I’m going to give a movie review.  Because?  I feel like it.  No, I do not do this professionally (yet) and no one is asking me to do this, I’m just a giver.  What can I say?  I’m going to talk about The Box.  If you have not seen it, and plan to, you should stop reading now as I am going to spoil it for you.  Like, in a big way.  Fair warning.

***Spoilers*** (But really?  I’M saving YOU money).

The movie takes place in 1976  and honestly, it drives me nuts when movies take place in the 70s unless there are disco balls involved and/or white pimp suits.  There were none of those.

Let us (by us, I mean, me and my split personalities) begin:

Okay, the opening scene involves some sort of memo being typed across the giant movie screen, something about a dude named Arlington Steward being burned and he is delivering shit to people.  Not actual shit, but I’m using that as a general term, as I often do.  There’s mention of the Mars project.  Yeah.  I should have known right then and there, that I would be wanting to HANG MYSELF by minute 26 into the movie.

So, there’s this couple, Norma and Arthur Lewis, and early one morning, their doorbell rings and wakes them.  Norma is the one to get up – I’m guessing because Arthur is a big pussy who obviously doesn’t care if his wife gets stabbed in the face by the home invaders, except it’s 1976 and I’m fairly certain there were no stabby home invaders back then.  Plus, this is not that kind of movie, so there was no stabbing (unfortunately).  I personally would have loved TO STAB THE WHOLE MOVIE in it’s STUPID FACE.  Sorry, I digress… Truth be told, home invaders don’t usually ring the doorbell.  Just sayin’.

Norma, the less lame of the two, opens the front door to find a box wrapped in brown paper, sitting on their step.  She sees a black car drive away (don’t ask me what kind of car, I don’t know cars and neither does Norma.  IT WAS BLACK.  That is the extent of my, and Norma’s, car knowledge), and picks up the box and brings it in the house.

By this time, Arthur, the lamesauce husband, has come down the stairs and they stare at the box.  Their son, Walter,  (smartest character in the whole movie) is at the top of the stairs, asking if Santa has come early.  No, Santa is fat and lazy (and only pretends to be jolly), he does not come early, little boy.

The semi-good looking family (boy is super cute) sit at the table (and OMG y’all, the wallpaper is fucking fug.  Right, it’s 1976, sorry, forgot) and stare at the box.  They open it to find a wooden box with a glass dome on the top that houses a button.  Like a big button.  One that you sooo want to press.  But it’s locked.  However, there is a key and a note.  What does the note say?  It says, “THIS MOVIE SUCKS CAMEL DONG AND YOU SHOULD GET YOUR MONEY BACK.”  Er, I mean it says something about a Mr. Steward will come to their home at 5 p.m.  They are all, like, who is Mr. Steward?

Arthur works at NASA as something kinda important (ish) - something to do with optics – and he thinks he’s all a big shot because he helped design the Viking Mars probe camera thingie <— tech term.  Arthur hopes to be like one of those dudes that go into space – right, an astronaut – but he failed his test.  LAME-O.  He didn’t seem like an artard (well, sometimes he did) but it was his psych exam that he was a douche on, so that means NASA thinks he’s NUTS.  Too nuts for space, my friend.  And really, any guy who lets his wife go answer the door at 5 a.m. ish, deserves to fail LIFE.

Norma, who limps (you’ll find out why, I won’t spoil that for you – ’cause I’m all sweet and stuff), heads to her job as a teacher at a shee-shee-foo-foo private school.  Their son Walter attends the school, but sadly the school is doing away with employee discount shit and Norma and Arthur won’t be able to afford the tuition for their boy.  What does that have to do with anything?  NOT A FUCKING THING THAT I CAN TELL.  But Norma shoulda SHANKED A BITCH when the dean told her they were cutting the discounts out.  SHANK HIM.  With your shank.  Can I get a holla to Miss M?  <— private joke, sorry ’bout that – But she be my right-hand shankin’ sister.

The work day is over and Norma gets home, probably to start supper, because we know Arthur is lamesauce material and I’m sure, doesn’t cook.  At 5 p.m. Arlington Steward is at their door, just as the note read, and Norma answers the door, to see that Mr. Steward is all disfigured because he was in a fire (ish) situation (pay attention, I mentioned that up above).  Don’t play with matches, kids.  That was the message I took from it.  Or watch movies titled THE BOX.

Norma, invites the stranger into her home, probably ’cause it’s 1976, and like I said, there were no stabby home invader types back then (and they didn’t ring doorbells and be all pleasant).  The dude wants to know if Norma and/or her whackjob-I-failed-NASA’s-psych-test husband pushed the button?  No, they hadn’t.  And they now have a decision to make – they can press the button and get one million dollars BUT someone, somewhere in the big bad world will die.  Norma gets a look of shock on her face.  Truthfully, I wanted to punch her in the neck, but I had to chant, IT’S JUST A MOVIE, IT’S JUST A MOVIE, IT’S JUST A MOVIE… to calm myself.  Mr. Steward informs Norma that she and Arthur have 24 hours to make a decision.  He hands her a hundred dollar bill just for a lap dance allowing him in their home and she can keep it whether they press the button or not.  Wow, a whole hundred bucks.  Right, though, it’s 1976.  That’s a lot of clams for then.

Arthur arrives home and Norma tells him all about Mr. Steward and the decision they must make.  But they get all curious and shit, and check out the box and Norma gets slap happy and hits the button.  Was it on purpose?  WHO FUCKING CARES.  IT’S SO DUMB.  I mean, yeah, this movie is so worth the $12.50 I PULLED OUT OF MY ASS.  Zombieland was way better.  Much more action happening.  Things being pumped and shit, like guns and stuff.  Again, I digress…

Creepy dude – and not because his face is burned, but just because HE’S CREEPY – comes back and hands them the briefcase with the million dollars and sort of eludes to the fact that the person to die?  Will be one of them.  OMG, I CAN BARELY STAND THE INTENSE DRAMA.  I should have taken medication before watching this.   A LOT OF MEDICATION.  Arthur, still trying to NOT be lamedouchey, tries to give back the dough, but Arlington ignores him and drives off in the car that I have no earthly idea what kind it is and leaves Norma and Arthur sort of shitting their pants.  Oops, we made a mistake.  TOO BAD, FUCKERS.

You find out who dies – well, maybe it’s related and maybe it’s just random shit, because if you like movies with random shit happening, THIS IS THE MOVIE FOR YOU.

This is the part of the movie where I STABBED MYSELF FOR BEING AN ARTARD FOR PAYING TO SEE THIS MOVIE.  There is a wedding rehearsal dinner, presents, a box that looks similar to the one left for Norma and Arthur, police get involved, Norma’s family get involved, a waiter whose nose starts bleeding (yeah, ’cause WE CARE AND THAT’S IMPORTANT IN THE WHOLE SCHEME OF THE FILM), snow, a babysitter named Dana, whose nose also bleeds, whose real name is Sara, who goes into a motel room and sees photos of Norma, Arthur and Walter… need I go on?  You see where this is going, right?  No?  Let me explain… IT TURNS INTO A BIG FUCKING, CONFUSING, SHITTY MESS.  It’s so confusing, you will need a map to find your brain because it STABBED ITSELF IN ALL OF THE CONFUSION.

Arthur falls through the ceiling – along with eleventy-million gallons of water – of their bedroom and that is the point, exactly the point, WHERE I SHOT MYSELF IN THE FACE.  HARD.

There are “gateways,” and other MORE RANDOM SHIT THAT WILL ANNOY THE EVER LIVING FUCK OUT OF YOU and then you will betch slap the FUCKING DUMB out of the person sitting next to you – whether you know them or not, because you need to unleash your anguish at paying money for this donkey shit.

I won’t tell you who kicks the bucket, or who goes temporarily (or not) blind and deaf, because I know you are DYING to see this flick.  Oh, I’m sure there’s a “deep” message somewhere in the movie, something like DON’T MARRY A MAN WHO WOULD MAKE YOU GET UP AT 5 A.M. TO ANSWER THE DOOR BECAUSE HE FAILED HIS NASA PSYCH TEST, or don’t push buttons.  Yes, as deep as that.  Deep like, major deep.  Deep like cow shit.

In closing, if you like your insides turning to ANGRY, and you love spending your money on confusing garbage, then The Box is for you.  Bring a knife (or shanking scissors) and baggies.  You WILL be cutting the people around you.  Just because.

A friend of mine recently became a divorced, single mom.  She’s back in the dating game and is really having a hard time finding, well, a guy who isn’t a total pig.  Sure, she expects some piggish behavior.  I mean, hello?  But come on, have some manners… (no offense to men, I like men, a lot, and no this is not about any men I know either IRL or Online, so don’t panic you’re all cool and nice and polite).  But honestly, when you have absolutely zero redeeming qualities, as some of the whackjobs my friend has dated lately?  God.  Might as well punch yourself in the nutsack and call it a day.  Just sayin’.  And some of the men my friend has described to me?  Oh, dear Lord.

I decided I’d help my friend by making a list of things she can show her prospective dates.  So maybe they can get a clue and have a second date with her or any other person they might be interested in.  Perhaps, even get laid at some point.  Or at the very least not get slapped or punched in the neck.  I told her to print this off and send it to them before their date.  Sure, that might be slightly difficult to do, but hey, its worth a try.

Some basic rules to possibly snag a second date and/or even get laid:

1. Try not to be a douche.  Simple, it really is.  Don’t talk about your ex (or if you’re still married, um, fuck off and why are you on a date?).  Don’t tell your date that you think the waitress is “bangable,” and then proceed to wink (last guy she went on a date with, totally did this).  If you’d like to screw the waitress, do it on your own time, not on our date.  See?  Simple.  But know, if you bang the bangable waitress, there will be no second date with me.  Take note.

2. Pay for some of the shit.  Please.  If you make me take out my wallet every single time, yeah, there will be no second date and sure as hell no sex.  No, and not even a handjob.  Get lost.

3. Picking.  Don’t do it.  If you must retrieve something out of somewhere, leave the room, table, dance floor, what the hell ever, just don’t show me.  Don’t tell me about it either.  Don’t care.

4. If you excuse yourself from our date to use the bathroom, don’t come back and tell me about it.  Yeah, don’t want to hear about it.  At. all.  Don’t care what you did, how big it was, how long it took, if it resembled an old classmate, Don’t care.  See # 3.  DON’T CARE.  And you’d better wash your fucking hands.

5. Avoid scratching your balls.  Sure, all guys apparently do that, but on our first date OR EVER, resist the urge.  A slight discreet adjustment, fine, but all out finger-digging scratching?  Um, yeah, not attractive.  And if you then think that I’ll be laying a finger/hand/face on those balls you’ve been rubbing through your pants all night?  Not frigging likely.  Take care of the major rash/itch on your own time.  Is that asking too much?  Or if you’re scratching/digging because your balls are sweaty?  Yeah, read on to # 6.

6. Come groomed.  Honestly, do you own a mirror?  If you have nose hair longer than your pit hair, trim it.  It’s easy.  There’s even nose hair trimmer thingies!  For realz.  Get one. 

Brush your fangs.  If you’ve been eating garlic and pizza and drinking beer for the past week, yeah, you need to sterilize your cakehole (love the word cakehole by the way).  If I can name what you’ve eaten in the last 48 hours by the smell of your breath, I’ll vomit in your shoes.  That’s a promise.  Not even kidding.

Do not smell like BO.  It’s 2009.  No one should smell like sweat and/or shit.  Seriously.  No excuse for it.

7. Don’t brag about your money (’cause dude, if you’ve made me pay for everything thus far, I’ll know you’re a) a lying sack of shit or b) a douche or 3) a lying sack of douchebaggery-asswipe-ish-ness.  Yeah, don’t care what you make – at least not on our first date.  Total turn off.  Also money related?  Telling me you forgot your wallet… lame.  See # 2.  Yeah, my friend’s recent date pulled this stunt.  And then never paid her back or called her again.  Classy.

8. I don’t want to know how many chicks you’ve bagged or how many names you have in your little black book.  Take that book out and I’ll cut you.  I’ll just assume you’ve been laid before and know that I have and we’re good.  Do not need to compare notes.  Don’t care what you did with Sally, Darla, or Brenda or how Kathy could “take it all.” <–Yeah, that might impress your guy friends, but your current date?  Not so fucking much.  However, on the note of sex, if we’re going to have it, I’d like to know if you anything that I may not want.  Actually, I don’t fucking want it, so fess up.  That shit you need to disclose.  Not on the first date, of course, but also don’t wait until we’re in the “moment” to drop a bombshell.  See # 1.

9. Yeah, burping the alphabet, while does require effort, is not sexy.  If we were 10, maybe it would be fun and/or funny.  However, if we’re over 12, then it’s not.  And I’m pretty sure we are over 12.  And saying things like, “You’d better stand 10 feet from me, wheeeeewwwww weeeeeeeee, those nachos are doing a number on me,” is not going to make me want to jump your bones later.  Keep that shit (uh, no pun) to yourself.  Which brings me to # 1o.

10. I don’t care about your bodily functions.  At all.  Not even a little bit.  I don’t care to know what you do in the bathroom… yes, I have an idea, but I prefer to keep that stuff “fuzzily” in my brain.  Please never discuss any of it with me.  Not on our first date, second or 10 years into the marriage.  I will never care about what you do once you close the bathroom door.  See # 3, 4, and 9. 

My friend’s date with “Tom” sort of went to the bathroom talk, as in, “Tom” telling her about his explosive diarrhea that he experienced the day before and how his “bottom” (Yes, because saying “bottom” instead of “ass” makes it less disgusting) was still “raw.”  Needless to say she didn’t sleep with him and she was going to up until that point because she thought he was hot and she hadn’t had it in a while.  So, to “Tom,” dude, you could have gotten laid had you not disclosed the information about your shitty, raw ass.  *sad face*

Honestly, it’s easy to get a girl to go out with you a second time.  Know what the secret is?  Bring out your feminine side… act like a guy but with some sensitivity (I know, what fantasy world am I living in?).  Or, hell, just don’t burp, fart, tell me about the dump you took, or pick your nose, and we’ll be good to go.

Hope this helps, “T” honey.  I love ya, but I’m glad it’s not me in the dating pool.

And other lies I might tell you.  (The whole I got a boob job got you here, didn’t it?… Might as well pull up a chair and read the rest… providing you’re bored to tears and don’t have a life on Saturday night).  And, now, technically, it’s Sunday.  Oh.My.God.  I might finish this post by Monday.  Maybe.

I didn’t really get a boob job, but I’m not ruling it out.  Just so you know.  I have a very strong desire to tell you random crap that I’m thinking and/or feeling and since I believe in following strong desires, I’m just gonna do it.  If I bore you, you’re obviously reading this wrong and really, that’s not my problem.  Get help.  That’s all I’m sayin’.

So, random stuff:

I bought this new necklace last night and it’s gorgeous.  I wore it today yesterday two days ago and it’s all shiny and sparkly and all kinds of awesomeness, except, now that it’s almost midnight, I’d like to remove it from around my neck.  Only one problem: I can’t get the sucker off.  The clasp is nailed shut apparently.  Not opening.  I guess I’ll just have to look fabulous in bed. (Yeah, PS. It’s not almost midnight, because um, I’m lame-o and started this on Thursday night and it’s now Saturday evening .  It’s now Sunday.  And me?  I suck).

TGIF.  It’s now 12:01 as I type this and could be 2:05 p.m. before I finish it.  Just depends on what the hell my brain will allow. (And um, PS again… it’s not Friday, it’s Saturday as I’ve already mentioned.  And?  I suck, again). <—Nope, not Saturday now either, it’s Sunday, at nearly 3 a.m. Scratch that.  It’s now Sunday at 5 pm.  Holy fuck.  Monday is looking good right about now.

Pictured: My daughter and her best friend (not the birthday girl), who is the daughter of one of my best friends.

Went to a roller rink today for my girlfriend’s daughter’s party and the kids all looked so cute skating around, disco lights flashing and music booming.  Did I skate?  Um no.  That would have been horrifying.  Not for me, but for the people watching.  I could not do that to another human being.  People were laughing, having fun, being joyous  and seeing me on roller skates?  Would have definitely ruined the happy atmosphere.  I was not going to be responsible for that pain.  OK, sure, I may have looked cute, but as far as performance?  That shit would have been awful.

If I had a brownie right now, I’d lick it and then eat it.  Some dude on Twitter (won’t mention any names) was – I won’t say torturing me (but he totally was) – teasing me STRONGLY with his, Oh I have brownies with fudge and they’re so good, blah blah blah.  Is that not cruel?  Sure, I could make brownies (even though I suck in the kitchen… correction: suck at cooking in the kitchen) and hell, I could even buy them but that’s not the point.  What is my point?  Oh, yeah, I want someone to MAKE them for me.  Or buy them for me.  Whatever works.  Sad fact is, I have no brownies.  And I want one.  Or eight.

I might watch a movie tonight.  Not sure what movie, yet, but I’m in the mood to watch something scary and be, um, scared.  I like being scared – to a point.  You throw spiders at me, and I’ll be so scared, I’ll drop dead.  I don’t mean that much scariness, just some.  Like sitting on the edge of your seat kind of scary.  Nail-biting scary (I don’t bite my nails though).  That’s the kind of scary I want.  I also want to fall asleep listening to Pink.  I’m so bloody tired, and I love Pink’s voice, and can’t think of a better way to drift off.  Well, sure, there are probably a few better ways to fall asleep, but right now?  That one sounds like heaven.  Since this is also an update post because I sucked at getting this finished in a timely manner (because yeah, it’s riveting), I didn’t watch a movie BUT I did fall asleep last night listening to Pink.  Had some good dreams.

It’s windy here.  And that’s all I have to say about that.  And since it’s now Sunday at suppertime, it’s not windy.  Why didn’t I just scrap this post all together?  Because that would mean starting over.  And?  I’m much too lazy and tired for that shit.

I gambled for the first time last weekend.  Went to Yuk Yuks comedy club (the three comedians were so flippin’ funny, which is a plus seeing as they’re comedians and people paid good money to see them, be funny), which is upstairs from the casino and we had an hour to kill before the show, decided to play the slot machines.  We each took a $20 bill which gives you 80 credits.  Well, after 25 minutes or so of pushing a button (MY GOD, SERIOUSLY, HOW CAN PEOPLE SIT THERE FOR HOURS AND PLAY THOSE THINGS?) and winning 10 credits here and there, I was getting down to my last 30, so went big and bet 3 credits at a time.  Well, things were getting down to the wire, and with the next push of that button, I won two hundred credits which was equal to $55.25.  Not quite the jackpot but hey, it was more than I had come with.  I’m a winner!  Winner!

I went shopping today and made a few purchases.  Bought some shirts, which I might model for you later, depending on my mood and if I’m still wanting to wear clothes.  I might be walking around nudish.  Sure, my kids hate that shit, but so what.  It’s my house and I”ll do what I want.  Gah. I’m such a rebel.  Hey, if Lady Gaga – or as I like to call her Stefani Joanne Angelina Germanotta (’cause we be tight) - can walk around pantless, I can walk around topless.

OK, listen, I’ve bored you long enough.  If you stayed to read this far, you are either really desperate for something to read, just released from a mental institution and don’t know any better, high and/or drunk or love me enough to put up with this shit.  Whatever the case, thank you:

I’m not sure, but I think today is the day the world blows up.  I mean it is September 9, 2009 – 09/09/09.  That is some scary shit.  Or maybe it’s the medication I took?  I’m not entirely sure.  Oh, and? this shit will be rambling.

I’ve been sick for the past few days, I guess it’s the flu? combined with I’ve BEEN HIT BY A TRUCK feeling.  It’s all kinds of awesomesauce <— to quote a friend.  I’ll be better tomorrow, I swear.  If I have to beat the fucker silly, this flu is leaving tomorrow.  Again, I’m all tough and shit probably because of the medication.  I’m likely not able to fight my way out of a brown paper bag if truth be told.  Also?  I just realized I have written “shit” way too many times and I’m not done rambling.  This is da shit.  Sorry, could.not. help myself.

Yesterday, my grown (boys in men’s bodies, let us remember that) sons were both here (one has moved back in, I swear I will think only good thoughts) and within a five minute conversation, they called me cool and retarded.  I think that was mostly good.  They do annoy the ever-living shit out of me crack me up when they’re together, here, talking, especially when I’m trying to work.  Good times.

So far, this 09/09/09 day is not that exciting (take for instance, this post…you’ve fallen asleep).  It’s just before 7 a.m. and nothing has blown up yet.  Don’t believe all the hype, people.  Just do not.  Or maybe 09/09/09 means unicorns will fly out of my butt?  Now there’s something…

I have to go to the bank today, you know, before the world blows up.  I hope I get the teller that likes to look at my cleavage.  He’s fantastic, the way he thinks my eyes are on my tits.  Silly man.  Sure, I usually wear my bikini top, but that is no excuse.

I might be productive today, or I may not.  I mean it’s practically a vacation day, what with the I’M FAIRLY CERTAIN I’M DYING feeling and it being 09/09/09.  Permissions granted, etc.

I had a dream about Adam Lambert last night.  It was good.  He was here, helping me set up the 60 inch flat screen TV he purchased for me and then he sang for me.  In my living room.  It was a nice dream and I hated to wake up considering I had only been asleep for 2 hours at that point.  Oh well, such is my sleeping pattern.  I’m the two-to-four hours kinda girl.

Did I tell you that my daughter is a teenager?  And an annoying one to boot? Sure, she’s just 9, but she acts like she’s 15.  She wanted to use my credit card yesterday to sign up for some site that you can buy clothes and thought *I* was being unreasonable for not allowing her to go into my purse, take out my wallet, slip my credit card out of it’s little slot and enter all of my information into said website and just purchase a few items.  Right.  Let me get on that, like now, princess.  Has hell frozen over?  No?  OK, good, because I was all worried and shit.

Wow, it’s still 09/09/09 and yet the only thing exciting to happen so far is my youngest son said I need to learn to understand English because clearly I don’t since I didn’t wash the shirt he had asked me to wash yesterday.  Apparently, he could be right.

To my MM vacation girls – I SWEAR I WILL FINISH MY POST ABOUT OUR VACATION BEFORE 2009 IS OVER.  Holy hell, it’s long and youtube (THANK YOU) has been taking 2+ hours to upload EACH video and when I was uploading six videos the other night, yeah, my browser crashed and only one uploaded.  UGH.  Gee, the vacation only ended about 3 1/2 weeks ago.  Yes Sassy, you suck.  I know.  I do.  I will get it done.  Hopefully, it doesn’t bore the (I was going to say shit, but I will use self control) crap (<—that is technically not “shit”) out of you.  I will apologize in advance.  Although, one thing is for certain… Kev on the stripper pole?  Hot.  I mean, he’s so gross.

OK, must cut this, uh, stuff (self control accomplished!) short because no doubt you’re drooling on your keyboard since you’ve died in your sleep because this has been beyond boring.  Hey, it’s 09/09/09, so later, the world is exploding and you will get that excitement you thought you were going to get here but didn’t.  See?  All works out in the end.

I aim high.

My son Matt loves IM’ing and texting me just for the hell of it.  Why?  Because he’s clearly bored out of his freaking tree I rock.  Duh.  Can’t believe you had to even ask.  Anyway, so, I get this text message:

Aw, he’s wanting to know what he should do about his “situation,” and still, at 21-years-of-age, needs some motherly advice.  I’m more than willing to give it:

I offered three choices, which clearly, were quite brilliant as I pushed my shopping cart full of toothpaste.  He was so thankful at my suggestions, and he said so:

Hmm.  I was sure there was a big ol’ THANK YOU, YOUR ADVICE ROCKS, LIKE YOU, in that text message but maybe that part got erased when I took the screenshot?  Yeah.  Totally what happened.

Anyway, you’re very welcome Matt, anytime.  Tell all your friends to text me, too, because obviously I give awesome pee advice (but honestly, I am versatile).

Did I say I turned forty-two? I meant twenty-seven because I lied last year and said I was 26 twenty-seven comes after 26. So, yeah, right.

Some of my family forgot it was my “special” day yesterday. Yes, I said “special,” because clearly it is if they forgot to say HAPPY BIRTHDAY. That’s just how “special” it was. Especially SPECIAL.

To the person who sent me a gift, woot!, thank you, LOVE getting mail that doesn’t require me to drain my bank account or my “services” will be shut off.

To the people who called me, thank you… means more than a present (but, uh, if you WANT to send me sompin’, yeah, DO IT).

To the handful of people who wished me HAPPY BIRTHDAY on Facebook, I do thank you – luckily, I get the messages in my email or I would not have seen them. I don’t do Facebook – much. Maybe once every few months I’ll get the gumption to sign-in, but other than that, I honestly don’t use it anymore. To those of you who are waiting for me to “friend” you, I will, the next time I sign-in. Like next Christmas or something. And to two of the Facebook birthday-well-wishers, I will SEE you in TWO WEEKS. Woot!

To the e-card birthday-well-wishers, spanx muchly (yes, totally real words, with real meaning, y’all).

To the email birthday well-wishers, thanks but I’m not sure I believe you when you said you TRIED to “attach” cash in the email, but it just wouldn’t work. Hotmail and Gmail were “not working properly” you said. Uh huh.

To the person who said they loved me so much (and will love me MORE once I make my first million), thank you for letting me know you are shopping at HOOKERS ACCESSORIES AND MORE for me. I bet it’ll be something special. And probably glittery!

So,you’re asking yourself, what has this clearly insane chick learned in forty-two, oops, twenty-seven years? Let me put you out of your misery.

1. When your daughter tells you, “Mommy, you don’t even look forty-two, you totally look, um, like you’re twenty-four (she’s really pushing it) and when my brothers tell you that you’re ‘old’ I give them dirty looks, just so you know mom,” what she really means is, “I’m totally sucking up bitches so I can get my own cell phone at the age of nine!”

2. When a 20-something dude calls you ma’am, he means it.

3. When you hear yourself say, “Oh, so-and-so and I have been friends for twenty-five years,” you want to bite your tongue off.

4. You probably shouldn’t wear the “JLo” glitter lotion you own, but fuck it, I’m going to anyway. See? At *cough* 42, you don’t care.

5. When your growns sons (see # 1) call you old, they absolutely mean it.

6. You’re at an age where you will most likely attend more funerals than weddings. Sad, but true.

7. It’s possible to become a grandparent (providing you have children), but don’t call me grandma.

8. It sucks when your doctor is way younger than you.

9. It scares the shit out of you to know you have been watching a particular soap opera for twenty-seven years. I mean, I don’t watch any soap operas. Like srsly, EVER.

10. You realize you haven’t learned as much as you thought.

Happy Birthday to anyone who is having a birthday this year. Ha.

So, my son Matt and I are on messenger yesterday morning, and our already stimulating conversation turns to us ‘talking’ with a twangy Britney Spears accent (because, duh, you can hear it just by looking at the typed words) and making fun of the concert incident, in which Spears told her audience inadvertently (she thought her mic was turned off) that her ‘pussa was hangin’ out,’ and that sounds like something I made up, but it’s not. That is Spears’ gold, I tell ya. Oh, and the other incident where she had a very visible string hanging from her nether regions, which honestly, doesn’t surprise me all that much coming from Britney, but doesn’t she have people to check for that sort of thing? She does have people, right? Right.

Anyway, as we are both mocking what Britney said, and of course adding a few extra words in just for fun, Matt stops talking to me. I’m like where did he go? Then my convo box reveals that Matt is typing but holy hell, he’s writing a novel because nothing is popping up on his end of the conversation except I still see Matt is typing. What is he writing about? Then it became quite apparent. He had not been typing, he had been drawing. Yes, on MSN messenger you have a little pencil icon and it lets you freehand with the mouse. Um, well, after we were mocking Brit Brit’s “Oh ma gawd, ma pussa’s hangin’ out y’all,” he comes up with this:

I, of course, was appropriately laughing my ass off grossed out, shocked so proud of at my son’s ability to be artsy disgusting and as you can see, I let him know by typing ‘um, ewww!!!!,’ that secretly I was dying inside of laughter he went over the line.

So, as you can see, Matt and I have very intellectual conversations on messenger.

Happy Friday, y’all!

I’m asking for a particular reason – see, I have to do just that. I have this really pretty heart-shaped silver ring with a tiny diamond in the center of the heart and I took it off the other day and was going to put it in the adorable jewelry box my best friend gave me, but no, I was lazy and just set it inside the cabinet over the island in the kitchen, which wouldn’t be a big deal. That cabinet doesn’t get opened often, so really, it could have sat there for days – weeks even – without incident. However, my husband wanted me to make a call for him today, and I needed a piece of paper and a pen to write some numbers down, and where is the paper and pens? Yep, in that cabinet, which I opened the door, and when I reached for the notepad, I set off a paper avalanche, and that in turn knocked the ring off the shelf in the cabinet, and it bounced onto the island and plop, into the open garbage bag that doesn’t normally sit on the floor by the island but I was cleaning out my fridge and pantry and disposing of items no longer safe for human consumption, that really, could probably pass for science experiments.

That sure was a long, rambling sentence, for which I do apologize but I didn’t want to lose my momentum. Plus, I’m stalling. The garbage bag full of gross garbage (not that there is garbage that isn’t gross) is smelling up my house and my ring is sitting in there somewhere – I’m guessing at the very bottom of the bag – and I know if I want my pretty ring back, I must dig through that bag, but I’m nauseous just thinking about it. One plus though – I do have a wicked-ass cold, so my sense of smell is not quite a hundred percent, which will work in my favor. However, my cold has not affected my eyesight, so I’ll see the grossness, which in turn will probably make me puke.

Wish me luck – I’m goin’ in.

*Edit* I found it – less than five minutes of garbage picking. *Insert gagging noise here*

I’ve talked about having a strong tongue before, so probably no need to revisit that whole un-freaking-comfortable situation with my dentist but in case you missed it and are dying to know what happened, this is how the whole scenerio went down:

“I had an appointment with a new dentist, so I had a thorough check up and they did some xrays and afterwards, my dentist went over the xrays with me. As he’s showing me the different pictures of the inside of my mouth (which were super hot by the way because it could have been the inside of an octopus because no regular person can make heads nor tails out of them anyway) and he points to a particular xray and says, “see that?” Sure I saw it but I had no idea what I was looking at. He told me it was my tongue, which, and I quote, “I had to fight with that thing the whole time I was in your mouth. You have a very strong tongue”. Ummm awkward. What does one say to that? Gee thanks doc, I work that baby out like there’s no tomorrow. I mean who doesn’t want a strong tongue? It’s come in handy for me since I’m typing these days with it because MY ARMS FELL OFF. See how life works out?”

Ya, awkward. I’m not sure why I brought it up, but I’ve not been able to forget about it, so I’m sharing it again. Can never have too many tongue stories stored in your memory bank.

Anyway, this is going to be random and semi-boring with a splash of excitement thrown in, so if you have 2 1/2 minutes to waste, might as read on.

My poor daughter was sick for almost a week – it started last Friday night. And when I say sick, I mean sick. Who knew a tiny little thing could produce that much vomit? Um, ya. We need not go any further on that subject. You get the picture.

On a happy note, it’s warmed up here – apparently we (Alberta) have sent the cold air to parts of the USA, which they are referring to as the “Alberta Clipper,” and for that, I’m so sorry. We had those ball-freezing temperatures back in December, and I’m pretty sure that mother-effing deep freeze was compliments of our sister country, so it was only kind of us to return the favor. Besides, I honestly have no control over the weather. I know! Shocking! Spring is just around the corner – chant that until you start to get feeling back in your toes again. That’s what I did.

Guess what? It’s 12:44 a.m. and my 2 youngest kids are still up. Why? Because they’ve inherited their mother’s ‘night-owl’ personality and the ability to function on minimal sleep. I’m not sure whether I should be mortified or proud. Perhaps a bit of both. I will, however, be putting them to bed shortly.

Speaking of beds – I bought a new one! It’s our first official new bed. I’m not kidding you. My husband and I have been together nearly 21 years and when we first starting dating and decided shortly afterwards to live together (yes, in sin!), we needed a bed. So we bought a waterbed. You’re thinking, well, how could your new bed be your first bed if you bought a waterbed back in 1988? I’ll tell you – waterbeds are not beds. They are big blobs of rubber filled with water, that over time will give you a bad back (and spring leaks that will ruin your flooring!) and aches and pains years down the road that you never thought you’d experience. That’s why my new bed is my official bed. ‘Nuff said.

Anyway, bought a king-size bed and let me tell you, going from a horrible, lumpy, shitty queen to a deluxe king – heavenly. My back has thanked me for 2 days now. I’m fairly short (5′ 2″) and my sons laughed when the the bed was all set up – they had helped my husband get it ready and when they were done, they called me back to the room – and burst out laughing when I walked into the room. The bed is so damn high, I’m short and put the two together – well, they asked me if I wanted a stepping stool? Or should they go out to the garage and get one of the ladders? Smart ass bunch of brats I’m raising. Technically, I probably could have used the stepping stool but that is besides the damn point.

Here’s a photo:

You’ll notice I’ve painted my walls brown (or not, since you had no bloody idea what color they were before..however, look closely and you’ll see the painting isn’t done yet…) and we have no headboard yet (couldn’t find one we liked but hubby has promised to build me one…excuse me while I DIE LAUGHING. Not because he’s not capable…he’s a very experienced woodworker – it’s just that the man is so damn busy, that I’ll be old and/or dead before he gets around to it) and my nightstand is dwarfed by the size and height of the bed, so it looks absolutely retarded, thus making it impossible for me to keep it – just means I’ll have to buy a new one (it’s ugly anyway). Everyone has said, if you can spend money on a good mattress, do it – your body will thank you, and so far, that’s so true. And we were lucky – we got ours for 50% off. I so love a good deal.

One more thing before I go put my chillin’s to bed – have you ever had a call from a telemarketer that asks you to hold while they get around to talking to you? It’s bad enough that they call my home, but when I answer my phone with ‘hello?’ and I hear ‘can you hold for a very important message?’ um, ya, I’m not holding – YOU called ME. Remember? If you’re going to harrass me, at least have the decency to have a real person on the other end of the phone when I say HELLO………..*CLICK*.

Good night wonderful people.

PS…Go read my post about the trampy Kate Hudson. It’ll take you 30 seconds tops. Plus she’s sorta naked, so it’s worth it right? Right. Spankz.

Matt: OMG is that another one?

Me: Yes.

Matt: You have a problem. You’re addicted.

Me: I think I am.

Matt: You should stop. Get some help.

Me: I probably can’t stop.

Matt: Maybe medication would help.

Me: Maybe. Maybe not. Plus, I’m not sure I can stop. I’m not sure I want to stop.

Matt: Sick.

Me: Ya.

Watch the video below and decide for yourself if I have a problem. Maybe some sort of support group? I dunno.