It’s me. The end.

You hate me.  I know you do.

I have a geniune, legitimate reason for being astray.  It’s called ”new job.”  And there be an I.T. department in it.  Who is probably wayyyy worse than a Net Nanny.

So it’s strictly business from here on out.  No browsing the MedHelp site to make sure I’m not dying of a mysterious stomach cramp ailment. No more celebrity gossip.  And sadly, no more storytelling on the blog.  They will catch me doing it and they will no likeee.  And swiftly rebel in a we-ain’t-paying-you-for-that-kind-of-shiznit sort of way.  Me – no job = McDonald’s kids meals for date night for the rest of my life.

Oh, but I guess I didn’t tell you!  I’m not working at the hospital no more.  I was there for about two seconds, then the casino I had interviewed at before gave me a call.  I am now a Buyer and Financial Admin.  Which means I get to purchase all the office supplies I want and they will pay for everything.  Weeee!  But on the flip side, the Admin part means people think I am their own damn sekaterry and want me to create spreadsheets for no dadgum reason.

Being the new girl is a hard job, lemme tell you.  Especially because as soon as I get there, my co-worker gets the maintenance man to install the door buzzer on my side of the cubicle.  That means everytime someone wants in, I have to push the button.  The installer guy asks me where I want the buzzer, and I kind of look at him like he don’t know me very well.  And say, Uhhhh, right by my hand, thanks.  Cuz there be no exercising of any kind at this job either.

However, I am really liking the work.  It’s fun to be busy, and the free lunches are a pretty sweet deal.  Except for the pink hamburgers today.  I’d rather pay for something deep-fried with gravy instead.  At least then I wouldn’t get the cooties.

And mom is working there too.  Which means I am now forced to take a 3 o’clock cookie break cuz she can’t stand all day without some sweets.  Or maybe that is me.  Well. Either way.

So I’m hoping I will be able to update again soon.  I’ll try to anyway.  In the meantime, feel free to send me lots of love and comments.

And p.s.:  My new baby nephew will be born next Friday!  I so excite!!  I think he will be called Liam.  Or Shooter.  Depends on if my brother gets his way.  (Let’s hope not.)

Take care, ya’ll.

Today, for once, I have a break.  I can blog like the good Lord intended.

So here’s what’s been going on:

I quit my job.  I’m still here through the end of this week, but starting Monday I will be working as an account rep for a hospital.  That means I get to talk to insurance companies for hours on the phone.  Which is really the same as talking to airlines.  They are both irritating as hell.

Now if I can re-train myself to call passengers “patients” instead, we are all good.

The bad part about all this is having to switch Autumn to a different school.  She no likeee that one bit.  Cuz according to her, her and her new boyfriend are getting married, as all 14-year-olds are wont to do.

But not only that, her new school is 4 times as big as her current one.  That means no one will know she’s there and she will eat lunch in a bathroom stall or something.  I mean, that’s what I’d do.  Screw making new friends … let them come to me.

On the upside, I will no longer have to clean sweat off tanning beds or take out trash that people peed in.  Yay!  That makes me so very very happy.  Let someone else handle moist money that comes out of mysterious pockets hopefully not in the front of pants.

In other exciting news, nephew Bristol now says Di Di, which means ME in baby language.  Of course, when he says it he points to himself, but that’s probably just his way of saying how much HE loves his Di Di.  And I’ve yet to hear him say Auntie Kate or anything similar, so that’s what she gets for running off to college and being smart.  Score!  I just knew there was a good reason for me to go to junior college and get a degree in Secretary.

Speaking of Bristol, I have babysat him on my own for two Sundays now, and lemme just say this:  I forgot how to be a mommy.  Cuz I’m pretty sure mommies don’t take 1-year-olds into a mall holding blankies, purses, diaper bags and umbrellas with no freaking stroller.  I swear, just try paying for a Happy Meal while your child is running off behind you to explore a room full of strangers.  Not.  Very.  Cool.

So you better believe it when I paid six bucks to rent a car-shaped buggy for about an hour.  If I wasn’t such an honest person, I would have just ran out to the parking lot with that dang thing.  We’s fell in love, yo.

However awesome the stroller idea was, though, I can’t say I did so hot in the kiddie arcade.  Turns out, trying to stick a baby in a carnie ride with Bozo the Clown, then said baby kicks Bozo in the face and kind of screams a li’l bit … well, let’s just say, please don’t blame me for any future emotional scars.

And last news of the day, my baby sister turned 19 this past Thursday, and we all had a nice family party at … I’m guessing now, the place du jour … The Cracker Barrel.  Katy was not so keen because you can’t get strip-o-grams at the Cracker Barrel.  Although their chicken ‘n dumplings are to die for.

Times up for today.  I have to do some training with my replacement.  Unfortunately I’m not very good, as I’ve been blogging and surfing the internet for about 5 hours now.  And she’s undoubtedly sitting at her desk staring at a wall or something.

More tomorrow, hopefully.

And it sure ain’t me!

Just wanted to give a quick Happy Birthday to my main squeeze, the love of my life, my best friend forever … BRAD.

He’s 31 today, and that means he really and truly is in his 30s now.  Not that he wasn’t before, but that’s the logic I used when I turned 30.  And who wants to argue with that?

(No One.)

So in celebration of the big day, Brad and I are going to go get free money at the casinos.  Because I’m almost certain that after all the losses we’ve incurred since the $900 win awhile back, we are due for a big sweeps.  And a 42 inch flat screen TV.

I did take him out to dinner last night, though.  And seeing that on my birthday we went to the fancy Shebang restaurant out on the lake, I thought it only appropriate to reciprocate the gesture.  Yes, that’s right …

We went to the Cracker Barrel.

Whaaaa… ??

The Shebang don’t serve no country ham and okra.  That’s not my fault.

Anyway.

He also got a free movie and family-size pack of Reese’s Cups all for himself.  So who loves who best, now, yo?  I’m sure you can feel my gloating all the way across cyberspace.  It’s that big.

So, in summary, Brad — have a wonderfully happy birthday filled with all the chocolate, fried okra, and wheel-detailing gift cards you can manage.  And as soon as we win our fortune out at the casino tonight, you can get that TV.

Then spend the rest on me, of course.  Cuz just because it’s your birthday, it doesn’t override the rules.

Love you!

Mama didn’t even know Randy proposed because he asked her to marry him right in the middle of chocolate cake.

And mom was kind of having a sugar-induced black out euphoria sort of thing, and didn’t register anything besides chocolate-y goodness.  And the fact that Randy was down on one knee in front of her, but probably just to retrieve a dropped fork, as who does a proposal during the climax of the meal?

So seriously, how Mama got engaged after that little fiasco is beyond me.

I, on the other hand, would be on my best behavior during a proposal.  Like, I would listen with both ears and everything.  I can’t promise you what my eyes would be doing, as looking for the diamond might be too much of a temptation to control.  But I will know exactly what you said and how you said it, and I’d gladly trade in a piece of chocolate cake for a diamond ring.

However, we may have to negotiate on the mashed potatoes.

So, you know, if there be any proposals in the making by anyone in particular, I’d like him to know I am 100% prepared for anything.  Even if a strip-o-gram is involved.

And my ring size is 7.

Just sayin’.  In case.

I know it’s been awhile since my last post, like almost two weeks. And I know it’s been killing you, checking here everyday (don’t lie, you were) and not seeing anything new. Allow me to make it up to you by giving you a rousing rendition of birthday madness.

As ya’ll know (or should know), it was my 34th birthday on Saturday. Mom, Katy and I went to a cute little bistro for some lunch, where I spent an insane amount of time voodooing people with my eyes, trying to get them to go away so we could have their table. I’ll admit … I don’t do well with patience. Especially when hungry. Cuz I was thisclose to stealing their kettle chips. And I wouldn’t even have felt guilty about it. Better than a karate chop to the throat, I always say.

Especially when you’re 90.

Anyway.

Here’s a photo:

Ya’ll have about two seconds to tell me how fabulous I look without glasses. And that my right eye is NOT bigger than the left and is, in fact, perfectly proportioned on my face.

Later in the day, I force my entire family to waste an entire tank of gas to drive to a fancy restaurant about an hour away. And because I am the birthday girl, nobody argues with that kind of logic. The restaurant is called The Shebang, it is pink, and it is FABULOUS. Part early-1920s ballroom and part late-1800s whorehouse, the restaurant was quite an atmospheric experience.

Here’s me and Brad:

Not a huge fan of this photo, although I kept the fleshy arm down and away from bright lights. Good call on my part, trust me.

Then we took this photo:

That be mama and her adoring children. And of course, since the night was all about ME, I had to have her stand on my side and put her hand on my shoulder. In a “you are my favorite child” gesture sort of way. It is to make up for the computer she never bought me. Although she did get me a kick ass electric typewriter. So who can complain about that?

Here is a list for mother to jot down and keep with her at all times. You know, in case she forgets how 72 hours of labor pain was absolutely worth it:

#1 — I keep you perpetually young. That is what happens when your oldest still acts (and looks) like a 16-year-old.

#2 — I extend your life. Cuz that is what laughter does, and no one makes you laugh like I do. NOBODY.

#3 — I understand how you can go in coma-zone during chocolate cake. Trust me, mashed potatoes do me the exact same way.

#4 — I encourage you to be the best Debbie you can be. Didn’t mean to go buy yourself some fake boobies, but that’s okay, too.

#5 — Who else better to take care of you in your old age besides the one who knows you best? I just hope Randy’s up for it.

#6 — Er … I mean, I will take care of you. But just during TV time. Cuz I have a feeling when you are old, you will need me to do the channels, and that means endless reality TV for both of us! And probably lots and lots of plastic surgery shows.

#7 — Fine. I’ll help you during meal time, too. How else will you eat my spinach-stuffed chicken unless I make you?

#8 — And finally, probably the best reason why I am your daughter … cuz it’s funny to walk through the mall and make people think we’re lesbians.

Mama, thanks for giving birth to me 34 years ago. And trust me when I say this: I loved you even when you had brown hair and wore pantyhose with everything. Riding on the back of your bicycle and eating gigantic Hardee’s cookies with you was the time of my life. And going to the same place every year for summer vacation was just fine with me.

Plus, knowing your CB friends called you “Pockets” cracks me up to no end. And that means I’m going to live extra long, now, too.

I think we’ve done well by each other, don’t you?

I know ya’ll been waiting for a good Lasik eye surgery story. It just so happens that I have one. And it begins like this:

Monday morning, mom picks me up for my appointment. I’m a little nervous, but kind of excited too. I’ve been wearing glasses since the 3rd grade, so getting the opportunity to throw them away for good is actually sort of intimidating. Cuz seriously, my glasses have been like an extra body part, and I fully expect to have a phantom pain or two, but more in the form of pushing my invisible glasses up my nose or something. And then checking the room to see who just witnessed me doing that.

Once there, the nurse takes me back to a room full of other Lasik patients. It’s time for pre-op, yo. There be a little scrubbing of the eyelids, the ingestion of a tiny pill called Valium, but which I like to refer to as Heaven. And then the administering of super cool blue sanitary hat and booties. And I swear to you when I say this: “Sexy” is not even a strong enough word for that combination.

Then the nurse does the unthinkable. She takes my effing glasses away and sits me down in front of a TV. For what, pray tell? Certainly not for watching it, because I can’t see a dadgum thing. All I know is that it was the Olympics and someone was riding a bicycle.

Pfft.

Slowly, the Valium starts to take effect. And I spend an extraordinary amount of time folding and refolding my Kleenex. Then, the dude next to me sets his foot rest up and I could swear he was wearing cowboy boots under his blue booties. You can just imagine how hard it was to resist touching them. And asking him why the hell he’d wear cowboy boots on surgery day.

About 30 minutes later, it was my turn to go in. I was surprisingly calm, but I’m pretty sure the Valium had a hand in that. However, I was not prepared for the vibrating blade. I could have sworn I was blinking the hell out of my eyelid, despite being propped open by clamps. And when they tell you to focus on the blinkie light … well, nothing says move your eyeball all around the place quite like “sit still and stare non-stop at the blinkie light.” It truly is a miracle I didn’t come out of there with half a head.

Afterwards, I could see. It was sort of milky and dim, but I could read the clock and see my mom waiting for me outside the window. I go into a room where the doctor checks my corneas with a microscope, and then goes over my post-op kit. I have 3 bottles of drops to administer about a billion times a day, and a pair of really nifty sunglasses. Like real big, dark ones that one might wear on a fishing excursion or playing archery. But the best part was that they were FREE. Cuz nothing says money well spent quite like a sweet pair of shades that Jimmy Huston would shoot you in the ankle for.

Now, this procedure hasn’t been without it’s downs. I mean, I haven’t been able to wear make-up for 5 days. And without my glasses on, I’m just a pale blubbery mess. How Brad has managed to stay in love is beyond me. If I didn’t know how to make a kick-ass saucy pork chop, there may be no hope for me at all.

Pictures are forthcoming. In the meantime, here is one of Katy in her new dorm at Missouri University:

We all drove up to Columbia on Wednesday to move her in. There’s another picture of me and Brad during lunch, but the fleshy arm is on full display in that one, and trust me, you will no likeee.

Alright. I’m off to stare at myself incessantly, pretend I don’t see a wrinkle or signs of the wonky eye. Have a good weekend.

School has started.  Which is a rather normal event, complete with buying Autumn a batch of new clothes that she will decide to hate about 3 weeks later.  You know, the status quo.

But this year is a little different.  Now my baby is in friggin’ HIGH SCHOOL.  And I swear I have no idea how this happened.  Cuz it wasn’t too long ago she was watching That’s So Raven on the Disney Channel.  And I’m pretty sure that was yesterday.

I’m serious, I’m getting dizzy just thinking about it.  Can I really be the mother of a 9th grader?  Cuz I’m pretty sure I was watching That’s So Raven yesterday, too.  And that’s just too young to have big kids.

This year, Autumn decides she is going to be for reals about school.  She is going to study and behave and make good grades, all so she can get into college for free.  She wants to be either an astronaut, architect, pharmacist or hair dresser-slash-fashion designer.  I’m leaning more towards a pharmacist/hair dresser combo cuz that will benefit me the most.  And of course, that’s the only reason to have children, isn’t it?  For the free stuff.  I mean, I’ve gotta get reimbursed somehow.  That unused softball equipment (for her one day softball career) won’t just play itself.

So here’s the traditional first day of school picture.  All ready for a full seven hours of learning and absorbing information, as evident by make-up bag, cell phone, and gigantic vampire novel.

In other words, I’m thinking free pharmaceuticals are eons away.

Poo.

Perhaps she can get by on pretty.  Cuz on that, she’s practically professional.  And ya’ll know how easy it is to get stuff with pretties.  Kind of how I finagled a new tire for the Kia for $35.  I swear … men just get so bamboozled by the googly eyes.

Just ask Brad.

Now that I have officially mastered the gym (cuz ya’ll know I’ve been there at least 5 times since 1974), I have taken on another challenge.  Come Monday morning, I get new eyes.  Eyes without glasses, that is.

This is a huge deal.  I’ve had glasses since the third grade, ya’ll.  That’s like a billion years ago, so you can imagine how blind I am now.  Seriously, if I knock my glasses off the nightstand, I’m screwed.  I have to call in special op forces just to help find them on the carpet 3 feet down.  It’s a dire situation if you ask me.

But I decided to take control of my handicap and dadgum fix it.  So I go to the eye doc today for a pre-screening just to see if I am a good candidate or not.  Cuz apparently not everyone gets the pleasure of spending $3000 on surgery.

First test was one to measure the size of my cornea.  I had to stick my face up to a screen and focus on a red light and not blink for five seconds.  And I swear to you, I can totally not blink for five seconds easy until someone tells me not to blink for five seconds.  Then it’s nigh on impossible.

Turns out, though, my eyes are healthy and happy and ready to go.  Albeit blind as a bat, but who cares about that now?  On Monday morning, I will be a 20/20 goddess and nothing will stop me.  I will be untouchable.  Invincibile.  In short …

Superhuman.

She cooks, she cleans, she walks the treadmill at 1.7 miles per hour …

I mean, how much more superhuman can I be?

Cuz just this past weekend, Brad and I were at the lake sitting down on the dock having some lunch when I told him I may be 33 but I can do anything your average 16 year old can do.

Then I had him help me up off the floor.

Whaaaaa….?  You try getting up from ground zero after eating a huge meal.  That’s practically an Olympic sport right there.

But back to eyes.  So excited about storing away my glasses for good.  Not so excited about the bill that shall linger on for the next five friggin’ years.  However, a small price to pay for freedom.

And donations are always welcome.

So I was just checking out my blog stats, seeing where people are clicking to get to my page, and I come across something very interesting.  Under the “search” items, someone found my blog by typing in “boob slice.”

WTF?  I cannot for the life of me think of one time I’ve used those two words in the same sentence.  Neither on paper, in real life or on blog.  I don’t even know what a boob slice is.

Unless you wanna consider how when I wear a bra that is not too nice and it partitions my boobies into four unequal parts, with the upwards portions hanging out of the cup in a none-too-pleasing manner.

But that’s quadra-boob.  Not boob slice.

So, again, I have no idea.

It’s a sad day in America when one gets excited about gas that is $3.55 a gallon.  It’s even more sad when one drives 10 miles out of the way to get it for $3.52.

I mean, this is not a bargain by any means.  It still costs the price of a small island just to fill up  my tank.  But I have to admit … anytime the gas prices drop a penny, I gets me a tickle in the belly and a song in my step.  And then I make Autumn high-five me in the car.

She no likeee that part one bit.  As evident by stink eye and disgruntled noise from throat.  Cuz I guess when you are almost 15 years old, a high-five from your mom is just like a big hug in front of all your friends.  Very very very not allowed.

Hmmphf.

But back to gas.  I’m not the only one who gets excited.  Last night (after I fill up my tank full of delicious $3.52 gas), Brad calls me and tells me the gas station across town messed up and was selling gas for $2.58.

Erlack!

The universe, ONCE AGAIN, has done tipped sideways.  In fact, it’s probably hurling uncontrollably through outer space as we speak.  Cuz I know for certain if things were right with this world, Jesus would have spared me that extra $18 I spent on MY gas.  Cuz He know I have better things to do with my money.

Like lattes.  Or casino-ing.

Poo.

Brad has a little laugh at my expense, and I suppress very mightily the urge to poke him up the backside.  Cuz I know for sure he no likeee THAT.

So now Brad is speeding his way across town to claim his share of the gold, calling all his friends and family in the process.  And then of course, he hauls the gigantic Suburban up there next.  Might as well take advantage of the situation as much as possible.

Which brings me to this point:  When was even $2.58 a good price for gas?  I mean, that’s still over $2 a gallon, which was the number that brought us into this mess in the first place.  I suppose we are just slaves to our environment … we adjust when we have to, then get excited when things take a turn for the better, even if it’s not really all that better in theory.

Which then brings me to this additional point:

DAMMMMMMMMIT!  Eighteen dollars down the effing hole.  And my week of coconut lattes down with it.  Blah.  I swear, next time some gas station decides to have a pricing accident, I dadgum better be first in line.  Served special by cute pump boy (Brad) who delivers free cappucino, (winning) lottery ticket, and a nice squeegee of the windshield.

Cuz if we gonna to do this, we gonna do it right.

I am pleased to say that I have gone to the gym four times since last week.  FOUR TIMES.  That’s like, ohhhhh, about four times as much as I have ever gone before.  It truly is amazing.

However, on the bad side … I am a horrible sweater.  For reals, ya’ll.  It is the most unattractive thing you’ve ever seen.  I was on the treadmill for about 3 minutes and the moistness had already set in.  Brad, on the other hand, cranked it up to full speed, had a leisurely run for a bit, then afterwards … it was as if nothing had went on at all.  I don’t know how he does it, stay all fresh and pretty like that, but what I do know is this:

I need to master that Ninja Sweating Technique.  And fast.

You know something’s up when your own daughter hands you a towel out of the clear blue and for no apparent reason.  Cuz seriously, that girl doesn’t ever do anything without having been told five times.  So this must’ve been a dire situation, for sure.  I say, what’s the towel for?  And she say, take care of that business like yesterday.

Pfft.

I’m trying to be a good exerciser, I really am.  Ya’ll know how much I’ve hated physical activity.  So the mere fact that I am in the gym, like just physically present, is a miracle in itself.  And then for me to actually attempt a jog on the treadmill is about the time when hell freezes over.  And also about the time I pee my pants a little and so I cut that biz like pronto.  No sense in torturing those around me as well.

On Monday night, we are walking out of the gym, and I’m kind of feeling good about myself and the fact that I lifted weights and didn’t break a groin or something, when Brad turns to me and gets this contemplative look on his face.  I about thought he was going to propose like right there on the jogging track, but out comes this instead:

“You sweat a lot, don’t you?”

I could have punched him in the neck.  Especially cuz that’s no where close to being a diamond ring.  He should really preclude statements like that with a look that matches, like a stink eye at the minimum.  Prepare me a little bit, ya know?  Otherwise, we be getting engaged before he knows he even wanted to.  Cuz sometimes my brain takes a vacay into Fantasyland, and I don’t hear what you say after you give me the googly eyes.  In fact, just try telling me you didn’t propose and see what happens.

Brad – Proposal = Inadvertent Vasectomy.

Oopsie.

Going to the gym by myself tonight.  Where I can sweat grossly in private.  And then when I get home, I’m going to give Brad the giantest hug ever.  And then prolly stick my forehead on him.  Like on his cheek, close to his mouth, where he likes it best.

Yeahhhhh.  So you wanna talk about that ring now?

Well, that settles that.  I’ve finally figured out how crazy starts.  NOT pretending I have my own cooking show.  NOT living inside my head where I am skinny and fabulous.  Nooooo.  Those would be a much nicer way to begin.  Instead …

I’ve joined a dadgum gym.

I swear, my body’s been taken over by extraterrestrials.  Cuz seriously, ya’ll know I wasn’t in my right mind when I signed the dotted line.  I’ve been brainwashed.  Bamboozled.  Bullied by the Queen Barbie herself.

Poo on that Mama.

Turns out, mama gets the giggles when she puts her first born child through the torture that is the Elliptical.  I mean, have you been on this machine?  It’s practically barbaric.  It was probably a World War II torture device in another life.  I swear, I was on it for no more than 30 seconds, and my thighs were on fire.  Mama say, “Don’t lift your feet off the peddles when you walk.”  I say, “Get me off this damn thing.”

I did fare better on the bicycle and the treadmill.  At least on those things, I can trick myself into thinking I am simply going out for a latte or something.  Cuz I’m pretty sure nobody ellipticals to the coffee shop.  Or at least not the crazy ones.

However, mom gets on the treadmill beside me and kicks it up to 4.7 miles per hour.  I’m going 1.5 and sweating like it’s my damn job.  Showoff.  So I increase my speed a little bit, and I promise you this:  If I wasn’t holding on for dear life, I’d be chillin’ face down in someone else’s sweaty footprint.  Cuz those treadmills keep moving, even if you ain’t.

Brad decides he gonna show that mama a thing or two, and forces her into a rousing game of racquetball.  Turns out, mama is scared of racquetball.  Cuz there be flying balls every where, and they will hit you if you’re not looking.

Come to think of it, I was kind of scared of it too.  Especially after I went running down the court to retrieve one of my balls, and I sort of peed my pants a little bit.   Crap.

But on the bright side, I weighed about 5 pounds lighter when we were done.  Then mama said their scales were broken, and I about slapped her in the neck.  Guess I’m gonna actually have to work when we go work out.  Another reason to believe the universe is stupid.

Get back home, sweaty but exhilarated.  Feeling good about the exercise, doing something healthy for my body.

So I had myself a really, really enormous brownie.

Whaaa…..?????

Baby steps, ya’ll.  Baby steps.

Brad and I have had a couple of good streaks at the casinos lately.  So either Taurus is in the rising house of Mercury in the 8th sector of the moon.  Or low cut shirts really do work.

(If it’s the second, I’m going to have to take momma out with me more often.  Fake boobies rule.  And men are just pathetic little putty wads in the hand … )

Which brings me to a point.  Women certainly don’t lose all functionality, rationality or sensibility when a dude in a nice pair of pants walks by.  But if it’s a woman in a V-neck shirt, men become blathering idiots, complete with drool and zombie eyes.  It’s really quite funny.  And handy.  Hence the casino success story.

That follows.

Hell, what did I just go on about?  I’ve completely lost my train of thought.  Shut up, Brain.

Anyhoo.  Back on track.

I mentioned last post how Brad and I won $400 at the Three Card Poker table.  It was at the grand opening of a new resort, and aside from standing up at the table in the food court (because of no chairs, not because we wanted to cuz that = exercise), it worked out to be a rather profitable and successful evening.  I mean, I’d stand up and eat some onion rings if it guaranteed a table win.

So we started with some Blackjack.  Unfortunately, the table minimum was $10, and all I had was a 20.  But I did it anyway, slid my two sad little red chips into the betting circle, right next to the guy with an Eiffel Tower of chips.  I’m sure he was thinking I was about to throw the synergy of the table with my pathetic minimum bet, but surprisingly, I won, he won, and his little Asian friend popped up out of nowhere with a rousing“Table win!” gesture.  Which then had me thinking, All right, Alkie.  Simmer down.

Anyway, ya’ll know how the night ended … with $200 a piece in our pockets.  Figured luck was on our side, so we tried our Blackjack/Three Card strategy once again on Saturday night.

Lemme just say this … Super Fun 21 is NOT super fun.  We lost $40 in five minutes.  What the sam hell?  So we go to 6 Deck BlackJack.  Did better, but not the best.  But we had enough money built up to feel comfortable shelling out the big bucks on the Three Card.

And quickly, just like that, Brad and I became celebrities.  The pit boss practically fell over himself trying to sign us up for the Player’s Club.  It was hilarious.  I was like, where’s my comp suite and cocktails?  Dammit!  Lobster dinner, pronto!

We ended up with 9 little black chips.  It was the best night of our lives.  We walked away happily and responsibly.  Then the douche bag from our table walked past us about 10 minutes later and said if we had played one more hand, we would have gotten Triple Aces.

Erlack!

Why did he have to tell us that?  I hate that guy.  I want him thrown out.  Cuz we are members of the Player’s Club and that apparently = everything.

However, the good news is that we leave the casino with all our winnings intact.  Split evenly and pocketed safely.  Even better news … getting to spend my winnings on something better than car insurance.  Weeeee!  And although there was no lobster dinner involved, being Player’s Club members does have other benefits.  Cuz after 2 hours of playing cards, Brad and I racked up one dollar each to spend on whatever we effing liked. 

Ha.  Told you we were celebrities.

I said it before and I’ll say it again:  This world’s done tipped sideways.

And it’s all Brad’s fault.

Turns out, winning $400 at the three card poker table means I put my $200 up for car insurance and Brad uses his for jeans at The Buckle.  What in holy sam hell is that mess?  How did I get to be the responsible one?  Granted, he did buy me a nice green shirt and a microdermabrasion kit, but now the shirt has a tiny hole in it and I’m pretty sure the microdermabrasion kit will burn my face off.  And then where will I be?

With 6 months of legalized driving, that’s where.

Pfft.

Secondly, I’ve gone on a water diet.  Figure maybe I can lose 5 or 10 pounds.  Which would be great, right?  Except for one thing:  water tastes like crap.  It is the most boring of all things boring (with the exception of exercising and wiping sweat off tanning beds, of course).  But I’m doing it just to see what happens.

Then I find out.

Brad drinks more soda.  Right in front of me.  With extra lip-licking and gulping noises and everything.  He is like a dying man in the desert or something.  It’s like, was soda that delicious before, or do you just like to torture me?  Hmmpfh.

Blah blah blah with your fancy drinks.  That’s all I got to say about that.

And I swear, if I don’t lose some weight, I’m karate chopping somebody in the throat.  And by somebody, I clearly mean Brad.  Cuz no one gets to drink that much soda in front of me and get away with it.

In correlation with this new water thing, I’m also trying to eat better.  So I’m living it up with my tubs of yogurt and whole grain crackers.  Hell, if you showed me a burger right now, I’d probably throw up in my mouth a lil bit.

(And if you believe that, there be some karate chopping for you, too.)

So imagine my thoughts when Brad calls me yesterday on lunch break and tells me how hard it is to decide what to eat while he’s parked at the effing Sonic.  And then when he settles on a pile of bacon cheese fries.  While I am trying to swallow down my 98-cent Lean Gourmet.

There be some mental squishing of his head between my fingers right about now.  If he’s not careful, he’ll be sending me to Latte Town in two seconds.  Or Burger Ville.  Or Cheesecake City.  Anywhere that’s not 98% fat free.  Seriously, I’m being tortured by visions of potatoes swimming in an ocean of cheese.

Poo.

Brad, I love you.  But I will come after you in a heartbeat.  Especially if you are holding a bucket of macaroni salad or something.  I am trying very hard to be good, so if you could be a sweetie and just lie and say you’re having carrot sticks for lunch, that’d be great.

In the meantime, you better guard your Little Debbie’s and fancy drinkies.  And prolly your fingers, too.

You know, just to be on the safe side.

So I’m sitting at work, right?  All ready to do some travel agent.  I turn on the computer, go through my emails and check the list of pending reservations.  So far so good, right?

Boot up the internet and all hell breaks loose.  Here’s what ensues:

Checking Yahoo mail.  Leads to clicking on “My Yahoo” for customized list of celebrity news.  Where I proceed to read about Pete Wentz Makes Out With Guys! or Amy Whinehouse Back To Rehab!  You know, the important stuff.

Next, I look at my bank account.  Balancing the checkbook — very very necessary.  Now, the phone is probably ringing somewhere around this point, but I am in a trance-like state and most likely ambivalent to outside work-related noises.

It happens.

Gotta catch up on my fellow bloggers!  Might as well click on their Flickr links while I’m there.  And of course, I can’t forget my online book group.  After all, I’m the moderator, and therefore must lead a good example.  Otherwise, the ladies in there might go all kinds of crazy.  Lorraine, you know how you do.

Customer coming in.  I heard our door ding.  As long as I face this way, they can’t see me.  I have the invisible shield on.  La la la la la la la!

Speaking of books, Amazon is fun to browse through.  I like to do my research, keep up on my favorite authors, maybe perhaps buy a book that I will read in about 3 years.  Again, very important shopping to be done here, as you can see.

Oh, wait!  The Good Cook Book Club is having a summer sale!  One can never have too many cookbooks, can they?  Or really, any kind of item that is 50% off.  Because truthfully, it’s practically saving money to buy it.  No matter what it is.  Plus, I can justify a sale like nobody’s business.  Which is how I became the owner of that nail care kit I can’t use.  And the two super shammies I bought for … you guess it … the price of one. 

Time for a breaky break!  All this working’s done worn me out.  Horray for lattes, I’d say.  Or doughnuts.  Cookies … chips.

Dammit!  There really shouldn’t be coffee or a Quizno’s nearby.  It make me fat.  Blah.

Anyhoo, back at work.  I’m on level 37 on Diner Dash.  I swear, I’ve been on this level for two weeks, and if something don’t happen pretty soon, I may go all l;sdlkjl;gakjj;lkdj on my computer.  Seriously, how hard is it to sit the little people down at their little tables and bring ‘em a dadgum sammich?  If it wasn’t for the businessmen talking on their cell phones the whole time, everyone else in the diner would be much happier and wouldn’t leave the table without paying their bill.  And then I’d get more points and get to move to level 38, and …

Shizzzzzzznit.  Phone again.  Figure I should answer it but my finger’s got a cramp.  Oh well.  That’s what the co-workers are for.  I likeee them.

Screw Diner Dash.  I’m going to see what else I can play.  Ooooh, Sally’s Spa looks fun.  And Burger Island, and Dress Shop Hop.  I’ll just download all of them cuz options are nice.   In the meantime, better check the email again.  Cuz Brad is no doubt stalking me this morning.  It’s what he do.

Guess I better write me a blog post.  Entertain my peeps.  I don’t have anything interesting to say, so it’ll probably take me a couple hours to come up with something worth writing.  I’ll just have to think a bit.  So I’m gonna lay my head down on my desk for one li t  tlllle .. s .. ec … dgh  arfdg ifdjkj

…

…

…

Whaaa… ??  Woah.  Where was I?

Hmmpfh.

Well, the point of the story (you forgot there was one, didn’t you?) …

I have Work ADD.  I cannot concentrate on one thing at all whatsoever when I’m at work.  It’s nigh on impossible.  My mind flits back and forth between thoughts like I am a Brad on the interstate with no cops around.  It’s crazy.

However, odd thing is … I can concentrate like hell when watching DVR, reading a book, or eating mashed potatoes.  Just try rousing me out of my stupor then, my friends.  Either I ignore you or I bite you.  It’s that simple.

Now, before mom gets upset, I must say this Work ADD only applies to travel agent.  Cuz when I’m at the video store, I am a drill sargeant.  For reals, you should see me.  I never ever sit down or fall asleep in tanning beds.  Ever.  When customers come in, I am the first to greet them, and never do fake vom noises in the trash can when smarmy Bob heads off to the Big Bed.  I pay for all my candy purchases, and vacuum the corners.  I make little girls pay for candy bars they try to steal and scrape off gum they try to eat from beneath the clearance bin.  I am G.I. Jane but without the bald head (or rock hard body, but whatev).  No one messes with my mama’s store.  Period.

(Mama, you should so be laughing right about now.)

Alrighty, I’ve been typing this post long enough.  Gotta get back to work.  And by “work” I mean … well, you know what I mean.  That ADD thing strikes again.

I hereby declare Sunday, June 22, 2008 as The Day Dianna Went Out In Public With Bare Legs On Full Display.  That’s right, ya’ll.  I went to the city pool.  In a bathing suit.  And people saw me.

Well!  If it wasn’t for darling Bristol needing a cool Auntie to send him down slippy slides, I probably wouldn’t have gone.  Because for one … it be nigh on 190 degrees and I don’t look pretty in sweat … and two … there be teenagers in tiny swimsuits walking around, and quite honestly, that causes stomach cramping anxiety, and I no likee.

Cuz I used to be a teenager in a tiny swimsuit.  But now look.  I have double knees.

Poo.

But Brad and I went, took Jaylon and Jadyn with us as well, and as soon as we got there, I headed straight for the portico where sunlight dareth not be.  Made the day slightly more manageable as far as heat goes.  But the fleshiness of the rest of situation was left to its own devices.  Urgh.

Then Autumn’s 15-year-old guy friend caught me in my tankini.  Erlack!  There went that hot mom exterior I was trying so hard to cultivate.  Even Bristol in his 500-pound diaper looked better than me.  Totally unfair.  This is one more reason to believe the balance of the universe is completely off kilter.

However, on the upside, Brad and I are still together.  Despite the hideousness of his girlfriend in a two-piece.  So either he really truly does love me or he doesn’t look forward to countless nights of bologna sammiches and back to sitting on the tiny plaid loveseat.  In my mind, though, I’m pretty sure it’s a little bit of both.  Cuz I come with gourmet food AND microsuede sectional.

(But also extra large bikini, so… )

The Wii Golf has come back to haunt me.

Brad and I decide to go to the driving range on Saturday night for some big people golf.  After the Great Father’s Day Massacre, as well as the wicked swing talent demonstrated on the Wii, I figure shooting a bucket of balls off the green should be equally successful.

Oh, how do I hate being wrong.

Turns out, big people golf is nothing like the mini golf.  I mean, have you actually done big people golfing?  It’s some serious business.  So serious, in fact, that it officially get CAPITAL LETTERS.  And that takes some  focused typing, and I no likee.

But anyhoo.

Prior to all this knowledge, on Saturday night I was thinking Happy Gilmore here I come.  I just knew I had it in me.  I could do this.  I could send golf balls flying into outer space.  I could, because the dadgum Wii Golf told me so.  And we just don’t argue with that kind of rationalization, now do we?

So in my best golf television sportscaster announcer voice, I will proceed to interpret the actions of the Saturday Night BIG PEOPLE golf showdown.  Here we go:

First up is Dianna.  A novice in the competition arena, but in recent training events, has shown a remarkable natural talent for the sport.  Her Wii Golf swing is on-the-mark, easily sending practice shots into the 100 point bulls eye ring.  Upsetting the competition is one thing that comes easily to Dianna.  And that, coupled with the overwhelming victory at the Father’s Day Massacre … well, I have no doubt as to what to expect here this evening.  Genius, pure genius.

The crowd falls to a deafening hush.  Dianna places the ball on the tee.  Her caddy … I believe his name is Bruce or Brent or maybe it’s Brad … don’t know exactly.  He must not travel amongst the important in BIG PEOPLE golf circles.  In fact, I think his resume shows no other details besides handyman, sugar daddy and love slave.  And, well, I guess we can add caddy to that list as well.  Impressive!

So Bruce/Brent/Brad has handed Dianna a driver.  Dianna takes position behind the ball, arms outstretched, fingers locked in hold.  And here comes the deep breath … the lift … the arch … the SWING … and it’s … it’s … well, where’d the damn ball go?  Holy smokes!  It’s completely disappeared into the outer reaches of the atmosphere!  The crowd’s gone wild!  Dianna and Bruce/Brent/Brad have their hands up to their eyes, looking off into the distance for signs of the ball.  This is madness, I tell you!  Complete madness!  What we have witnessed here today is one for the record books, not to be matched by anyone ever in the history of BIG PEOPLE golf.  And I am lucky to be alive for this moment.  Wow … I am speechless.  Breathless.  I am actually sweating with exhilaration.

Wait.  What?  There’s a murmur in the crowd.  What are they saying?  Something about the ball … it’s here.  They’ve found it!  But where?  Hold on, I’m waiting for the exact details to come through.  Huh … oh, really?  That far?  Oh, dear lord.

The world has fallen out from beneath our feet.  Dianna, Wii Golf extraordinaire, has not only NOT launched the ball into oblivion as previously stated, but the ball is, in fact, still sitting on the tee where it’s been all along.  Dianna has done nothing more than sliced through air.  Even a two-year-old can do that.

This unprecedented night in history has gone from the highest high to the lowest low.  How can she rebound from this career-ending nightmare?  Let’s get a statement:

Announcer:  Dianna, so what happened out there?

Dianna:  Well, I’ll be quite honest with you.  I expected a lot more out of that swing.  I mean, when I do it with the Wii, golf balls go flying.  So I truly don’t know what went wrong.

Announcer:  I’d have to agree.  Your displays at the Wii have been absolutely amazing.  Can you now say that perhaps fake golf or even golf of the mini kind would be more your type of sport?

Dianna:  Sadly, I think you may be right.  In fact, my arms got more sore playing Wii Golf than actually competing in BIG PEOPLE golf.  That leads me to believe that either I am extremely out of shape and can’t hold anything heavier than a plastic controller, or else BIG PEOPLE golf is simply a challenge I haven’t quite worked up to yet.

Announcer:  So is it safe to say that your career is over at this point?

Dianna:  Well, I’m sure I’ll be out practicing again soon.  Until then, it’s back to the Wii.  And probably some DVR and couch-laying.  I’ve very very good at those two things.  And sometimes it’s just best to stick with something you know, right?  The way I lounge across sofa cushions is remarkable.

Announcer:  I have no doubt about that, Dianna.  No doubt at all.

Well there you have it, folks.  BIG PEOPLE golf history has been made, but not in the way we expected.  Perhaps, Dianna’s caddy, Bruce/Brent/Brad might have better luck.  That is, if the 9-hole is out in front then sharply to the right about 90 degrees.

Stay tuned next time when we host the 2008 Indoor Games.  Events include Marathon Sleeping, Elegant Remote Controlling, and Bossing Boyfriends.  Hey, sounds like something Dianna might actually win!

Stay tuned.

I think I might have an addiction. Well, a sub category of an already established addiction, the DVR:

Reality TV.

Can you believe I just said that? Who gets addicted to reality TV, I ask you?

Girls whose fat jeans have now become just their jean jeans, that’s who.

Blah.

Anyway, after careful review of the record listings on the DVR, I offer you the following shows and a brief description in my defense:

Next Food Network Star This one is self-explanatory. How else can I be so good at the cooking if I can’t keep up-to-date? Plus, I find nothing wrong with pretending I have my own show while I mince up some garlic. Seriously, that is not bordering on crazy, at all.

Kathy Griffin: My Life on the D List I love comedy. And dirty words. Kathy Griffin verges slightly on the uncomfortable, especially when she talks about penises to Anderson Cooper on CNN. How she gets away with that, I’ll never know. I can barely read the word ‘penis’ without twitching my eye a little bit.

But regardless, Kathy is funny. Funny leads to laughter. Laughter makes you live longer. Therefore, a little Kathy Griffin = fundamental to the sustainment of life.

Try arguing with that kind of mathematics.

Design Star Cuz anything can be art. Even plastic flowers and lampshades covered in chicken feathers. (Who knew?) I do enjoy seeing the before and afters, the hearty competition between the contestants. And the crying. Oh my gracious, the CRYING! Is it weird that I get giddy with excitement when the crying starts? Or when the gays start in on that “ahhh, no you diiii-unt” business? I’m serious, some dude gets all snarky on someone else’s design, and the gay one pops up and is like, beeeee-yotch, with the pointing and the hair flipping. It’s hilarious.

Top Chef This season finished it’s run last night, but technically it’s still on the DVR because I haven’t deleted it yet. I love Top Chef, for the same reasons as I love Next Food Network Star. However, Top Chef has a lot more egotistical people competing, and let’s face it … it’s fun to hate! I spend a lot of time during episodes telling them how stupid they are, that no one likes a jicama salad, there is no such thing as a banana scallop, and hahahahahaha, you are in the bottom three this week! Weeeeeeee!

Don’t ask. I just need to get my aggression out somewhere. Better Top Chef than my kitchen. Cuz Brad says if I go messing with his food, he be withholding a certain thing from me. And I have to seriously sit and think about that, cuz I just don’t know if I can survive without the shopping.

Flipping Out Who doesn’t love a show about a real estate house flipper with obsessive compulsive disorder? I mean, Jeff Lewis is my brethren and no doubt a fellow Virgo, which is why I understand his desire for a non-fat, half-caf, extra foam latte steamed to 150 degrees with two Splendas on the side. He is an insane perfectionist who debates the perfect shade of white to an intensity not known by anyone else besides another OCD-er. He likes things his way, sorted and filed and properly tended. If there be anything in disarray, by god, the world is over. And I understand this.

Brad understand this too. That is why we can watch Flipping Out together and equally have a good time. You know, instead of the usual stink eye I get while watching Dancing With the Stars. Although, at first sign of gigantic boobie, Brad perks up instantly. His attention, that is.

But I digress.

I have come to discover that Flipping Out is pertinent to our couple time. It keeps us bonded. And that, certainly, is reason enough to watch this show.

The Bachelorette I love the spin on the regular Bachelor. One girl getting her choice out of 25 guys. How awesome is that?! What a dream come true!

Er … um … I mean, dream come true for her. Because I have found my true love. In the traditional way. You know, on the internet.

Some of the guys she gets to choose from are unreal. Especially Twilley, the one from Oklahoma. Who is a complete doofus. I’m wondering if he’s even old enough to have a girlfriend seeing that he’s still in the de-pantsing/noogie giving stage and all. Now, there is nothing wrong with being a little goofy, but I think in Twilley’s case, it’s slightly verging on terminal. As in, the kind he can’t control.

Which, in essense, makes me appreciate what I have in Brad. He who washes his hands 20 times a day is the same he who rocks my world. And who also eats my pretend cooking and allows me to buy $80 cell phones when I don’t really need one.

He = perfect. (Dirty clothes all over the bedroom floor notwithstanding, of course.)

Last Comic Standing Have I mentioned before that I love comedy? Or maybe it’s just laughing I love? Well, either way, Last Comic Standing provides both. Some of these people on here just plain out crack me up. I mean, to the point of guffaw, which, trust me, does not sound so very elegant coming out of my mouth. In fact, it sounds more like walrus. Who was surprised by a swift poke in the backside. With a wet finger.

You get my point.

Anyhoo.

Other Reality Shows Coming Up The new season of Project Runway starts next month and I can’t wait! I always love to see what kind of clothes you can make out of coffee filters and human hair. Then The Two Coreys, starring Corey Haim and Corey Feldman, starts soon, and Brad has made me sign an affidavit that I swear I won’t forget to DVR it like I did on Season 1. He loves him some 80s has-beens, I’d say. Better comply, or there might be something else he be withholding.

Like control of the remote. And I Simply. Can’t. Have. That.

Now for totally unrelated news … Father’s Day Photo Op:

This was pre-mini-golf massacre, of course, as evident by the innocent, unknowing smiles. Cuz you know I totally destroyed them all with my wicked golf swing.

Hmmmm. Maybe Wii Golf was handy for something after all. Bwhahahaha! I’ll be on the lookout for Wii Pilates now. Cuz last time I did the real Pilates, I gave myself a carpet burn in the butt crack. Pretty sure that’s not right.

Wow, this post spiraled all to hell. Should probably stick with safer subjects like DVR and reality TV from now on. Forays into the butt crack can prove to be quite dangerous. Trust me … you do NOT want me to elaborate on that one. Let’s just say some ointment, a Q-Tip and a Brad was involved.

Night, ya’ll.

Last night, in a tribute to Father’s Day, I made a Beef Stroganoff in the crock pot.  Surprisingly, it turned out super delicious considering it had all but 5 ingredients and it took about 3 minutes to toss it together.  But the real trick was trying to feed it to three picky boy eaters plus Brad, who has an unnatural fear of mushrooms.

The boys looked at their plates, small portion steaming and heavenly.  They eat, then begin picking out bits of mushroom and onion.  “What’s this” … eyeing closely … “What about this” … again with the eyeing.  I get exasperated with all the sorting of the pieces, and tell them matter of factly that it’s all just meat.  Every last drop of it.  Meat and noodles.

And because they are boys, boys who will grow up to be men, their eyes glaze over and it’s back to eating.

Man.  That was wayyyyy too easy.

Next up … sour cream is the new butter.

This weekend, Brad and I went to Branson to visit his mom and step-dad. It was pretty late when we arrived because we are horrible packers and can’t plan worth crap. But anyway, we weren’t there 30 minutes, and already we got the addiction. The Wii Addiction.

Brad’s mom started it. She was playing it when we walked through the door. So naturally, the kids wanted a turn. And then of course, Brad and I had to have a go. Lemme just say: I am a Wii Bowling Supastah. I even had the cool bowler stance and everything. It was obvious that I should win.

Then probably like 2 seconds after the big victory, Brad’s old Wii injury starts acting up. You know, the one he got just now. Poor thing couldn’t even bowl properly, nor could he pour his own glass of sweet tea. Good lord, he’s stole my M.O. Cuz I have an old aerobics injury that keeps me on the couch watching TV for hours.

Next day, we all go watch Noah, The Musical at the new Sight & Sound Theater. It was a pretty good show, and the kids had a good time, evident by Jadyn sleeping through the first half. Which always spells a good time for me. Except it’s usually free food, then nap. And probably a new potato scrubber thrown in the middle.

(And despite what I just said, I am an extremely cool person.)

After the show, we went to the Landing, which is a downtown shopping/restaurant/cultural area by the lake. I had so much fun there; I was really in my element. Stores were everywhere and I wanted to go in all of them. There were musicians playing for dollars, and a couple of guys drumming on buckets. And I got sucked in by the street vendor who soaked up a two liter off a swatch of carpet with the Super Shammy. Yeah, I totally got two of those.

And then somehow I got sucked into buying a manicure set for natural nails. But I have the fake ones. So really I don’t know what I’m going to do about that. All I’m saying is that lady shouldn’t have come at me with her bottle of scented lotion. It was like, I’m walking, walking, walking, then HELLO! I’m putting lotion on you and you will LIKE IT.

Salesladies are scary.

Sunday was our last day in Branson. And can I just say: That stupid Wii. Disguised playtime as exercise, and now I’m paying for it. Or else, I’ve contracted Brad’s Wii disease. Something, cuz my arms are killing me. How am I supposed to DVR in this condition? It’s a dire situation, believe me.  Plus, it just goes to show you how out of shape I am.  I can’t even Wii bowl without popping a joint.  Blah.

Brad’s mom took me and his sister out shopping for a bit before we headed home. She offered to buy us purses so Sarah and I spent eons trying to pick one. I couldn’t decide between the Vera Wang and the apt. 9. And yes you read that right. I couldn’t decide between the Vera Wang and the apt. 9. What’s apt. 9 you ask? Exactly.

But the apt. 9 was a much better fit for me, strap- and pocket-wise. So, as hard as it was, I put the beautiful Vera Wang back on the shelf.

Mannnnnn. It sucks to grow up sometimes.

So now, back at work, I am nursing the Wii injuries, trying to hold my purse by myself (amazing how many muscles you use for that), and resisting the urge to use my Super Shammy on purpose. Cuz you know I totally want to pour liquids on everything.

And now the phone is ringing. It is a customer needing some travel. And I just stare at it and laugh. This Wii pain is going to work out after all.

Hooray for the Wii!

1) My sister’s done gone to Europe. Which normally wouldn’t be such a horrible thing, but she’s committed a major sisterly faux paus. As in she left me at home in middle America hell, where the humidity will melt your face off, and a trip to Wal-Mart means a damn good time. I wanna go to London and make googly eyes at the Palace guards, fondle a priceless painting or two, maybe get in a crowded subway where I am eye level with a sweaty armpit. (Well, that last thing you can do at Wal-Mart too. Especially on Blue-Light Special Day.)

I swear if she doesn’t bring me back a little plastic Big Ben or something, I may have to slap her in the neck.

2) Sex and the City movie. Mom and I purchased tickets in early May for this Girls Night Out event. It included the movie with red carpet treatment and an after party with free snacks and a goodie bag. Turns out, the online ticket thing had a “snafu” and by the time they fixed it, the dadgum show was sold out. So we get no tickets, and are forced to go to the second showing. And let me tell you what … there be no freebies at the second showing. Just a crowded theater of wanna-bes … who wanna be at that damn party stuffing ourselves with mini-Triscuits and cheese.

Boo.

On the upswing, the movie was fantastic.

3) Prices. As in prices of everything. Gas is about to drive me utterly insane. It cost me $72 to fill up my tank this week, which about made me pass out. Then, there’s the stamps, and the baggage charges on airlines. And my latte went up by 50 cents. Gah! What I wanna know is … where’s my effing raise?

Good news is that minimum wage goes up in July. So that means I got the latte covered. Whew! Now I just need to score myself a little scooter, and I’m all set.

(You make fun, but who be gettin’ 60 mpg? Yeahhhhhhh. Oh, but the hot pink Hello Kitty helmet is fair game. Cuz you totally know I’m buying one.)

4) Walking again. I swear, I don’t know how it’s happening. Last night after family night (which I hosted and make delicious sun-dried tomato marinated chicken breasts on the grill pan), we find ourselves once again exercising after dinner. I should have been tipped off when mom walked through my front door dressed as Fitness Barbie. Dang that mama!

We went on some trail that had loops and hills (which had me thinking what the sam hell is this business), and had little pit stops where you could do some leg lifts or crunches or whatever. I now refer to this as the Torture Track, because … well … have you seen me try to do a chin up?

Okay, that’s enough ranting for today, I think. I’ve exhausted myself. I am hoping for a calm, rant-free evening, one with no cat poop or chicken bits stuck to a grill pan. No screaming children, messy teenage bedrooms, no piles of Brad’s clothes in the bedroom, no missing the studs in the wall while trying to hang a picture. No weather interruptions, no extra pounds on the scale. No hair in the bathroom floor. No sweating or moving off the couch for any reason whatsoever.

Just nice, sweet relaxation …

Dammit! I spilled my latte on the calculator.