about flickers on my driving test.

Pa Kettle: YES...Flickers!

Son #2: What are flickers?

Pa Kettle: You know...those things you flick!

Son #2: Are they a toy?

Pa Kettle: NO...They are not a toy!

Son #1: Hmmmmm...Flickers???

Pa Kettle: Flickers. You know! (Turning to Mr. Fantastic for support...who shrugs and tries not to fall off of the couch laughing.)

Pa Kettle: (Turning red, and beginning to spit his words) FLICKERS! FLICKERS! There’s two of them.

Son #2: Like Noah’s Ark?

Pa Kettle: Yes...like...NOOOOO...NOT like Noah’s Ark!

Son #1: What do they do?

Pa Kettle: You know...they flick...in the car! Lord Jesus! What is wrong with you people?!

Son #2: Ohhhhhhh, you mean the clickers! Well, why didn’t you say turn signals?

Ma Kettle informs him they need to get going, and he responds with “How come? We don’t have anything else to do.” She informs him that they have worn out their welcome, and he needs to haul it out to the car. He looks perplexed at the concept, and asks, “How can we wear out our welcome? They’re our kids for Pete’s sake. They LOVE us!”

Yes we do...in little tiny doses. BTW, thanks for letting us borrow the car.

Food, Family and WTF?

2010-07-07T09:57:00.000-07:00

We had the good fortune to be graced with the company of Ma & Pa Kettle (aka Mr. and Mrs. Happy Sr.) not one, but two, count ‘em 2 times this past holiday weekend.

The first was during my in law’s annual Independence Day bash. I used to tease Mr. Fantastic that his family had so many extended family get-together’s that I was surprised we hadn’t been assigned Ground Hog or Arbor Day. However, since the old folks are getting well, old...the frequency of these gatherings has diminished considerably since we’ve been together. However, it’s the younger people who have quit coming. I suppose they figure they can outrun their parents and have been blessed with caller ID, so they feign ignorance of the events until they are over.

We don’t have that luxury however...Because if we don’t answer our phone, they will show up at our house, or place of business...and barring that, will stoop to the lowest of the low...and call our kids on their cell phones. We have raised our children properly, and they feel pangs of guilt if they dodge the old folks. (Yes, you can bet your sweet bippy I will remind them of this behavior when they are avoiding OUR calls after they are grown and out of the house!)

At any rate, we make the pilgrimage to the big shindig, pasta salad in hand. Mr. Fantastic always asks me to make Fiesta Pasta Salad with jalepenos in it. Of course, I dutifully remind him that old people don’t usually like spicy food, to which he thoughtfully replies “WOO HOO! More for me!” Anyway...we arrive at the Parish Center at 12:05, and everyone is already eating, which it totally okay with me. We walk through the dining room to the kitchen, and everyone grunts hello and waves like we’re Norm from Cheers and then goes back to shoveling scalloped potatoes and melon down their gullets like it’s the Last Supper. Which, as a matter of fact, there happens to be a tapestry of hanging in the corner.

You wanna hear arguing and threats to disinherit? You should have been here a few years ago when the Da Vinci Code came out, and the younger people purposely commented on Mary Magdalene’s possible appearance in the painting. I thought we were going to have to call the ambulance AND the SWAT team. The way they acted, you’d have thought the old people actually went to church on a regular basis. OK, okay, a couple of them might actually go, but to the best of my knowledge the rest of them consider praying to haul it out of the Barcolounger an acceptable level of churchiness.

So we are in the kitchen, loading up on food like we’re heading out on the Oregon Trail, seeing how many different kinds of salads and potatoes we can jam around the margin of the paper plates, when Mr. Fantastic comments that it’s not often we are the youngest, hottest people at a party. I nod in agreement looking up at my man, seeing us the way we used to be...thin and semi-attractive...when our oldest shoots over my shoulder, “Pfffftttt...Good luck with that line of delusional thinking...Cousin Beth and I are here too.” Mr. Fantastic and I glare at him, and make a silent pact to embarrass him in front of his friends at some future point in time.

We sit down at a table, which is across the aisle from EVERYONE else. Mr. Fantastic goes to raise his first forkful of food, and then looks up at the ceiling. “WTF?!”, he mutters. I look up and realize the reason it is so dark on our side of the room, is because they have only turned on the lights on the other side of the room, in an attempt to save money. Helloo??? We are in a public place! You were expecting way more people than this. You can at least turn the friggin’ lights on!

Mr. Fantastic shoves his folding chair back and stomps to the other end of the room, muttering under his breath the entire way, “Don’t know what they are thinking...not having the damn lights on...I am not eating my food in the dark...It’s no wonder nobody shows up...grumble, grumble.”

Of course, this only leads Mr. Happy Sr. to jump down his throat for wasting killowatts, dontcha’ know. And we have ourselves a mini-throwdown via the wayback machine...

Pa Kettle: What do you think you are doing Boy?

Mr. Fantastic: Turning on the damned lights.

Pa Kettle: Don’t use that kind of language in a House of God!

Mr. Fantastic: We’re in a lunchroom...that’s not even connected to the church!

Pa Kettle: Don’t get smart with me!

Mr. Fantastic: Pffffftt

Pa Kettle: What did you say?

Mr. Fantastic: I am not eating my dinner in the dark!

Pa Kettle: Well, electricity costs money!

Mr. Fantastic: I am well aware of that!

Pa Kettle: You sure are happy to spend other people’s money!

Mr. Fantastic: What other people’s money?! We all chip in to rent this place every year!

Ma Kettle: Sit down Dad.

Pa Kettle: Well, I....

Mr. Fantastic: (Under his breath) JFC...They are losing their minds...

Me: Ya think?

Pa Kettle: What was that?

Mr. Fantastic: I wasn’t talking to you, was I?

Ma Kettle: Good Lord! Would you just eat your dinner?!

Mr. Fantastic rolls his eyes and attacks his fried chicken. About 30 seconds later his mom pulls up a chair and parks it at the end of our table, lamenting the fact that his brothers haven’t shown up yet. Apparently Pa Kettle called one of the twins about a half an hour ago, and they were supposedly on their way, and she claims to have no idea where the other one is.

I inform her they are camping over the holiday weekend, and she begins pelting me with questions like “Are they coming? Where are they camping? Why aren’t they here? Have you talked to them?” My answers, which I only respond to silently while I shovel scalloped potatoes into my mouth are...“Doubt it...I’m SO not telling you...REALLY?!...and Not since yesterday.” I merely shrug, and secretly text my sister-in-law under the table.

Me: “I take it you AREN’T coming to the family dinner?”

S-i-l: “Where are YOU? Did you go?!”

Me: Um. YEAH!

S-i-l: No, we have had 8 ball games, practices and Dr.’s appointments this week. We are staying at the campground the rest of the weekend. I told Ma Kettle we weren’t coming...

Me: She seems to have conveniently forgotten.

S-i-l: Figures...Did the other bro show?

Me: Not yet.

S-i-l: I suppose she’s waiting for all of us before she will eat...

Me: Yep.

I inform Ma Kettle that Twin the Younger and family will not be coming, and she claims no knowledge of their absence. She continues to refuse to eat, until Twin 1 shows up...

1 HOUR LATER...

Pa Kettle’s cell phone rings, and he begins giving someone very basic directions as to how to get from New Highway 30, to Old Highway 30...He hangs up the phone, and Mr. Fantastic says, “Let me guess...they can’t figure out how to get here, when we have been coming here for 10 years...Dumbass...” Pa Kettle rolls his eyes and Ma Kettle reprimands him “ Don’t talk about your brother that way.” Mr. Fantastic says, “He went to school in this town! I’m just calling a spade a spade.” His mother looks confused, and says “What do shovels have to do with anything?”

At this point, our oldest has recently placed himself between me and the wall, in a protected position to escape Pa Kettle and his fingernail of death, which is he is tap, tap, tapping, like a sound effect from an Edgar Allen Poe story. Seriously Dude! Trim that damn thing, or we are SO gonna’ do it for you. Our oldest whispers, “What were you thinking, marrying into this bunch?” I reply that I hadn’t even met Ma Kettle until the day we moved to California, and since we planned on living 2,000 miles away, I hadn’t taken these kind of frequent occassions into consideration. He sighs and begins pelting me with, “Can we go home now? Are we done? Let’s go.” I tell him to be patient.

Ma Kettle then spies the other women beginning to pack up the food so they can get ready to leave. She then says to everyone around the table, “Are they putting away the food? It looks like they are cleaning up. Oh no! They can’t put the food away!” Once we confirm that ‘Yes, they are indeed packing it in,’ she screams across the room for them to stop. When they ask why, she says, “Because Twin 1 and his brood are coming!” They all nod in sympathy, and one of the aunts says, “Well, of course they are Dear...” like she’s talking to a mental patient. Um, yeah...well...ANYWAY...

The missing troop finally shows up (more than 2 hours late) as everyone else is getting ready to leave, necessitating that we all stay, and say a 57th round of goodbyes. Our oldest is ready to run away from home at this point, and the youngest, who has become bored out of his mind, is off in a corner staring into space, trying to make himself invisible in order to avoid having to talk to Mr. Fantastic’s crazy-ass uncle who apparently owns nothing but overalls. We’re lucky today...he actually has both straps fastened as it is a special occasion.

The boys and I finally make out get-away, and wait in the car for Mr. Fantastic, who chews us out for bolting, and not giving hugs to everyone. Um really? No. So not going there.

Tune in tomorrow to see how the surprise visit the following day from the Kettle’s turned out...

Popcorn, Polyester & Alfred Hitchcock

2010-07-06T09:46:00.000-07:00

Thank God it has finally cooled off around here. Last weekend was so beastly hot! How hot was it? It was so hot here in the Midwest, that when I talked with my aunt in Phoenix, she simply uttered, “You win.” Let me tell you, when you actually get someone who lives in Arizona to admit, ‘It’s a dry a heat’ there, you know you are screwed and your region is officially the portal to Hell.

Seriously, I walked out of the house with a fresh round of ice cold beverages last weekend, as Mr. Fantastic and I were sitting on the patio seeing who would have a heart attack first from the oppressive heat and extra insulation we both carry around. Since there was a storm approaching, a slight breeze had begun to stir, and it felt MUCH better outside.

That is, it did until I walked into the air conditioning and came back out into the blast furnace of summer fury. It was like hitting a wall of steam, and I virtually felt the flesh peel from my face. I told Mr. Fantastic it was like walking into the sun of 10,000 Easy Bake Ovens. He turned to me and said, “So you’re saying what? It feels like it’s 100 degrees?” To which I respond, “YES, it’s a hundred f@#*ing degrees...but it’s 9 fricking 30 at night and 87% humidity!!! JACKWAD!”

And the motherf@#*ing mosquitoes?!?! REALLY?! If there is a purpose for these little bastards (besides spreading diseases, and indirectly sending people to meet their maker) that I am unaware of, please f@#*ing tell me. You’ll be wrong, but you can tell me. The City did finally spray for them this week, and even though we live in the city limits, they don’t spray the road in front of OUR house, because we live on the highway. We happened to be sitting outside when they sprayed the other night, and it sent the little bloodsucking beasts into a feeding frenzy! Mr. Fantastic and I bolted for the house in a black swarm, batting them off as we made our way into the house. If I die from malaria, please go egg City Hall for me.

Anyway, with the weather this week being back to normal, and actually quite pleasant, it has made the jaunts to our oldest son’s baseball game much more enjoyable. Of course, now that it’s not hotter than the surface of the sun, that means Mr. Happy Sr. and his bride of 53 years, the Queen of Confusion will also be attending. Um, yeah...

We set up our mini camp at the game, with our camp chairs and cooler of Gatorade and water next to our friends to watch the boys play ball. As we were walking up to the field, I had seen Mr. Happy Sr.’s truck, but since they were parked by the other team’s dugout, I wasn’t going to go over there. Mr. Fantastic was oblivious, so I, being the dutiful wife, simply tromped alongside my man, and turned a blind eye to the crazy people, um his parents.
Our little team parental cheering section had filled in quite nicely, and Mr. Fantastic’s twin brothers and families had joined us. This was the straw that broke the camel’s back, as Mrs. Happy Sr. cannot let her ‘babies’ have a conversation that she is not privy to. Thank God she is half-deaf and forgets what you say before you are even done saying it...

Mr. Happy Sr. waddled up with an ENTIRE BOX of food from the concession stand, and when Mr. Fantastic and his fabulous frere’s (Yes, it’s French for brothers...even though we think one of the twins might belong to the mailman) spied the giant Cache O’ Carbs, and told him he needed to slow down, he puffed out his chest (which is never again going to be bigger than his belly) and proudly informed them, he had spent over $100 on concession stand snacks during the previous week. The boys all looked at each other, wide-eyed in horror and then Mr. Fantastic, being well, Mr. Fantastic said, “You have any hot dogs in there?” Mr. Happy Sr. muttered grumpily, and toddled off toward his vehicle, where Mrs. Happy Sr. was apparently waiting for her popcorn.

The game hadn’t been going long, when Mr. Happy Sr. came back over and plopped his lawn chair down at the end of the line. Since the rest of us were actually watching the game, and not visiting with him, he made the trek back to the snack stand to ‘lay up some supplies for the duration.’ Um, I know he was in the Big Red One, but it’s a ball game, not the war. I glance down toward the concession stand just in time to see Mr. Happy Sr. turn sideways, and catch a glimpse of his profile. I jab Mr. Fantastic and nod in his dad’s direction...“Tell me what you see,” I instruct him. He looks over, and says “A man on his way to bypass surgery?” I roll my eyes, “Besides that...” “Ummmm....Alfred Hitcock?” Proud of my man’s uncanny telepathic link to me and my odd thoughts, I reward him with “Ding, ding, ding! We have a winner!” My sister-in-law leans in and asks “Winner for what?” I tell her about our observation, and she, in turn, shoots Diet Pepsi out of her nostrils.

Mr. Happy Sr. returns to his seat, and immediately gets a call on his cell phone. Let me just say this...My in-laws were the reason that old-people Jitterbug phone was invented. If you can’t even master the basics of answering and placing calls, you don’t need a phone with texting, voice-mail and dare I say it...a SPEAKER PHONE!

With the speaker volume set at 27, on a scale of 1-10, Mr. Happy Sr. proceeds to discuss someone’s medical treatment and having their eyeballs removed. (I kid you not!) One of my bros-in-law attempts to turn the speaker off, but Mr. Happy Sr. won’t let him have the phone long enough to complete the mission. They are now discussing getting together to go out to eat, just in case one of them dies soon, and everyone around the field is staring in our direction.

One of my friends, who is sitting 50 feet away, begins texting me...”LMAO!” Yeah, well I am SO NOT LMAO. I shoot my bro-in-law ‘the look,’ and he nods to accept the assignment, and whips the phone out of his father’s hand, holds it up out of reach, and fiddles around until he shuts the speaker off. WHEW! Crisis averted.

Now, Mrs. Happy Sr. has decided to leave the comfort of their vehicle and make her way over to our crowd. She was one of those women who ALWAYS sat in their car to watch a ballgame, and honked the horn and flashed the lights. Um, yeah...She now arrives at our cheering section toting the same denim handbag she has had the entire time I have known her, and has completed her ensemble with an oversized umbrella (from the size of it, we’re talking stolen from someone’s patio table), which she treats like a parasol. Yes, technically it DOES block out the sun...for the ENTIRE PLANET!!! This is the umbrella she brings to rainy football games, and insists on sittting in the front row, thereby blocking everyone else’s view, while the rain runoff fills my purse and lap with 40 degree water. (Gee, thanks!) Now, she is standing around pouting, because no one will offer her their seat, and when she asks her boys to go retrieve her chair from the car, they all are stricken deaf.

One of our friends, who borrowed our extra chair, has to leave, so I offer her that seat. “Oh no dear, I don’t want to sit down there...with THOSE people.” (I am amazed...and thankful...that Mr. Fantastic and I have any friends left...after they meet his parents.) Soooo...we move the entire line up of chairs to accommodate her. She looks at the chair, and says, “Oh dear, THAT chair is too low and I’m afraid it will be uncomfortable. As her own flesh and blood have chosen to ignore her, I simply shrug and go back to watching the game. Once she decides no one is going to trade seats, she sighs theatrically, and plops her polyester-clad backside into the chair, uttering old people complaints such as, “Oh dear Lord, oooch, oh my, and help me Jesus...” Who of course, is of no help at all, because He is undoubtedly helping some MLB player seal a win or assisting some gansta rapper with collecting an award at this particular moment in time.

Our youngest has dissappeared from the vicinity, as he has had enough of Mr. Happy Sr.’s teasing and errand-running to last him the rest of the summer. Seriously, the other day at a ball game, the old man was yelling at our youngest, “Go fetch me those soda cans from the garbage, Boy! Don’t those people know they’re worth a nickel?!” Um, yes...they DO know they’re worth a nickel, and if you want ‘em, you can get off of your gigundo old-man ass and fish around in the trash your damn self! I already have a hard time getting our youngest to wash his hands on a regular basis...the LAST thing I need is him to be rummaging around in ballpark garbage cans!

At the end of the game, Mr. Happy Sr. bellows for us to come to his aid as he apparently can’t get out of his chair without assistance. First he calls to our youngest, who, while wiry, is no match for the girth and instability of an aging super-snacker. Our youngest walks up to him, simply says ‘pfffftttt,’ and motions for me to come to the rescue. I brace my feet and hoist him up, like a Navy Seal pulling someone aboard a rescue vessel.

Once I am sure he is not going to topple over, I release my grasp and begin to put as much distance between us as is possible. Otherwise, we won’t make it to the car before nightfall, as they are the King and Queen of Perpetual Chatter. You want terrorists to talk? Sit them down with these two. I GUARANTEE you would get results.

Well, I’m off to make the pasta salad for Mr. Fantastic’s family dinner. An entire afternoon with the extended clan. Sure to be a tale or twenty-seven to share after that!

And Edward Cullen Thinks Werewolves Stink?!

2010-06-30T14:43:00.000-07:00

My Bestie Laura, who is um...minorly obsessed with this whole Twilight business (Oh okay,I am totally Team Cullen, and admire Jane from the Volturi, for holding her own with all those men) secured us tickets online to the 12:01 a.m. showing of Eclipse.

So to the theatre we went, complete with a carload of giggling girls. (Man, am I glad we have boys!) While I have been known to be a clothes horse, and formerly had a shoe collection that Imelda Marcos or Carrie Bradshaw would have envied, I have never been a pink and fluffy girlie-girl. I’m just not in that high-maintenance category of females, no-way no-how. While I have always extended my pinkie while drinking (and I mean ALWAYS...since I was a toddler) I see much more value in being The Queen, than aspiring to be a princess...even if it means you are perceived to be a bitch.

Not that princesses aren’t bitches...last night was proof of that. Anyway, we make the nearly hour-long trek to the theatre via the detour, because the main highway is flooded...(yes, we’ve had a wee bit of rain), only to see this HUMOUNGOUS line extended clear around behind the Cineplex. We were meeting another friend and one of her girlfriends there, so we waited until their bobbing heads appeared amongst the throng of people who apparently can’t bother to stand in line. REALLY?! You’re going to be inside sitting for nearly two hours, and it’s not like this is THE premiere and you’ve been camped out for multiple days, and are so phthisic and weak you physically can’t stand! (OK, so that’s a random tuberculosis reference, but I like the word, so deal with it!)

Anyway, we head to the ticket booth to exchange our online confirmation for actual tickets, and in the process, also find out the line outside is NOT our line...it’s for the NEXT showing. (Yep, they are running this baby ALL NIGHT!) So inside we tromp, making a stop for popcorn and drinks. I am chomping at the bit, because I am all about getting a great seat. Whereas all the teen girls are comparing drinks and flavors of Laffy Taffy while talking in cartoon voices, nearly causing me to stroke out. We figure out that nearly everyone in our theatre has already gone in, leaving us the not so prime seats...in the friggin’ front row, unless we want to split up one by one and sit amongst the people who are CLEARLY more over the top than Twi-Moms.

Case in point...these two gang-banger types came stylin’ down the aisle wearing their SouthPole low slung embroidered jean shorts, sideways hats, bling, and wait for it...MATCHING JACOB SHIRTS!!!! Um, I KNEW there was something not right with SouthPole apparel, and now we know what it is. Seriously, they could have been skipping and dropping flower petals. (Not that there’s anything wrong with that...I’m just sayin’ that while I’m sure the PR nimrods who came up with name for the clothing line, were probably hoping people would automatically associate it with ‘cool’, it’s got the word ‘pole’ in it. Um, really?! No.) Then they attempt to get the entire theatre to chant JA-COB, JA-COB...which of course, only caused the smart people, such as MOI, to roll their eyes, and mutter under our breath, Edward would SO kick your ass...Pffffttt.

Three of us snagged seats in the front row, as they were the only three together. Let’s just say that while there are 30 people circling the screening room, you SO cannot put your purse or sweatshirt on the seats next to you in some pathetic attempt to save seats for your invisible friends. Please note: Taylor Lautner, Robert Pattinson and Kristen Stewart are SO not going show up in a surprise PR move and choose you to be their screening chum. SO PUT YOUR EFFIN PURSE ON THE DAMNED FLOOR LIKE THE REST OF US!!! Seriously, accept your fate as a movie goer on opening night, and realize that you are probably going to have to sit next to someone else in the row you don’t know on at least one end. JUST DO IT! (Yes, Nike is probably going to come after me.)

Well, before the movie even started, there was MAJOR DRAMA. Our other friend, and her friend wound up sitting next to this little bleach-blonde BIATCH (read SO not her natural color), who was apparently incapable of not texting, and was bound and determined to not sit by anyone else. SO NOT GONNA’ HAPPEN TONIGHT SISTER!

Anyway, our friend’s friend, who I will call ‘Jane’ to protect her identity, and this witch apparently got into a war of the words, leaving our darling petite friend trying to physically pull Jane from her seat in order to avoid an altercation. I was thrilled that Jane was willing to take on the little blonde faux-princess, and wanted to go sit with her, as I felt an instant kinship, given her um...assertiveness. However, Laura, with her ability to corral my impulsive behavior convinced me to stay put. Let’s just say that it was a good thing...as their relocation was NOT successful.

About 10 minutes after settling into their new seats, there is a scuffle on the other side of the room. Pan across the auditorium to where our friend is sitting, with Jane, who apparently had some wine prior to the movie. (WHAT?! It was a freaking midnight premiere and they had been out to dinner!!!) Sooooo...Jane has apparently decided the Team Jacob ‘gangsta’ twins are indeed annoying beyond belief and has told them to keep it down. They, in turn, begin swearing at her and call her a bitch.

Just a head’s up to all you fabulous readers, who I’m sure already know this...Unless you are among a woman’s VERY BEST girlfriends, you SO can not call her the B-word, and expect to get away with it. We will SO go off on your ass! Suffice it to say, the ushers got involved, who in turn, called the police. Um...yeah. So people are being ushered out of the auditorium for questioning, delaying the start time of the movie considerably.

Up to this point, I have been forced to look away from the screen because they have been running these print infomercials on a loop, that are horribly out of focus, and I am on the verge of vomiting due to the fuzzy 8 foot high letters. Finally, the movie starts and I am able to turn my attention back to the screen so I can take in the film. While R Pattz has a fairly flawless complexion, sitting this close is a bit distracting, due to the pixilated nature of having my eyeballs jammed up against the screen. So I began to pick out odd details about the film and share them with Laura, who thank God, laughs instead of being annoyed by my random comments.

For instance, I know that Bella’s mom is a bit of a free-spirit, but she looked like she just got off the bus from Rock of Love with Bret Michaels with that hat! Next, we move on to the Quileute campfire, where Jacob’s dad, Billy, is filling Bella in on ‘the cold ones’ (NO...not those kind of cold ones, Mr. Fantastic), and there is a flashback to the original vampire who dared to tread on their turf. Um, perhaps it was just me, but if it weren’t for the fact that the vampire’s undead wife had a hoop skirt, I would have been hard-pressed to tell them apart. (Perhaps he was the original SouthPole model?) Fast-forward to the climatic ending, and I notice that one of the Volturi is sporting a Justin Bieber ‘do.’ (For the love of GOD....Make the whole Bieber-fever thing stop!)

However, I have indeed saved my own personal experience for last. (NO...R Pattz did NOT come sit by us...DAMMIT) Instead, I spent the entire movie, sideways, practically crawling into Laura’s lap, watching the film out of the corner of my right eye. I know you’re all dying to know why...so I am going to tell you. The two broads sitting next to us had apparently not bathed for like six months!!!! I am still suffering the ill-effects of their stench permeating my pores. I now have such a horrible headache and lingering nausea from watching the entire movie via my peripheral vision, that there is not enough Excedrin in our medicine cabinet to make it go away. I have downed three HUGE travel mugs of Greene Bean Coffee Co. espresso, in the hopes the caffeine will help, but there is no relief from unbathed movie-goer stench.

And the Cullen clan thinks werewolves stink! About two-thirds of the way through the movie, my fabulous perfume was beaten out by the super-sonic stink, and Laura could share the bold, ripe unpleasantness. I’m not talking simple B.O....I’m talking the kind of stink that you can taste and makes your nostrils burn.

Since the movie got a late start due to the um...pre-show festivities, we didn’t get headed home until about 3:00 a.m. Let’s just say, the last time I was out this late, I ate breakfast at an all-night diner. (And no, smartasses...my evening did NOT include the movies.) The teenaged girls wanted to go to McDonalds, but I voted no, and Laura, being my Bestie, understood that at this point in my evening, the thought of food was a BAD, BAD, THING. Of course my opinion was met by a chorus of angry chatter, which quickly turned to soft snoring, as the girls dozed off, for the remainder of the drive home.

In spite of everything, it was a fabulous flick...if you’re a Twilight fan. I do plan on going again, when the characters aren’t quite the size of Mount Rushmore, as I am easily distracted, and kept wondering how much clearance I would have, as it appeared my entire head would fit up evil-vampire, Riley’s, constantly flaring nostrils.

Well, enough of Twilight, as Mr. Fantastic is about ready to have an aneurysm from my continual game of Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon - The Twilight version, as I apparently have been connecting the Twilight actors to everything he is watching on television, and he is a tad bit annoyed at this point. So...until next time...Keep reading, and for the love of GOD...keep showering!

Burrs for Jesus...Yes, I am Still Mean...

2010-06-22T07:09:00.000-07:00

Here at the little wood hut, I have been cursing burrs for the past several days. It seems that whatever viney Little Shop of Horrors-type plant that spews forth these nasty little beasts, grows in abundance here. And Filthalissa is bound and determined to strip each and every plant of their little prickly spheres from Hell.

Quite frankly, I am holding burrs in contempt...about two rungs down the ladder from mosquitos. THOSE horrid little parasites have ALSO appeared to have thrust themselves into reproductive overdrive, and currently have approximately 100 million bajillion offspring taking up residence in our neck of the woods. (Rich, I am SO eyeing your weed-be-gone blowtorch thingamajig!)

Since renting the brick and mortar shop has turned out to be NOT such a good thing, with its um, variety of mechanical and structural issues...(Cough...Slumlord...Seriously, there is so much stuff wrong with that building, that I could write a song and set it to music), I got to thinking about things that SEEM like they would be a good idea if you just had BIGGER QUANTITIES. You know, those things that come back to bite you in the ass. Chocolate, creme filling (or even chocolate creme filling), margaritas, cute boys, sun without sunscreen, a bigger house...you get what I’m talking about. From far away, a huge pile of these items may indeed look extremely attractive, and in small quantities, they are totally fine (well except that whole no sunscreen thing...I like you all waaay too much to hear you have melanoma, so slather up people!)

Since I had time to ponder this line of thought yesterday while plucking burrs from Filthalissa 47 STINKIN’ TIMES...I began to wonder about the guy who looked beyond the fact that burrs are a complete pain in the ass, and saw them as an opportunity. I was absolutely certain he must have been high, because well, come on...BURRS?!?! REALLY?!?!

Well, I already knew the basic story of how the guy got the idea from hunting with his dog. SO not a fan of hunting, but if you do it for food I will give you a pass. If you do it to plaster animal heads on your wall, I will assume that you are lacking in um, THAT department, and will SO make you a permanent belt with the antlers or a glassy-eyed taxidermist’s specimen to wear around advertising your need to feel all manly.

Anyway, turns out what George de Mestral had (shhhh...don’t tell Mr. Happy Sr. that he spoke French...he’s actually from Switzerland...which has delicious chocolate, so that’s A-OK...just don’t eat too much, or you will SO get sick), was the ability to look beyond the obvious (that burrs are Nature’s version of the Devil’s calling card), and find inspiration in these little plant-beasts. (FYI...whatever was going on with whomever invented disposable diapers...I SO don’t wanna know.)

Just so you know...he came up with the idea in 1941, and his patent wasn’t granted until 1955! FOURTEEN frickin’ years later!!! Nobody took the poor Velcro guy seriously at first, plus he used the wrong fabric, and couldn’t quite get the loop and hook part of the equation right, and nearly gave up. Nearly, is the key word here. Then, after he had that part figured out, it took TEN MORE YEARS to figure out how the mechanize the whole shebang! (Because, seriously, who would make Velcro by hand? SO not time and cost-effective, and extremely hard on the eyes!)

It was then that I got what I have been doing wrong. NO...not combing the woods for fighting beetles, or plants that cure stupid. Although that last one, would SO make me rich. (Unfortunately, I would probably have to take it myself.) My problem is that I want (and all too often expect) big things to happen NOW...As in RIGHT...FREAKIN’...NOW! (OK, and I also swear too much...but that’s not today’s hot topic.)

Have you ever had one of those days (okay years, or even decades) where you seem to be jumping up and down, trying to get God to notice you and your predicament. Kind of like being a little kid in school, and you SO know the answer to this question. You are madly waving your arm back and forth...pleading “Pick me! Please pick me!” It seems that the teacher’s eyes rest on you for a moment, and you make eye contact. “YES!” You know the teacher is going to call your name, and you begin to beam with anticipation...Today is SO your day!

And then the teacher calls on that perfect little Sally Fluffenheimer...Who ALWAYS gets called on. “NO FAIR!” you begin to rant to yourself. The teacher was SO gonna’ pick me!” Then you begin to wonder why they didn’t. What’s wrong with me??? Then you begin to get a little crazed...The teacher didn’t pick me because I am not good enough, not smart enough, not thin enough, not beautiful enough, not athletic enough, not fun enough...There are a million reasons you can think of, but they all boil down to basically the same thing. I...am...not...enough.

When you finally have a chance to ask the teacher why they didn’t pick you, the teacher says, “I called on you, but you were doodling in your notebook, and you didn’t hear me.”

WHAT?! How is that even possible? I was sitting RIGHT THERE...IN THE FRONT ROW!!! Life is SO NOT FAIR!!! How many times did your parents tell you this? Nope, life isn’t fair...but how boring would life be if EVERYTHING was fair?!

It’s just my opinion, and you can tell me to get bent if you want, (won’t be the first time) but I think life is supposed to be about fulfilling our individual potential, and helping others reach theirs, and let’s admit...sometimes we get distracted. It’s true, we don’t all have the same gifts or opportunities. For all of you visual thinkers out there, think of it this way...how boring would it be to look through a kaleidoscope if it was just one frosted white disk at the end. OK...not that snow isn’t lovely, but if you lived in the Midwest this past winter, let me tell you...you would get pretty damned sick of it.

I realize this isn’t the typical JUNCK Chick rant you’ve come to expect, and I’m sure something will piss me off today, and I will probably write about it tomorrow...But I just wanted to let those of you, who do believe in God or some sort of higher power, know that I got the memo...and for those of you who aren’t there yet...YOU...are enough too! How great is that?!

Like...I Am SO Sure!

2010-06-19T07:48:00.000-07:00

It finally quit raining here...for the moment. I know I’m not the nicest person on the planet, but come on...does God feel the need to flood EVERYONE else out just to get to me? NAH...That can’t be it. This week has been filled with cancelled ball games and more water in the basement at the shop. Seriously, the musty smell blowing up from the fan in the basement has me running for my inhaler at regular intervals. Can I sue Jackwadicus for this??? Hmmmmm...Seems to me, that ‘not breathing’ due to improper building maintenance and repair should count for something.

Anyway, I came home from work last night, and was apparently out of sorts due to all this gloomy wet weather we have been inundated with. The minute I walked in the door, I was greeted with the awesome sight of garbage...piled on TOP of our oak trash receptacle. It’s one of those tilt-out thingamajigs with your plastic waste basket thingie on the inside. It’s super awesome, and it even has a drawer to store the HUMONGOUS roll of extra trash bags.

However, it must be a magic drawer, because no one else seems to be able to open it but me. It’s amazing...I know! I guess now I have TWO places to hide Christmas presents...Next to the toilet brush, AND in the trash bag drawer! Yes, that’s correct...my loving family would prefer to pile their trash ON TOP of the f@#*ing furniture-quality trash receptacle!!! Um...hellooooo?! This is SO not okay!!!

So, being the lovely and delicate flower I am, I slam my purse and shop bag down on the counter, and begin to tackle the trash dilemma. I grab a handful of trash, pull open the tilt-out compartment, and surprise...it’s like one of those fake cans of peanuts that the snakes spring out of. Except with garbage...I would SO have preferred the snakes.

At this point I begin talking to myself...

Me: SERIOUSLY?! Can no one else in this house take out the friggin’ garbage?

Me: (I begin channeling the 80’s at this point, and Valley-speak begins coming out of my mouth) Like, I am SO sure! It wasn’t like this when I left! I SO can’t believe these losers...

Still Me: Fine! What-ever! Stupid loser Y chromosome!

Me Again: (Now yelling like the classic parent from every coming-of-age movie ever made...RIP John Hughes.) I...CAN..NOT...BE-LIEVE...YOU PEOPLE... CHOOSE... TO...LIVE...IN FILTH!

Me...Yet Again: (Back to the 80’s) Oh..my...Gawd! Like, I am SO SURE! Do you NOT know where the garbage can is in the garage?! Um, yes...I think you do!

At this point, our oldest walks upstairs from ‘Guy Town’ and stares at me. Then he asks, “Whyyyyyy are you talking like that??? It’s kind of creepy.” Yes, he is still alive...AND he knows where the extra trash bags are. However, he has been scarred for life and I am sure he will need therapy and possibly plastic surgery to restore his lilly white hands to the way they were prior to touching, dare I say it...other people’s used food and garbage. GASP! I am sure his plans for a summer of gaming in his room have been ruined by me, his wicked mother.

Our youngest just popped his head in my office and asked “Hey Mom...Do you know what time it is?” Before I could answer, he growled “It’s ADVENTURE TIME!” and ran off. Should I be worried? Hmmmmm...Better run.

Nightmare on Elm Street...Okay, Napmare

2010-06-16T08:45:00.000-07:00

I am the Queen of...insomnia. I know...you all thought I was gonna’ say mean, but truly, I rule the universe of not sleeping. This got me to thinking about how they are remaking all those 80’s flicks now...like Nightmare on Elm Street.

Hey, I live on Elm Street!!! Wait just a minute! Hmmm...Come to think of it, I have lived on Elm Street, three, count ‘em 3, different times during my life. Coincidence? I think not! Someone is obviously spying on my life and using it for fodder to make bajillions of dollars. What?...It could happen!

Let’s just say Freddy Krueger would have SO gotten tired of waiting for moi to fall asleep, and would have moved along to easier digs...like say Lincolnway...or Wilson Street. Come on you nappers! Fess up! We’ve seen you snoozing in your barcoloungers while you’re pretending to ‘rest your eyes’.

Yeah, my mom would always say that’s what she was doing when she was lying on the couch on Sunday after church and the fabulous Sunday dinner she slaved over. Of course, it’s not until you have your own kids that you realize the poor woman was more than likely on the verge of a child-induced aneurysm, and we probably had her eyeballing one-way tickets to anywhere. Thank God she never bought one!

That being said...there is a HUGE difference between napping and sleeping. When I turn in for the night, it takes me at least an hour to fall asleep. Of course. Mr. Fantastic tells me I wouldn’t be awake, if I wasn’t reading in bed. However, it is truly the chicken and the egg scenario. I see myself reading because I can’t sleep, whereas he sees me not sleeping because I am reading. Pfffftt! He is SO wrong.

When my mom napped, my dad played the mean junkyard dog...If you set foot in the living room, attempted to watch television, or made any other sudden moves or loud noises, whereby you may awaken the napping June Cleaver, you were so gonna’ catch it! Hmmmm...perhaps this is where my dread of Sundays comes from. They always seemed to be the most BORING day of the week, and the fact that they preceded Monday wasn’t any help either.

Now when I want to nap (and I need to, since I don’t sleep), I know my kids aren’t going to be quiet, so I just go in our bedroom and close the door. You would THINK this would be an obvious sign to stay the hell out, but um...you would be wrong, as apparently ‘obvious’ is waaaay overrated in this house.

Here’s a play-by-play of my recent napping attempt:

Me: (Just dozed off with pillow over my head to dull the sound of our oldest picking on our youngest.)

Our Oldest: (Barging through the door like the ringleader for a home invasion.) What are you doing?

Me: (Attempting to calm the thudding of my poor cream-filled heart at being shocked into a state of red-alert.) Um...NOT napping.

Oldest: Oh. Sorry. I’ll let you sleep.

Me: Thanks.

THIRTY-FIVE SECONDS LATER...

Oldest: Hey Mom?

Me: (Head under pillow so he can’t see my scary mom face.) What?!

Oldest: I’m hungry.

Me: Good for you. Go fix yourself something to eat. Goodbye.

Oldest: What do we have to eat?

Me: The same food we would have if I was opening the cupboard doors for you.

Oldest: (Plopping on the bed, and whisking the pillow off of my head) But I’m not sure what I’m hungry for...

Me: (Retrieving pillow) Whatever you can fix...that’s what you’re hungry for. Sleepy time!

Oldest: SIGH...Okay...

Me: You’re still here...

Oldest: Uh-huh

Me: What?!

Oldest: What if I don’t want anything we have?

Me: Then you are outta’ luck. Nitey-Nite!

Oldest: K...

Me: (Heavy sigh as door closes and I try to get back to sleep)

Door flies open again...

Me: WHAT?!!!

Youngest: I love you.

Me: I love you too.

Youngest: I’m hungry.

Me: Tell your brother to fix you something.

Youngest: Okay.

Me: (Pillow back on my head) Zzzzzzz

Youngest: (Blasts through door)

Me: What...

Youngest: He’s being mean and won’t get me anything!

Me: What do you want?

Youngest: Um, I don’t know.

Me: (Yelling at oldest) Get your brother something to eat! NOW!

Oldest: (Comes to doorway) I would if the noob would tell me what he wants!

Youngest: Don’t call me a noob! And I can’t tell you what I want, if I don’t know!

Oldest: NOOOOOOB!

Youngest: I-AM-NOT...A-NOOB!!!!!

Oldest: Whatever, Noob.

Youngest: STOP IT!!!!!!

Me: If you both don’t go away in the next five seconds, you will SO be wishing you would have! One, two...

SILENCE...

Me: (Heavy sigh, and much pillow fluffing)

Oldest: (Flings door open) I love you!

Me: I love you too. Now go away.

Oldest: No problem.

Me: (Sleeping for roughly 13 minutes.)

Mr: Fantastic: (Flings door open so hard books fly off of my night stand) You’re sleeping?!?!

Me: Apparently not.

If this doesn’t deter you from marriage and children, I’d say you are up to the challenge. Congratulations, and welcome to my world. You are officially a Dream Warrior...(Yes, it's the song/video from Nightmare on Elm Street 3...look it up.)

Hit or Miss...

2010-06-14T05:44:00.000-07:00

If you read my blog yesterday, you will know that I am no longer cowtowing to my penny-pinching landlord, who refuses to fix anything, and then threatens to raise my rent, when raw sewage ruins a bunch of stuff in the shop basement. Guess what Jackwad? I am so outta’ there! While it may take us a while to renovate our barn, this is a move I should have made looong ago. We will still be creating and selling stuff online and from the workshop in the meantime, so please let us know if you want something special.

Bell Tower was a huge bust, not only for us, but for the vendors, and a lot of the other businesses around the square. While we were watching the parade...(Yes, I closed to watch our oldest march in the band..it’s why I have my own business!) Anyway, while we were standing there with the um...can you say mini-throng(?), because really, there weren’t many people uptown...So there we are (and BTW...YES...I have confirmed my suspicions about Jefferson Iowa News’ local mole, and plan to have lunch with him soon), when this trailer trash chick in a tank top with a bad (read possibly self-administered) West Coast Choppers knock-off tattoo, came into view. She had THE CUTEST little boy...on one of those leash thingamajigs disguised as a stuffed animal. It was a monkey...however, the only monkey on the back of this tot was his parents! He had bent over to get some parade candy, and was thrilled to pat the puddle in front of him, which set this escapee from the carnival off. Too lazy to get her ass off of her cell phone, she proceeded to prod and kick him with her blue painted, flip-flop wearing foot, until he scurried back to his baby-daddy. CLASSY! Um...FAIL! Of course, they will probably proceed to have ten more. Well, enough venting about bad parenting. While Mr. Fantastic and I believe the fear of God and your parents is a good thing...this is SO NOT what we mean.

While we have been working our heinies off to get ready for Bell Tower...(Can I say it again...yeah, that was SO not worth it. Let's just say that with the amount of rain we've had, and the forecast, people probably opted to stay home and finish their arks! Really, should have taken a nap), Mr. Fantastic has been pulling double duty with his new promotion and making furniture after work. What a great guy he is...most of the time. (I kid, because I love...and I’ve been married for a damn long time.) So, he’s been falling into bed, asleep before his head hits the pillow. This has brought about some episodes of talking in his sleep. When we lived in California, we both worked so much that I input computer data in my sleep, and he was busy talking, saying things like “I’d like to thank the Academy for this award”...um, yeah.

Anyway, the other night he was sawing logs while I was reading...His conversation with the Sandman went something like this...

Mr. F: Aiiieee!!! I need bread...and guards! Uhhhhh... HELP! What the (unintelligible...and we’re probably lucky here).

Me: (Shaking him) Honey...Are you okay?

Mr. F: Shoving me aside...practically off of the bed and on top of Filthalissa. Get off me! Where’s the pastrami?! (Yeah, I am SO gonna’ remind him he said THAT!) I’ve gotta’ get it! Where’d it go?! Aiiiieeee!!!

Apparently this is his alternate version of something like Rise of the Sandwiches (instead of Terminator: Rise of the Machines with ‘the Governator’). He was obviously under siege during an attack choreographed by the evil Dr. Pumpernickel, in retaliation for all the sandwiches he’s eaten at beer-thirty.

Meanwhile, while attempting to keep myself upright, and out of the dog bed on the floor, I succeeded in knocking my cell phone off of the two, count ‘em 2, ginormous towers of books on my night stand. (Yes, I prefer hardcover, because I am a book junkie, and can’t wait for the paperback versions to come out. Let’s face it...Amazon has me on their list for automatic pre-order.)

Let’s just say, my reading habits at bedtime have been a bone of contention for Mr. Fantastic for, well, EVER. So here’s my ad...WANTED: Someone who doesn’t mind if my bedside light is on at 2:30 a.m. when we both have to have our asses up by 5:00. Mr. Fantastic says he simply won’t put up with it any more. (Uh-huh.) Which is why I have gone back to going to bed AFTER he falls asleep and is rattling the paint off the walls with his snoring. Fortunately, the dogs don’t seem to mind that I read into the wee hours, so it’s generally smooth sailing.

On another note...How long does a block of cheese stay good in its original shrink-wrapped package? And by GOOD, I mean impending death is not likely from partaking of said cheese. It LOOKS okay...let’s just say it’s older than Fluffy Pony Puppy, but hasn’t been around as long as Mr. Fantastic and I have lived in this house. Hmmm...I hate to waste food.

Well, we have ball games with Mr. Happy Sr. tomorrow, so you KNOW I will have some laugh-your-ass-off tales to regale you with tomorrow. See you then.

Back to Basics...

2010-06-13T07:25:00.000-07:00

Well, Bell Tower Festival has come and gone...and with it my hopes for keeping the shop open on the square. The members of the JUNCK Rural Renaissance will be returning to our home workshops, and will be having regular sales here at Firefly Farms, in addition to staging a few special events throughout the year. Can you say book club? (OK, Laura, calm down, book club is YOUR baby...but we can use the space.)

I simply can’t justify continuing to pay rent to someone (read ASSHAT OF MONUMENTAL PROPORTIONS) who refuses to fix sewer backups, a leaking roof, electrical wiring that nearly burns the place down, major gas leaks on furnaces that aren’t even supposed to be connected, and then tells me I am funding his new house on some lake out of state. GAH! OK...tell me again the symptoms of an aneurysm, because I may be experiencing one!

As my Bestie, Laura, told me when we were discussing the decision, and I was wallowing in self-pity and bemoaning my loserliness, she reminded me that we are NOT closing...just moving...to a place where all of the electrical outlets actually work! (Is this Heaven?...No this is Iowa.) Hmmmm...I always knew she was extremely intelligent, but this chick is a genius! Why didn’t I think of this?! Well, because I am not nearly as insightful as she is...that’s why. However, I am MUCH meaner...and can lift extremely heavy things. It’s a trade off.

So, what does this mean for you? This means a big sale on A LOT OF STUFF! Who doesn’t love a sale? Let’s face it, while we have quite a bit of room here, we don’t have room to store EVERYTHING until the barn renovation gets done. Since we sell stuff online, and just hooked up with Genesis for shipping some of our larger items, the sale excludes most JUNCK creations....but not everything, so stop in and see what we’ve got.

We will continue to make stuff and take custom orders throughout the entire process, because really...I can’t see myself getting through a week without suffering from the approaching old-lady squints while I make JUNCK Jewelry, gluing something where it doesn’t belong, and turning myself into a walking pinata with paint....and well, I DO like candy of the chocolate variety. As for Laura...let’s just say she has discovered the fabulosity of the power sander. I’d better watch out, or she will smooth out my rough edges...

So haul your keisters into the shop and snag yourselves a bargain or two. Because let’s face it...I know where most of you live, and if it doesn’t sell, I will SO be rounding you up to help us move it.

P.S. If you feel like helping us remodel the barn, or have some extra cash, caulk or building talents you’re hiding, we will gladly accept any or all of them. If you think I am kidding...you would be SO wrong! There will be a GIANT tip jar on the counter, or you can send me a message at kristin@junck.biz to lead me to your super secret stash of excess building stuff.

Besides, with a remodeling project led by well, US...there is going to be a TON of funny stuff to write about. Well gotta’ run...Fluffy Pony Puppy has gotten herself into a bit of a pickle, and I must release her from her self-imposed doggie jail here in my office. (See above photo.)

Rain, Rain Go Away...Oh Hell!

2010-06-11T06:48:00.001-07:00

So...the local Bell Tower Festival is upon us as I type. This is ordinarily a HUGE weekend for my shop JUNCK, so here’s hoping we’ll be crazy busy like last year. Seriously, I didn’t even have time to pee last year, which was okay, because I didn’t have time to drink anything either.

Perhaps the only thing standing in the way of a successful weekend is the friggin’ weather...Well, THAT, and the suckariffic economy, but here’s hoping people get all jacked up on funnel cakes and giant lemonades and lose all of their shopping inhibitions.

However, as I said, Mother Nature is f@#*ing with us all this week, and she is threatening to put a damper on things...DAMMIT! We just had ANOTHER storm blow through, and it not only rained cats and dogs, but I think there might be a couple of ponies in my yard too...so be sure to come on by and pick one out. Oh wait! The ponies must have just gotten blown over here from the neighbors across the road...never mind. Damn...I would really like a pony.

Anyway, yesterday’s storm came whipping up from the west, and I had the back shop doors open with the giant screen in place, so I could get some fresh air blowing through, because let’s face it...you can only inhale so many paint fumes before you get permanently loopy.

When the wind came up, and started blowing crap around in the shop, I decided I might need to close one, or both of the back doors. So, I walked back to check things out, and saw to my surprise, that the crew was putting up the beer tent...or attempting to. Now, I know these guys are on a tight schedule to get everything ready to have thousands of extra people in town, but perhaps they should have checked the radar.

Let me tell you, when the shit hits the fan weather-wise, the LAST place I want to be, is out in a thunderstorm holding a giant metal pole ten feet in the air. Um...yeah. Being the concerned citizen I am, it was my duty to watch the spectacle...if for no other reason than to call the ambulance crew if the need arose.

Well, let me tell you...the wind picked up, and more people came to the aid of the tent crew. They were hanging on to the tent with such dogged determination, in spite of looking like they were going to be flung clear to Chicago with the next gust of wind, that they managed to hold it together.

Since the weather was so shitty yesterday, that was about the extent of my excitement, as I only had a couple of brave souls wander in to look around. Oh, and one of them bought something! So, thanks for that! I appreciate it..and so does the gas company...yeah, still making payments for all the gas the leaking furnaces used. Way to go Landlord Extraordinaire! ASSHAT! With the electrical problems (read mini fires) we’re having too, I guess I’m lucky we just didn’t blow the north side of the square off the face of the Earth, so there IS that.

Anyway, Mr. Fantastic’s truck is in the shop...AGAIN. God, how I HATE that rusty crapmobile! However, until someone offers me a ton of money to spew my blackened acerbic wit to the masses for cold hard cash, or we get a bunch of new orders from other retailers for JUNCK mechandise, it is the BEST truck on the planet...because it’s paid for. However, as our banker (Jackwadicus) doesn’t see the need for Mr. Fantastic to have reliable transportation to get work as being directly proportional to us having a positive bank balance, we will get by with what we’ve got. (Yes, we are poor white trash.)

Since the truck is in the shop, I had the pleasure of driving Mr. Fantastic to work this morning...which was good thing. Because had I not already been up, the phone ringing at 6:00 a.m. would have REALLY PISSED ME OFF!

Um yeah...it was Mr. Happy Sr., calling to tell us it’s raining. NO SHIT Sherlock! I couldn’t really tell, in spite of the fact that even Fluffy Pony Puppy, who thrives of filth and mud wouldn’t even go outside because of the thunder and lightning that were occurring every 5 seconds!

Meanwhile, Mr. Fantastic who had been in the living room eating breakfast and watching the early news saw their number pop up on caller ID, and came flying into my office, choking on his food to find out what had happened to his parents. (Let’s face it...the phone ringing after 10 p.m. and before 8 a.m. is rarely good news.)

There stands my man, in the doorway, looking all intense...fraught with worry. Here’s the brief conversation:

Mr. F: Well?!?!

Me: It’s raining.

Mr. F: I KNOW THAT! Why are my parents calling at 6 fricking o’clock in the morning?!

Me: I told you...It’s RAINING!

Mr. F: Are you going to tell me what the hell happened?!

Me: Oh yeah, I am SO gonna’ tell you what happened!

Mr. F: Crossing his arms in front of chest and giving me the stink-eye.

Me: APPARENTLY... your dad went out and bought a Weather Radio.

Mr. F: AND?!?!

Me: Apparently, it’s f@#*ing RAINING! That’s what!

Mr. F: He called at 6 a.m. to tell us what the weather was doing?

Me: Yes.

Mr. F: Um...

Me: Uh-huh.

Mr. F: Ooooookay then.

Me: You DO realize that every fricking time that damn thing goes off, he’s going to call us right?! (Yes, I am being a bit shouty at this point.)

Mr. F: Um...yes.

Me: See this...(pointing to self)...this is me...who would SO still be sleeping if I didn’t have to drive you to work this morning. (Well, I’d be sleeping for another 21 minutes, because Filthalissa wakes me up at 6:21 a.m...every morning!) (Yep...still shouty.)

Mr. F: I know.

Me: You know this isn’t going to end well, right?

Mr. F: Um, yeah.

Me: Just wanted to give you a head’s up that if some random tornado doesn’t suck that friggin’ weather radio from their house, and embed it into a nearby tree, I’m going to...Capiche?

Mr. F: Uh-huh.

Then I made the half-hour jaunt to take my lovin’ man to work, wherein I informed him that since it’s supposed to storm off and on all weekend, I am shutting the ringer off on the phone. So, if any of you fabulous readers care to talk to me...call me on my cell.

Flying Ants, a Badger and My New Tattoo

2010-06-07T19:48:00.000-07:00

As I hauled and painted stuff for JUNCK during the first half of the day yesterday, and then opted to sit on my keister on the patio the rest of the day, today was yard work day. With nearly 8 partially wooded acres, you never know what you’re going to run into when you’re out and about on the North 40, well okay, the South 8.

I am in charge of the trimming and weeding, and Mr. Fantastic is in charge of the mowing. While it would seem that he has the fun job, zipping around the property on his giant motorized cupholder, getting a tan...I am actually reaping the benefits of manual labor. In other words, I am a sweaty mess who smells like grass clippings and gasoline. Plus, my arms are soon going to look like Popeye’s from hauling around the gas-powered weed whacker. Mr. Fantastic broke the strap not long after we got it, and never bothered to replace it...since HE doesn’t have to friggin’ use it!!!

With these cartoon muscles, the tattoo that got burned near my elbow from said damn weed whacker’s engine will look SWEET! Of course, if you’re going to sport a tat, it would be nice to be able to CHOOSE what it is...not just have one burned into your flesh that says iboyR (Ryobi, spelled backwards.) However, the backwards lettering makes TOTAL sense, since everything on the freakin’ thing is bassackwards!!!

Seriously, do they NOT teach them left loosey, righty tighty in Japan?! Um, listen up tool boys, this whole lefty-righty deal is pretty universal, so you might want to get your shit together! It’s bad enough I have to stand on my head to get the trimmer string thingie back on the stupid sprocket because it doesn’t self feed like it is supposed to, but screwing parts together upside down AND backwards, is totally not happening. Just so you know. BTW...I don’t have any other tattoos...in case you’re wondering.

So, there I was whacking and hacking my way through the underbrush and along the fence line, holding the weed whacker braced against my leg, giving the unladylike appearance that I am writing my name in the snow. Classy! Nothing gives you dominion over your surroundings like a 4 kajillion rpm 4 cycle engine! I am woman, hear me roar! That is, until you plow into the ginormous ant hill that has taken over the area of one entire 8 foot section of fence. Do you know what happens when you hit an ant hill with a weed whacker going 147 miles per hour? I’ll tell you what happens...You will find yourself blowing ants out of your nostrils and running screaming up the driveway yelling “Get ‘em off! Get ‘em off! For the love of God...get ‘em off!”

This will cause Mr. Fantastic to stop the mower...not out of concern for my well-being mind you, as the ants peel my flesh away like Kansas City barbecue, but because he is laughing so hard, he can’t see to drive the mower. JACKWAD!

Once I have succeeded in removing the last of the ants from my hair, inside my shoes, and from my cleavage, I fire up the gas-powered beast again. Then, I promptly stumble across a HUGE hole on the ditch-side of the front fence, and it’s then that I remember seeing a badger dart into it during the winter. Um, yeah...we have a badger the size of a Mack truck that has decided to live in our yard, which I am TOTALLY NOT cool with!!!

I practically sprint along the fence line, and across the rolling expanse of front lawn, as Mr. Fantastic whips by, with the mower chute facing me, covering me with lawn clippings. At this point, I’m just happy he wasn’t mowing the edge of the drive, where the gravel is. Ahhh...fun times.

I head over to the fence that divides our yard from the Church of Christ...You might remember them from a blog a while back, wherein I bitched and moaned about them not mowing the frigging grass on their side of the fence, thereby encouraging a pack of wild rodenty-type creatures to take up residence, and attempt to infect me with rabies via their rat-like yellow teeth. Well, that blog apparently crossed the line for a few folks, and I drew the ire of some people who chewed my ass like I had just punched Jesus in the jimmies. Well, guess f@%*ing what?! They mowed their friggin’ lawn! That’s what! PLUS, they painted their church this week. So there! Way to go Church of Christ!

This reminds me of that saying, ‘The pen is mightier than the sword...’ However, while I DO happen to have both, I had to hide the sword. The last time it was out on display, was when we lived in California. I had to put it up, because SOMEONE...(aka Mr. Fantastic) got bored while he was home alone one afternoon, and as best I can figure out, scratched the paint off of the living room ceiling while he was jumping off of the coffee table playing Zorro. Um...yeah.

Squirrel Bacon...

2010-06-03T08:02:00.000-07:00

Reading my friend, Brandon’s new blog, The Stak Factor (cruise on over here http://thestakfactor.blogspot.com to read it), refueled my fury with the little rodents who fill the trees in our backyard. At the moment, there are only 3 squirrels I will tolerate, the black one who lives somewhere out back - because I had never seen a black squirrel before, and the one who lays like a sack of potatoes on the locust tree branch like he’s dead - because he reminds me of the last kind of squirrel I like - the kind that reside in the middle of the highway.

Oh sure, I’m mean...blah, blah, blah. Tell me something I don’t already know! Seriously, they try to burrow their way into our house, so we have to have to this rodent deterrer thingamajig going every second of the day and night, that emanates this audible whirp, whirp, whirp, whirp noise. SO love THAT when we’re sitting on the patio!

Plus the minute you step outside the back door, there are no less than three of the little flying gargoyles perched two feet from your face, crouching in the tree outside the door, who threaten to launch themselves directly onto your head, biting your face off, and contaminating you with squirrel rabies, and God knows what other kinds of rodenty squirrel-type diseases!

Seriously, I walked out the back door of my office this morning, and was practically nose to nose with one of the little vermin. Now, if you applied the logic that said squirrel should be afraid of me, because I am like 4 jillion-katrillion (a VERY large number, I know!) bigger than it is, you...would be wrong. Did it scamper back up the branch in sheer horror? HELL no! It bared it’s little rodenty rat-like teeth, and began to cuss me out in Squirreleeze. Oh NO you didn’t!

I reached down and grabbed my trusty stick, the one I leave lying at the top of the stairs to fend off raccoons, possums, whompus cats, and the other invading woodland creatures (aka squirrels) who haven’t yet gotten the memo that since they don’t pay thousands of dollars in property taxes, they need to move along. I then...WHACK THE CRAP out of the branch the squirrel is sitting on. HA! So THERE, you furry little bastard! It hauls ass up into the tree, telling me off the entire time...You big, fat click, click, click! Since I don’t know the appropriate symbols to use to translate squirrel swearing, it will henceforth be identified here as ‘click,’ which I am sure is the squirrel equivalent of mother-f@#%*er.

Fluffy Pony-Puppy and her big brother, Wilson, hate the fluffy little demons too! So much so, that we have permanent ruts (not unlike those left along the Oregon Trail) from our back door, out into our back yard, leading directly to the dying ash tree, which the squirrels use as transportation hub. The dumbass squirrels hear the back door opening, and you would think they would run at the mere sound of the knob turning...but NO. They wait until the dogs are halfway to them, before they make a run for it. Yes, they ARE taunting my furry kids, and I’ve got news for them...That dead ash tree is coming down, and then you’d better hope you’ve got the wheels you need to reach the fence, bitches...because the dogs will eat you faster than our youngest can stuff an entire Chocolate Fudge Frosted Pop Tart into his mouth.

However, since I TOTALLY hate having to wrestle dead animal carcasses from the dogs ‘drooling with bloodlust’ giant doggy mouths, I always try to ‘pre-scare’ the squirrels. Yeah, that’s right! I just saved your bacon, you furry little rat with...um...FUR! Why don’t you go live 40 feet away in the ravine?! It’s full of friggin’ trees! DAMMIT!

Of course pres-scaring the squirrels works about as well as the time, I flicked on the outside light in the middle of the night and found three raccoons drinking from our cesspool of a pond. As Wilson needed to go outside, and they made no move to vamoose when I turned on the light, I stepped out onto the back step and clapped my hands loudly and yelled at them to run along. They of course, stopped drinking long enough to look up, flip me off, and then proceeded to do the backstroke in the pond, while spitting water at me and noshing on the mosquito killer donuts Mr. Fantastic keeps on hand. So I picked up a big chunk of wood from the landscape mulch and hit the ringleader upside the head (I used to pitch)...convincing them to move along.

Now I love nature as much as the next person...as long as it doesn’t piss me off. SO this is your warning you furry little beasts...you are walking on thin ice, and need to relocate pronto, or I will fill the canister for the paintball gun, and make you all look like technicolor targets, so your predators can easily spot their next meal. Consider yourselves warned...

Martha Stewart Doesn't Live Here Anymore...

2010-06-02T07:17:00.000-07:00

I am officially a mess. (NO...I’m not talking about the copious amounts of Pony-Puppy hair that have been blasted to every corner of our charming domicile. Although that IS driving me crazy at the moment, so I suppose I SHOULD be vacuuming as opposed to blogging at the moment...which is precisely wherein the problem lies.

First off, I should point out I am a complete control freak, which many people will attest to. For instance, when we lived in California, I would regularly scrub our entire tiled bathroom and kitchen and laundry room to within an inch of their lives with a friggin’ TOOTHBRUSH! Um, yeah...I also had developed my gifts as an obsessive-compulsive ‘a place for everything, and everything in its place chick.’ (I know Laura...you are wondering what the HELL happened?) Here’s a sample conversation from one of the rockin’ parties we would throw when we lived in sunny/foggy/rainy Norcal...

Me: JFC! Do your friends have to touch everything?!

Mr. Fantastic: Um, what???

Me: Why do they have to pick everything up and look at it, and then insist on plopping it down willy-nilly in some other random location in the house?!

Mr. F: Um, I’m sure I don’t know.

Me: Seriously, I just found this copy of Best Loved Poems (which happened to be in a drawer in the guest room, I would like to point out) lying on the end of the tub, next to the toilet.

Mr. F: Well, at least they are into literature...THAT should make you happy. (He grins)

Me: Knowing some of your friends, they were probably out of toilet paper.

Mr. F: Well, that is totally uncalled for!

Me: Really??? Since your buddy, Gary, felt the need to hunt me down to tell me there was a rug in front of the toilet and it might get peed on, I think I am DEFINITELY in the ballpark.

Mr. F: Sighs...rolls his eyes and walks away to get another drink.

Making a continuous sweep of the living room, I rapidly snatch up glasses that have been left unattended, and, may I point out, have not taken advantage of the lovely array of coasters I made available! To myself I comment, “These people are Barbarians! Do they have no idea that extended periods of beer can sweat and Bartles and James dribbles are a bad combination when mixed with antique furniture?!” I must say that we didn’t have antique furniture because we were collectors at the time, I inherited it, and since we were just starting out on our voyage of marital bliss, we were flat-ass (something else I inherited) broke. Seriously, I clearly remember considering it a HUGE success when we had $12 left over to get us by until the next pay day after paying the bills and buying groceries. Of course, now that we have kids, a mortgage, a retail shop and ginormous furry eating and pooping machines (NO...not Mr. Fantastic), I consider it a success when we have food and electricity.

Fast forward to this past holiday weekend...Mr. Fantastic was rolling his eyes at the stuff laying on the counter, and the backpacks, gym bags, lunch boxes and miscellaneous CRAP that has infiltrated the dining room table. (If it’s full of crap, we can’t eat, therefore, I don’t have to cook. That’s my dastardly plan anyway.) He whirls around and faces me and says, “What the hell happened here?! You used to be Martha frickin’ Stewart???” “Well Sweetie, LIFE happened...and anytime you want to get that gigantic tote of SHIT off of the table that you brought home when you cleaned out your old work locker, I’ll make sure the rest of it disappears too.” ASSHAT!

THAT is what I get for being in control...I also take responsibility for EVERYTHING else. By Saturday, things will be pristine. Well okay, as pristine as they will ever get with this crew...which considering the dogs have made boom boom in the house off and on all morning, I'm sure it's not nearly as pristine as say, YOUR house. GOD! Why do I even try?! What’s the use??? OK, get a grip! School will be over, and the boys’ stacks o’school stuff will magically disappear, and I will be able to clean properly.

OK...all I have to do between now and then is breathe...Pfffft, cough...hack... I’m okay, it’s just a hairball.

Sex, Popcorn and Men in Bikinis...How Can You Resist?

2010-05-31T16:35:00.000-07:00

OK, so a Rabbi, a witch and librarian walked into a bar...Just kidding, it was just me and a couple of friends who went to the movie Friday night...Margaritas were after. YUM! We decided to head out of town to see Sex and the City 2 to kick off the holiday weekend.

After much eye-rolling on Mr. Fantastic’s part, we were headed off to see the Wizard...who lives in an enormous closet of fancy shoes. There was also much discussion pre-departure with Mr. F...It went something like this.

Him: What’s the movie?

Me: SATC part deux...

Him: Eye rolling and heavy sighing.

Me: What?!

Him: I don’t know why you would want to go see that crap...I mean really, you are a SMART girl.

Me: Gee, thanks Honey...but I’m still going.

Him: Oh, I never doubted that you would...I’m just saying I don’t get WHY you would.

Me: Um, because it’s a fun night out with the girls???

Him: Uh-huh...

Me: Oh, and Chris Noth and John Corbett are in it, and they are HOT!

Him: More eye-rolling.

Me: Oh puhleeze, like you don’t watch movies with hot chicks in them?

Him: Not something TOTALLY unrealistic like Sluts in the City (He’s SO witty, isn’t he?)

Me: Rolling my eyes back him...No, just something with space women in neoprene suits running in slow motion.

Him: Well, I...uh...it’s better than that crap you watch! (Can you hear the ‘So there!?)

Me: Um, okay. See you later. Love you!

We have a happy chat on the way to the theater, which I was surprised (and pleased) to find wasn’t very busy. I mean really, I hate it when you are packed into the theater like sardines, and people are repeatedly kicking your seat and spilling their drinks and Jujyfruits down your back. BTW...who the HELL actually eats those things anyway?! It’s like eating congealed rubber bands. NO thanks! Of course we got popcorn, which I would normally douse liberally with popcorn salt, but since the librarian and I shared a bucket o’megacorn and I can’t stand the butter she likes, I was nice, and opted not to salt the popcorn (while she was looking.)

We settled into our seats which were VERY um...recliney and rocky. So much so, that at first I thought my fatass had broken the row of seats loose from the floor, and we were going to tip over backwards. However, I apparently haven’t achieved that wide load status just yet. (Seriously need to hit the gym...I am a mess.) A preview of Eclipse came up on the screen...man I LOVE a ten foot tall Edward Cullen, and suddenly there was popcorn...EVERYWHERE. It was like watching one of those slow motion scenes, where you know you are on a collision course with something bad, but you just can’t avoid it. Popcorn hung in the air for what seemed like 5 minutes before gravity took hold, and filled my sandals with salty, greasy goodness.

During the final preview the lights began to dim, and....the curtains closed on the screen, and all that existed was sound. Everyone in the theater muttered a collective WTF, except for the Rabbi...then we all whirled around in our seats, craning our necks toward the theater worker who was leaning up in the doorway staring back at all of us like this was what was supposed to fricking happen. Um, haul your keister to the projection booth and make it snappy Sister!

Finally, the curtains re-opened and the movie began...

Like all good movies, there was the prerequisite flash-back scene, complete with big hair (No...not Mr. Big...just Texas big) leg warmers, jean jackets and plenty of attitude. Oh Samantha...saying ‘Bite Me’ just never loses it’s oomph coming from you.

Carrie has everything she wants, Big, a custom sofa (with no clumps of doghair, unlike mine) and the takeout guy has a key to their apartment. Yet...there is something missing. (OK, Mr. Fantastic besides a plot...geez, he NEVER cuts me a break.)

There is a huge wedding scene with the gays AND of course Liza Minelli, which I must say was um, kind of disturbing. I would MUCH rather watch Rob DeFranco fulfill his losing bet to Peter Facinelli, by dancing to Beyonce’s ‘Single Ladies’ in a bikini on Hollywood Boulevard, and I suspect, so would Samantha. Cruise on over to YouTube, and search for 'Peter Facinelli wins bet' if you are so inclined to see how sad my life has become. (I tried to insert a link, but I am apparently incapable of copying HTML code correctly.)

Samantha’s PR prowess earns them all an all expenses-paid trip to Abu Dhabi, which is where my photo homage takes up...

Holy Crap! Even at night this place is hotter than the surface of the sun!, says Charlotte.

“Oh Honey, that’s because you are standing next to me,” Samantha tells her.

“Has anyone seen my hat? You know, the one that looks like the rush Moses basket. I’ll bet lady Gaga has it...DAMMIT!”

“NO! I said YAMS! Not SPAM, you morons! No wonder they need PR over here,” Samantha jabs.

“Gee, there’s something a little odd about this camel...” (That’s because I have boys at my house, so it’s a Parasaurolophus.)

“Hi there Ladies! which one of you is looser than the slots at the Bellagio?” “Um...that would SO be Samantha.”

“HOW much for shoes? Well then, by all means...Shoes for everyone!” (Carrie is SO generous...)

OK...So that’s pretty much it...Not high art, but then again that’s never been why people watched Sex and the City. It’s a fun romp, and if you can manage to get the popcorn from the bucket to your mouth, you will probably enjoy it. Plus, margaritas afterward ALWAYS make for a fun night. I mean really, the day I care what some JACKWAD movie reviewer like Roger friggin’ Ebert says, will be about a million light years AFTER I quit breathing...Ciao Peeps!