Brandy

Why does WordPress require my password when I click on “New Post” and yet not in other cases? Should I be worried someone is going to come on here and write smack about someone? Throw up some images of gang signs? And I’ll do you one better, why does “WordPress” come up as a misspelled word? WTF, Mates?

Hokay, so basically it’s like this: it’s been a non-stop sugar fest today. Birthday cake at 9, cookies at 10, ice cream party (pre-planned) at 12:30. I mean, seriously? It’s a birthday/celebration/let’s eat sugar for the hell of it extravaganza! One of my co-workers started laughing during the silence of us noshing the ice cream. When we asked her what was so funny, she said “I’m seeing my new diabetes specialist today!” heh. That should make for an interesting baseline. Is it any wonder why I’m craving a burger right about now?

THE END. (If you don’t get it, go clicky the link already! Gawrsh.)

Er, a classic Howard Stern reference in the title there. I don’t listen to Stern anymore as difficult economic times called for cutting the ol’ Sirius satellite radio. Sirius was (I s’pose is) a gem, though. If you’re doing major road trips and such, having reliable radio is such a boon. You want Wham!? You got it. You want Hannah Montana? Yep. Martha Stewart? Fantastic! (she says that a lot on her new show, but she works it better than Tom Kitten) You want crude sexual humor? Sure! Sirius, for all your radio-ing needs. Now give me a free lifetime subscription!! Uh, jeeze, sorry, don’t know where that came from. Anywhoo…..

Did I sleep? Why yes I did. Not until 11 though. More storms came through last night - and they were the lingering type. Lots of lighting, lots of thunder and lots of rain. Which is ok, our lawn is getting brown and I’m a cheap bastard who doesn’t like to water. I mean, if we’re gonna spend money we don’t have to beautify something, it’s gonna be me. I can’t have highlights? Then the lawn shall remain brown until I have bits of brown cascading across my cranium. And a pedicure. And a facial. Maybe a haircut for the little guy, though I miss those swoopy curls of his. Le sigh.

Coffee and I are done. After my terrible Monday where my breakfast was a frappuccino, I have sworn it off for a bit. In fact, caffeine as a whole can just go to hell. I didn’t even drink iced tea with lunch today. And that had nothing whatsoever to do with me noticing that there were cherry limeades on the menu. Caffeine and I have a love hate relationship anyway, and right now we’re going through the hate portion. Besides, I think that sunrise at 6 a.m. and sunset and 9 p.m. should keep me awake enough for the next several weeks, eh?

I am sooo sleeeepy…………..zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz…

Okay, it’s not that bad.  Not as bad as yesterday where my fatigue made me feel angry, nauseous and in general malaise.  So last night I resolved to be in bed by 12:00 - midnight.  And I was there by 12:05.  Not sleeping.  12:15…not sleeping.  12:30…joined by hubby and DEFINITELY NOT SLEEPING.  So after 3 consecutive nights of less than 6 hours of sleep, I am looking forward to falling into bed at 9 tonight.  That’s right n-i-n-e.  Sleep, your wayward child awaits.

Friday was DATE NIGHT! We decided to forgo night 4 of operation plumbing repair and see a Big Kid movie. This was actually a postponement from a previously scheduled engagement that was abandoned due to some windy conditions. After it was decided that no one was hungry enough to figure out what to have for dinner and that the parties (Grandmother and grandchild / husband and wife) would figure that shit out on their own, the husband was surfing the net. Upon closer inspection, he was looking AT THIS SITE. This site, which he knows exists, he does not have the URL for, has not discovered, did not know anything more about than its existence. But we read some of the same local blogs and I comment and he saw a comment with my name and oh hell, you get the damn idea. I furiously tried to think of anything that might be terribly offensive, rude, revealing (I misspelled that reaveatling…pretty sweet word, even if it is just a typo). I could think of examples of all three. So a few “Don’t be mad at me!!!”s and some silence later, I hear him chuckling. He almost never laughs at my jokes (keeping me in my place? I’m not funny? no, definitely not that), so I’m not sure how to take this. Turns out he is laughing at our son’s repetition of excoriating phrases. As I implore him to leave to make our movie time, I ask him if he’s mad and he says no but that he has to finish reading my meager posts later. So, does that mean he reserves the right to open a can of whoop ass later? I just don’t know.

On another note, pardon the changing templates, I’m trying to find one that accommodates some things. Once I find one that fits me like a new shell on a growing hermit crab, I’ll commit for a while.

This past weekend I finally finished a process I began over a year ago. Getting a library card. It’s a wonderful, wonderful thing. The little guy and I each got one (he doesn’t pay fines, hooray!) and trekked around leaving with 10 books (6 for him, 4 for me) and signed up for the kid’s summer reading program.

In the early 2000s…twenty-ohs…aughts…however it is we express this, I worked in downtown Seattle. Literally next door to the main branch of the Seattle Public Library. Check out the pictures on the right hand side in that link, pretty cool, eh? Of course, it didn’t look like that when I frequented; it underwent a huge renovation shortly after I departed from my downtown job. I spent a lot of time commuting, had no children, wasn’t taking any college classes and wasn’t yet married (again…although, I s’pose technically I was, as my divorce from the ex wasn’t final til a few months into my downtown tenure). In short, I had time to inhale books and magazines like no other time in my life. I usually spent the morning ferry ride reading Time or Vanity Fair or EW. If I was so inclined, I could usually read these publications cover to cover. Evening ferry rides were usually novel reading time. I read so many different things, I couldn’t begin to remember what exactly I read. My patience for reading titles that might once have been too tedious or boring had greatly matured from younger days. Gabriel Garcia Marquez opened new worlds for me.

Let’s not kid ourselves, though, I still love me some Carl Hiaasen and Jude Deveraux. Maybe they are not Marquez, but they are original (I mean, have you READ Sick Puppy?? It’s fantastic!) and romantic (A Knight In Shining Armor anyone?) and fantastic escape writers. Comparing Hiaasen to Deveraux is like comparing pumpkins to mushrooms. Yeah, they both grow in the ground and are edible, but TOTALLY different experiences. And they’re not both for everyone. But fuck it, I love ‘em both.

So after some consideration, and dropping the summer class I intended to take, I decided to try and read 50 books this summer. Because being married, having a four year old, two dogs, a cat and a baby bird that thinks I’m going to feed it every time I find him grounded in the backyard and actually, come to think of it, is probably now flying well enough not to come back anymore, not to mention the yard that can no longer be ignored lest it turn into a forest and we received even MORE threatening letters from the city about cleaning it up…deep breath after that long (run on and on) sentence…does NOT mean I can’t read like it’s going out of style. Wait, it probably has. I know my goal is ambitious and likely, unattainable, unless I start counting the books I’ve been reading to the little guy, but screw it, here goes nothing. If I can figure out how to, I’ll start a little list of books I’ve read in the side bar. But don’t be surprised when I take a long time forget to do it.

After making a witty remark via instant messenger of choice yesterday, my lovely SIL commented that it’s a shame I don’t blog anymore because I am, as I suspected ALL ALONG, hilarious. Unfortunately, this morning, after staying up until midnight for the second night in row, my humor is short.

What was I staying up for? To play cards with my mother-in-law? Um, no. To watch a great new Netflix movie? Wrong again. Intermittently reading Le Mariage between bouts of assisting my husband insert a drain snake in our 50 year old frankenstein plumbing? Check. Night two of why thy shalt not EVER under ANY CIRCUMSTANCES use the garbage disposal to dispose of potato peels. Add to this the fact that on Sunday, the dear man sliced a nice gash across the top of his trying to use it to dislodge a piece of glass off of the heel of his other foot. I’ll pause and let you figure that one out visually in your head. No, he did not know it was glass. This has resulted in his claim of internal bleeding (the bruise that has colored the toe) as well his toe binding paraphenalia occupying the nice flat space that is the lid to my jewelry box. I thought about protesting this by not wearing my wedding ring, but this would bother me more than him, I suspect.

The final straw that resulted in my hair figuratively being pulled out occurred this morning as I opened my car door. Last night he mentioned he spilled some Roundup in my trunk. I whined petulantly to him “You took MY car to Home Depot? Why!??” (my car being “the nice one”). Immediately, I felt like a spoiled brat and resigned myself not to worry about it. Until this morning, that is, when I opened the door to a whiff of weed killing chemical that was overpowering to say the least. Mamma is not happy. Mamma is afraid these clumsy, ill thought, careless antics indicate that my dear husband is morphing into me. And I’m sorry but, as we all know:

That’s right, there can be only ONE! I am the klutzy, careless one with myself and household objects in this marriage and if he thinks he can angle me out for that title, he is SORELY mistaken.

Your favorite rock stars are dead, sure, but do you ever wonder what they’d be doing if they were still alive?  I’m kinda sure this guy would NOT be doing this.  But, what do I know.  I mean, this song was inspired by this chick.

All the damn tornado watches/warnings (do YOU know the difference? I certainly do now.) whatever, are giving me an ulcer. And my kid one. Last night he said the storms had to go because they were making his tummy hurt. I changed the station to Jon & Kate Plus 8 just to get away from the storm coverage…and despite the lack of animation, I think he was happy with that.

Of course, over the weekend, there was some controversy with the lack of coverage when our one two tornadoes hit the area. It’s mostly amusing to me, in part because the tornado didn’t come near us. Last night’s storms were stuffed to the brim with local coverage and there’s no amusement in that tragedy. The local media can fight it out and the station that took the heat for lack of coverage over the weekend can pat itself on the back for breaking the story about the dead children, but truly, there’s nothing to feel good about there. It does put into perspective our mishap of this morning.

While loading ourselves up to head off to work/daycare, my husband let out a very loud “SON OF A BITCH!” as I was headed back inside to retrieve a forgotten towel for water day at daycare. I ran over (as SOB is not something that comes out of his mouth often) to find A) a shattered passenger window and B) my 4 year old stomping around the car repeating “SON OF A BITCH!”. At first, we thought perhaps it was storm damage, maybe a branch from the pine tree right next to the car had gone through the window? But upon further inspection (that is, LOOKING INSIDE THE CAR) there was no branch, only a misshapen dash indicating some poor fool tried to steal an old after market car stereo from an even older car. Unsuccessfully. Sadly, the LL Bean coat sitting on the passenger’s seat was worth far more than that old radio.

In the aftermath, we’ll pay $150 to get the window fixed and my husband and I will begin to worry about the state of the neighborhood and be more thankful that we have many retirees around to be vigilant and nosy. Not to mention the number of times we’ll be discouraging the use of the phrase “Son of a bitch!” over the next few days…weeks…..months.

With myself.

After selecting a shirt, it is decided a camisole/tank top is necessary so as not to expose the girls too much. Upon opening the tank/camisole drawer, the tank I had in mind is not there. So I pull another of the three brown undershirts and hold each up to my dirt brown pants (and yes, if someone else were wearing them, they’d be described as “shit brown”) and discover that the colors clash. And thus my imagination takes off describing the imaginary conversation of said clashing camisoles with the other garment wherein the originally wanted tank taunts the others from the laundry telling them that they are second class citizens made of inorganic fibers that are gauche beyond imagination. And then second class tanks tell the first choice tank to suck it. I’m pretty sure I’m silently mouthing this conversation. Because it has been pointed out that sometimes my lips move but no sound comes out. And then I realize I was having one of those “in my head conversations”…which didn’t stay entirely in my head.

Thank god I found my guy when I did. I’m not sure anyone else could possibly come close to comprehending (read: tolerating me) at this point.

…and then yesterday? I got a new cover for my phone? And I was all…”it doesn’t fit”. Dang.

And I left it? On the coffee table? And my brills hubby brought it to me while I was studying Chem (which I am TOTALLY getting an A in betches) and he was all “cool cover!” and I was all “but it doesn’t fit?!” and he was all “sure it does” and he, like, showed it to me.

Fuck I can be dense.