Scumbag Santa

I have to rant a bit about Santa this year...or rather, one of Santa's helpers.  I felt the need to put this entry off...just in case the real Santa found this to not be "nice".
This year, we put off seeing Santa with Farrah for reasons I still don't understand...laziness perhaps?  That sounds about right.
Anyway, while on the dark side of the mountains, I decided to take her to my favorite Santa.  The Santa at the Alderwood Mall.  He is SO real!  I saw him when I was pregnant with Farrah and he was the Santa Farrah saw for the first time.  We'd never gone back simply because it was always so far out of the way and because the line to see him made me think I was in line for the Mr. Toad ride at Disneyland...the ride no one wants to go on.
This year, we went the morning of Christmas Eve (which by the way, is the best time to go do your last minute shopping because no one is there and everything is on sale).  We got in line which was crazy short, and Farrah and I began to discuss what she was going to ask Santa for Christmas and I had reminded her to let him know how good she'd been this year.  As we made our way around a corner, one of the Elf "helpers" came up and asked Farrah what she was going to ask Santa for.
"I want an iPad!"
"Oh, I don't know if we'll be able to help you with that.  We only make toys."
Uhhh...what the hell did she just say?  I figured I'd let it slide because she must have been drunk.
We began to make our way up closer to Santa, and Farrah was getting more and more eager.  I kept asking her to keep her list going so she was sure not to forget anything she wanted to share with the jolly old man.  Also, I reminded her again of how very good she was this year and she should be proud to tell him that.
It was our turn next.
Farrah sat with Santa who looked about as perfect and wonderful as you would expect him to be like he was the last times I saw him.  Simply the best Santa.
But then...he blew it.
Santa:  What would you like for Christmas?
Farrah:  I would like to have my very own iPad.
Santa:  Well, I only make toys so I'm not sure I can do anything there. (in a bored voice, mind you)

What. The. Fuck?  In my mind, the thoughts of "I will kill you Santa! KILL YOU UNTIL YOU ARE DEAD!!!" kept going through my mind.  In the very least, I wanted to kick him in the God Damn shin.

Farrah:  I'd also like to have real dinosaur bones!
Santa:  Uhhh, I don't know how I'll be able to help you.

Hey Santa!  Why don't you go sit on a giant candy cane and spin on it!!!  Yes, this is ugly, but I swear my daughter will NEVER see that jackass EVER again.

So, am I to assume that when a child asks this Santa to help make his dying brother with cancer better, his response will be, "Sorry, we only make toys.  Good luck with that!"
Or, "My dad is fighting in Afghanistan, please bring him home soon."  He'll be sure to say, "You'll need to ask for toys.  I only make toys!"
Screw you fake asshole Santa!
You may not be able to make every kid's request a reality, but it is your fucking duty to fake that shit and make those kids feel special and filled with a little bit of hope.  Even if it is for something as silly as an iPad.  It wasn't silly to Farrah and neither were her dinosaur bones.

In the future, she will not be subjected to the evil lies that come out of the Alderwood Mall Santa's stupid face.  In his old age, he has become awnry, crotchety, Grinchy, and a ruiner of Christmas for any child that asked for, heaven forbid, anything more than a toy truck or a doll.  An absolute dream killer.

Do NOT ever see this guy.  He's crusher of Christmas joy!

See what I mean?

In the end...the real Santa made good by our little girl.  YES she got her iPad!  Not only that, her Uncle Steve and Auntie Bree bought Farrah fossils.  Did she have a wonderful Christmas? Yes she did!  I KNOW she let what came out of Fake Santa's mouth pass from one ear out the other because she knew what she wanted.  She's proof that even at that age, you can still dream and still believe.  She did and she got what she asked for.  Merry Christmas Farrah!  

P.S.  

Dear crappy asshole fake Santa:  I think it's time to hang up your own stockings and retire.  You're so done.

  

Changes

Did you notice the more cheerful background to my page?  I did.  Because I made that happen.  Actually, I wanted to pull away from the dark page (even though I thought it looked rad) and add some "feel-good-ness" to it.  

Not only are there changes on my page, but there are changes happening in my life.  I am working on making these changes to be something that will bring me joy, an open mind, a sense of freedom, and some peace and stability.  What silly things to strive for, right?  

I have pictured in my mind the following:

I am wandering around a large oak tree with the desire to climb that tree, because up there is beauty that I can't reach, but so desperately want.  And a hand reaches down from within the branches and helps me climb the beautiful tree and it ends up being me who has helped me.  

In the end, it is only me that can save me or lend me that helping hand to reach the beauty that I have every right to touch.  With some time and some trust in myself, I will find that girl that I've loved for almost 36 years...me.  I have no doubt and I look forward to my future.  

Okay, life, I'm ready when you are...

Lessons

Add another notch to my life lesson belt.  Times have been difficult, needless to say, for me.  They have been for quite a while and longer than I care to admit.  When we were kids and we'd say we couldn't wait to grow up and be adults, why wasn't there some sort of owner's manual or warning label that came in our 18th birthday card instead of the $5 dollars a relative gave us?  Don't get me wrong, I have had some wonderful times in my adulthood, but the hardest times I've had have also been as an adult.
It's weird when we become so emotional about circumstances in our lives that we suddenly learn to shut down completely.  I had no idea that was even a psychological option.  When things have come to a head and life has kicked me in the stomach over and over again when I was already beat to shit on the ground, the tears stopped flowing and I started to no longer care.
I understand that with pain, comes healing.  And the healing will offer wisdom.  However, it seems like the phrase that adults used on us as children, "Life isn't fair" is quite the understatement.  It isn't.  It isn't fair at all and quite frankly the lessons that have been doled out to me over and over again have gotten really god damn old.
I get it!  People can hurt you.  Those you love can destroy your heart.  You can make mistakes that you will pay for later.  Friends won't always be there and in fact, they can be responsible for some of your heartache.  We meet people and think they're great, when actually there's an ulterior motive on their part.  I had no idea that the shit you see in movies and soap operas could actually happen, and yet this is the life that I am living.  But I'm not alone.  Others experience equal and worse things.  I don't compare my life experience to others though, because we all have our own interpretation of what it looks like and feels like to us.  I don't want anyone comparing their shit with me either.
This is a crap post and I'm actually not sorry at all.  I've kept it to myself and have continued to write about all the funny things that have been happening in between the times when I feel like my entire world is crashing down around me.  Fuck it.  This will probably be my only shitty post for 2012, but it needed to be said.
People, if you're struggling...know you're not alone in your pain.  We are all struggling.  Even those of us who like to write about the humor of life.  Sometimes...it just isn't funny.

My Eye Ball Hurts

Ah, yes...a migraine.  Mother Nature's way of saying, "What?  You've had a really rough day?  Well, let's just add a little something extra to wrap up your evening.  How about I jackhammer a nail behind your left eye?  Sound good?"

No.  It sounds really effed up and totally rude and inconsiderate.

I already know I'm having a shitty day.  It's awful when I get a migraine on top of my shitty day to simply remind me that my day was shitty, still is shitty, and will continue to be shitty until I wake up the next day....and even then, the day can turn into a two-day-shitty-day.  Awesome.

So, it is almost 9 and I'm getting ready to go to bed with a big 'ol cup of caffeine and aspirin.  Hope I get to fall asleep and start fresh tomorrow.

A Day

What?  And today started off...so...well.

I did something today that is so not me.  Anyone who really knows me, knows it is completely against my grain to start up any type of confrontation whatsoever.  But I did.  It was necessary and God damn it, it was time for me to explode after a LONG time of keeping shitty thoughts to myself.  Unfortunately, for the woman who got it from me...she might never be the same.

You know the times when you think after an incident takes place that irritates the shit out of you, you privately say something you wish you'd said?

I said it.

I had just got off the phone having a conversation that bugged the hell out of me, sitting in my car at the gas station, filling up my tank.  Then I looked in my rearview mirror and saw something that got my blood to a very high boiling point.  A gross 40-50 something year old woman was pumping gas behind my car with a lit cigarette hanging out of her mouth and ashes falling to the ground.  This is not the first time I've seen this in my life, but it was the first time I flipped out on someone about their freakin' stupidity.

I got out of my car and this is the craziness of me that happened...

Me:  You know what would be awesome?  Is if you would put out your fucking cigarette when pumping gas!!!

Gross Dumb-Ass Lady:  Oh, yeah...um...ok.

Me:  PULL YOUR HEAD OUT OF YOUR ASS!!!

What the Hell has happened to me???  I am not that way, but maybe I need to be.  I felt weird afterward, but I also felt good about it.  Too many times I've stood back and watched people do really dumb shit and done nothing about it but bitch about it later.  What good does that do?  None.

But, that lady will probably never forget that someone called her out publicly on her poor choice that put my life and others' in danger.

Or she will because she might have been high as shit.

LOUD!!!

Holy hell, there is a lady who comes into this coffee shop who talks at a very unreasonable volume.  VERY unreasonable.  When she's around, I'm not sure if she's having a conversation with the person she's sitting with or with me.  Whenever she shows up, my brain screams, "NOOOOOO!!!!"  She's in the field of marketing.  How do I know?  Because she told me...without telling me.  She told everyone without telling them.  She is obnoxious and terribly distracting.  I can't even write a good blog about her because her nails-on-chalkboard-voice is giving me a bloody nose from the brain damage I'm receiving from her.  I think I'm dying.

I'm dead.

Hey kids...

I saw something when I was leaving the gym this morning that somehow caught my eye.  The colors stood out first, then it was the odd shape of the vehicle, then it was the massive advertising.  This thing looks like a kidnap caboose.  Plenty of room in the back for plenty of delightful children.  I assume the driver is a harmless person simply running a small business from this fucking weird...truck? Station wagon?  Cut up old Volkswagon bus?  What the hell is it?  But if you read it, it lists all things that would entice a child to look at it, read it, and chase it until the vehicle came to a stop.  It does not, however, offer puppies which I feel is missing on this rig.  Besides the fact that it appears to be a kidnap-mobile, it is also an advertisement of shit food when we're all leaving the gym.  No, I do not want cotton candy, or snocones, or popcorn.  But do you have ice cream sandwiches?  I'd love an ice cream sandwich please!  No?  Then get the fuck out of the gym parking lot!  You've wasted my time.

Hell's Kitchen Bleeeeeeeeep!

I have been pleasantly torturing myself for the past couple nights.  I have decided, on purpose, to watch episodes from Hell's Kitchen on Hulu.  I don't usually watch reality TV because I get what I call, severe embarrassment chills.  They make me squirm, practically pull my hair out, and I scream at the TV with a bunch of "NOOOOOOOOs".
But what makes me most uncomfortable...is the swearing.  Believe me, I swear more than my share and then some.  I'm not always a lady with what exits my mouth.  I know I would never have what it takes to do what they do without telling Chef Ramsey to take his tongs and shove them straight up his ass if he were to yell at me like that, but I thoroughly enjoy shouting at the TV about how stupid these people are.  But what makes them more dumb than anything is every other word that comes out of all of their mouths is "BLEEP!"  I cannot understand what they're even saying.  I'm trying to hear what they're all bitching about, but at the same time trying to translate in my wee brain to match theirs in order to comprehend what the hell is even going on!

"That 'BLEEP' is a muth'BLEEP' fu'BLEEP'ing 'BLEEP BLEEP BLEEP BLEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!"

What?

And...FOX is kind enough to pixilate their mouths and hand gestures as if we were looking at boobs and junk.  Thanks, FOX for protecting my eyes so I can't see a damn thing and blowing up my ears with the screechy sounds to mask the ugliness that comes out of these people's faces.  The best part?  It's mostly the woman!  They are so trashy, it's rad.  So professional for people who desire to be Executive Chefs at a major restaurant.  Yeah, good luck with that.

I'm watching what is going on, making fun of the fools for stupid mistakes, but mostly making fun of them for their crap behavior and crap attitudes.

Ramsey at least has earned the right to tell people to fuck off and/or piss off.  Those are his favorites. They don't have to "BLEEP" him out to understand what is coming out of his mouth.

I have successfully given myself an anxiety attack watching this crap.  Bring on the next episode!

Bitch Session

I have to write about this right now because it is happening...right now.  There are two women here at the place that I frequent with their children.  I love kids.  Usually.  I love kids when their parents aren't a little retarded.  Hey, here's a good idea:  Let's let the toddlers jump on and off the stage where there are massive wires and other miscellaneous tripping and electrical hazards!  Fun kids! Fun!

What's super awesome is that all of Wenatchee is in a freaky windstorm and it's been shaking my house and several buildings.  So, I thought coming in here would give me some sort of break from the crazy.  Not so.  Every time those "little ones" would land, my table shook like there was a goddamn earthquake.  Oh, and there's a brick wall to catch their fall as well as a giant metal vent.  Don't forget the outlet box sticking out for their little fingers to go into.  Well done, moms!

Some people shouldn't breed.

Ticket!

There is a woman out here in lil' Wenatchee that loves her job.  Loves it SO much that she wants to spread the love to the rest of us, even if we aren't interested.  Actually, she loves me.  She loves my car.  She loves to hate my car.  This woman is the Meter Maid.  I am not a fan.  Not at all.
There is a law here, unlike in Everett or Seattle, that you can only be parked in one spot for 3 hours - however, then you must LEAVE.  Go!  Get the hell out of town!  I was under the impression that I could leave my parking spot at the 3 hour mark and then scoot on over to a new opening.  There usually is an opening...and I take it.  Well, I got my first ticket about a two to three months ago.  Can't remember.  Pissed?  Yes.  But I broke the rule by letting it go over by 20 minutes.  Seriously.  Then last month or so, got another.  WTF?  Then I got a scathing note on my car in angry doctor's handwriting telling me that I had been breaking some RCW-blah-blah-bullshit rule that apparently states that we are to not park within a 2 block radius of the businesses after 3 hours.  Her chicken scratch continued by telling me to "PARK IN THE PARKING LOT!!!"
Oh, really?  Three exclamation points?  Got it.  She's freaking serious about this rule that NO ONE knows exists unless they work at the local businesses.  But okay.  Got the message.

Well, my back that was feeling so not awesome this week made me want to puke when I thought of walking up from the parking lot carrying my silly heavy briefcase and silly heavy purse to the coffee shop.  Luckily, I came across the Meter Maid before I parked in the parking lot as she was getting ready to leave.  I rolled down my window and made very friendly small talk, even teasing her that she had clearly targeted my car and we laughed.  We laughed and we laughed and we laughed.  Ha ha ha! HAHAHAHAHAHA!!!
I'd made a request that she work with me for that day because I had a pinched nerve that was killing me.  She understood and was convincingly understanding.  She simply told me to go ahead and park up there and to not take advantage of it later.  I agreed and even told her it would probably only be that day and that I heal quickly.  Great!  We were on the same page.  Big smiles, waves, and well wishes were exchanged.  I parked up by the coffee shop and still had difficulty walking with all my shit.  Oh well, I was having a great day and I felt like I Dale Carnegied the shit out of that situation that it gave me bragging rights.  That was until I was done editing my work and headed out to my car...to find another GOD DAMN TICKET!!!
Bitch.
Of course, I laughed as I blurted out every ugly name for the Ticket Nazi that I could pull out of my ass.  While it's only $30, it's freaking $30!  I'm considering taking time out of my life to complain.  Coffee-Shop-Steve suggested that I do since he's lived here forever and has never heard of the "rule" that was plastered all over her note to me, and because she actually gave me permission to park up there.  If she had to uphold the law in this very illegal situation I was walking a very fine line with, all she had to do was tell me no.  But she didn't.  She is an asshole.

Yeah.  Take that, Lady that will never see this or give two shits for that matter.

Bastard Sciatic

My lower left back has been hurting for a little bit lately, but now it's killing me.  I've been wondering if I need to see a chiropractor and get my hips adjusted, but if this is sciatic, I'm just going to have to tough it out.  But now with the smoke outside and any potential allergies I might have...I sneeze.  And when I know the sneeze is coming and the tickle is building up, fear begins to grip at me knowing the torture that is about to present itself.  WhaaaaaaCHOOOOOO!!!
"SONUVABITCH!!  AGHHHHH!"
And then, of course, I laugh.  It makes me laugh because it is so painful, my reaction to it is craziness and it makes me feel old.  Stupid back.  However, I've had this problem since I was in high school.  I've taken Advil and nothing.  I'm going to try heat on my back, too.  Mike suggested Tylenol even though in my entire life, it has NEVER worked for me.  But what have I got to lose...except for pain?
Well, no Tylenol in the house except for a bottle of Pediacare for Farrah.  Someone my size takes 4tsp. I never did well as a child taking liquid medicine.  And the curse continues.  I tossed it back to find it just slowly oozed in, so there was no escape to quickly chase it with something that would kill the sick taste.  Blech!  And the worst part?  It had SO much sugar in it, it had a Pop Rocks crunch to it.  Farrah actually asked me prior to me taking it how many calories it had in it.  What the hell?!!  I NEVER talk about calories because I don't give a rat's ass.  However, after taking that god-awful medicine I let her know I just had about 400 calories.  Gross.  Me.  Out.

I hope this works because I have to vacuum and dust and I know there will be a sneeze or two in my future.  Shit.  Just sneezed and it sucked.

Fiiiiiiiire!

On September 9th, we had an amazing thunderstorm.  Thunderstorms are my total favorite.  They don't scare me in the slightest and I simply find them fascinating.  Farrah and I watched from the porch and it was incredible.  Strike after beautiful strike followed by a bellowing boom.  Sometimes when I watch the storms we get out here, I'm quite vocal about my amazement with them and of course, my neighbors come out to see what all the commotion is about.  Unfortunately, sometimes I let out a "Holy SHIT!!" when it is a wicked forked bolt.  This time of year, we can get them several days in a row.  Well, Saturday was the night that went throughout all of Wenatchee, East Wenatchee, and behind us toward Cashmere.  It lasted for hours and hours.  Sunday, Farrah and I did some chores, took advantage of it being Sunday and didn't even bother to look around at what was the beginning of a nightmare.

Monday morning, I read the weather report and that is how I help determine what Farrah and I will be wearing for the day.  It's super cool in the mornings and then hot in the afternoons.  We also judge what could be awaiting us by checking out the sky before we leave to see what types of clouds are in the sky.  Puffy innocent clouds?  Sheet clouds that could create wind?  Dark balls of clouds which could be more lightening?  So on and so forth.  Farrah said, "Mommy, those look like storm clouds. They're pretty dark."  I wasn't looking in her direction and said, "What are you talking about?  There's only cute puffy clouds out here." "No." Then she pointed me towards what she was seeing.  An all too familiar site that I'd seen out here before.  Brown clouds.

Brown clouds mean smoke...and a lot of it.  Hmm, well I figured we'd see where it was coming from. We drove and the closer we got to Farrah's school the more smoke we saw and we started to see fire.  This was freaking us both out.  However, to put Farrah at ease I pointed out that the fire wasn't heading down the hill toward her school, but rather over the other side.  The day went on and the wind picked up...toward Farrah's school.  By the time I picked her up, I saw that the fire had crept down the hill more and close to a house.  Mind you, when I say "hill", it's more like a small mountain really up close.  Apparently, when I picked her up, Farrah had been very upset and scared about the fires.  However, her fear wasn't that the fires were getting closer and bigger, but whether or not I was okay.  She's awesome.  She worried about me while I worried about her.

Well, it has been weeks since the fires in Central Washington broke out and it hasn't improved.  In fact, it has gotten worse.  The worst part about the fires is the smoke.  Wenatchee has 300 days of no rain...in Washington State.  It is why many people have packed up and headed over here.  It's not as depressingly grey as it is towards the coast.  Now, however, the skies have been covered in a thick fog of smoke everywhere we go.  I got a little emotional one day watching kids walk home from school covering their faces with their shirts because it was so hard to breathe.  I hated seeing that.  Everywhere I went I saw what I thought were little white bugs flying around when in fact, it was ash.  We've been breathing in what we can see...so who knows what we've been breathing in that we can't?  Air quality having a range between 0 (perfect) to 500 (hazardous)---we're at 500+.  I've heard that they can't even give an accurate number of how bad it truly is because it's really beyond the 500 mark.  And it took almost a WEEK for anyone to give us any type of information as to what that even meant.  Supposedly, it is worse than breathing in Mount St. Helens ash when it blew, one week is worse than breathing in L.A.'s smog for a year, and it's as bad if not worse than being a lifetime smoker.  Smokers take a drag of their cigarette and then breathe in oxygen.  We are all simply breathing in toxins with every breath we take.

Farrah's school finally got cancelled on Friday and Monday.  We were pretty much hunkering down in the house because if we even opened the door once, it was like getting punched in the face with campfire smoke.  We had to sleep in the living room with the humidifier going and fans blowing the air in the house we already had all around.  Even if it got hot outside, it was best to turn off the AC.  Eventually, I couldn't take it and had to turn it on and hope I set it right for recirculating air.  Ugh.  I hadn't even noticed how lethargic I was.  I had't noticed the mucous-yness in my throat.  I hadn't noticed that I constantly felt like I was breathing through two cotton balls.  And I hadn't noticed that my voice started to sound like a 70 year old smoker's.  But I did notice the massive migraine I got that knocked me on my ass for almost 2 days.  Finally, I decided we needed to get out of town.  I'd called Farrah's teacher and she was shocked that we hadn't left for a little reprieve since they'd started.  Well, no.  There were several times that I did go out and see how bad the smoke was and found that I didn't smell it anymore.  I still couldn't see much further than 100 feet past my back yard when I can normally see the valley and all of Wenatchee, but the air smelled better.  I would take in deep breaths, oblivious to the fact that: just because I couldn't smell it, didn't mean it wasn't there.  I couldn't smell it because I was used to it.

Farrah and I packed as fast as we could because it was getting late and driving over the pass at night is dangerous but I wasn't about to spend another night there.  That's when it's the worst.  We bailed and as soon as we crossed the pass through a haze of what looked like fog, but was smoke, I rolled down the windows and it smelled sweet.  It smelt like pine!  It was the craziest smell!  It was fresh and healthy air.  So, we've been on the West side to clear up our lungs...for now.  At some point, we need to go back.  That's my home and my stuff and Farrah's school.  But now I'm hearing from Mike that it's back to very hazardous levels and the particles that they're measuring out there are so fine that it will be impossible to cough them out.  They'll be stuck in our lungs.  What would the long term effects be?And, we're not even sure if they measure carbon monoxide.  What a freakin' nightmare.

However, to put a kinda funny spin on it... the night of the thunderstorm, Farrah and I pretended like we were shooting our arms out and causing the lightening strikes.  We do silly stuff like that...because I have a 5 year old.  There were so many bolts it was easy to pretend that one of us made one of the bolts strike.  Well, 2 days ago Farrah quietly told me she was concerned that it was one of her bolts of lightening that started the fires.  I told her it was possible.  And her response was, "My bad."

What?!!

A Lil' Dilemma

So, I got a tattoo over a year ago on my wrist that says, "Who Cares" because it is a motto I have lived by for a very long time.  It began sometime around 2001, when I wasn't going to be able to make my car payment on time (mind you...it was going to be like a day or two late).  I called Mike from work in tears telling him about my problem.  I NEVER went to Mike for money.  Ever.  And I didn't then either.  He and I were very independent with our money and I clearly didn't make what he made at the time.  We didn't even share a checking account until we'd been married for a couple of years and that's after we'd been together for 7!

But, I digress.

I was working in escrow at the time and in my little office crying about paying a bill on time and he had to pull himself away to comfort me with these words, "Who cares?"  I was shocked.  Who cares?  I did.  But then he added, "If you don't pay it today, are they coming to take the car?  No.  Are they going to break your legs?  No.  Are you going to die?  No.  Is it the end of the world?  No.  So...who cares?"

I've held onto that moment and those words for a very long time.  I've used them when I've felt like my world was falling apart and others had the joy of shitting on it in the process.  I've used those words when I've thought all was lost, and I found myself.  I've used those words even against the man who shared them with me in the first place in order for me to find peace in a moment.  But they are words that forever mean something to me and they are words that Mike has shared time and time again in moments when I've needed to hear them the most throughout our 15 years together and 10 years of marriage.  I have, since, changed the phrase to "Don't give a shit" on my mirror included in a long list of positive affirmations.  Not as pretty, but very effective.

But, I digress...again.

Here's my problem.  My tattoo...kinda looks like shit.  The ink didn't take in the word "who", so it looks faded and well...like shit.  I'd like to get it fixed, but the irony is what I'm fixing.  If I were to share this with a tattoo artist to fix, the hilarity that would follow would be a tad uncomfortable.  But "who cares," right?  My tattoo looks like it is in need of a touch up, but "who cares."  I'm not happy with how it turned out, but "who cares?"

Shit.

I guess I do.  The irony is thick with this problem and I'm conflicted because I truly have lived a pretty hard freaking life by these words and how can I even think about fixing it?  But "who cares" that I want my "who cares" tattoo fixed?  Ugh.  See?  Not sure what to do.

Salad Debacle Part Deux

Had to write about this one because it was (at least for me) too funny not to.  Recently, at my favorite little place I go every weekday, I've ordered a mixed green salad rather than the Caesar salad that failed miserably.  Every time I order the mixed green, I'm asked, "Would you like them to mix it with the dressing?"
"Yes, please."
But what I receive is a side of Balsamic Vinaigrette.  Why?  I've ordered it three times, been asked the same question three times, and three times...they refuse to toss my salad.

Why won't they toss the salad?  They have all the tools in the kitchen to toss the salad and yet, they just won't do it.

So, we all know what that means.  I have to end up tossing my own salad.  This is a very difficult and awkward task as I do not have the right equipment to do it.

Also, I'm usually surrounded by some of my things so I have to bend to the side to toss my salad.

Okay...do you get what I'm doing here?  My mind went right to the gutter this afternoon when I had a conversation with Mike about why the cafe wouldn't toss my salad and BAM! Blog-story.

Dumb...but I told myself I'd write about it.  Mission accomplished.

Potter Curiosity

Seen the movies a zillion times, and yet I'm puzzled with the very last scene of the very last movie.  Spoiler Alert:  I'm going to Spoil the ending here.

This is a complaint I have with the final scene of the last movie because it simply struck me as odd that when it shows Hermoine, Ron, and Harry & his wife at the end...they kinda all look like shit.  I mean, the kids are dressed okay, but everyone else seems to have completely phoned it in.  Dark circles under eyes, shabby clothing, dirty shoes, crappy coats, and weirdly unkempt hair.  And their noses.  All their noses are bigger - quite noticeably.  Is mine that much bigger than it was when I was 17?  Holy shit, I hope not!

Here's where my confusion and disappointment comes in:

Harry, Hermoine, and Ron were all responsible for KILLING VOLDERMORT.  I guess that's kind of a big deal, right?  Like if a few children got past security and killed Hitler or some other evil example like that...they might be considered heroes, right?  But then why, why do they look like they work at the DMV?  I would imagine that Hermoine would hold some sort of position in politics.  Harry would probably be taken care of for the rest of his life as a sort of "thank you" from THE WORLD.  And Ron, well, he'd be equally praised for just being super rad.  Harry's wife...meh.  But, she did marry "the boy that wouldn't die, who died, an then didn't die again".

So what does someone have to do to get commended?  For Christ's sake, freakin' Malfoy at the end of the movie is looking all suave and fancy-pants, but he was a douche bag his whole time growing up and tried to MURDER people.  He may not have been a fan of the potential murdering, but still...douche.  His whole family followed the big 'ol bad guy, and he gets to show up at the train station looking all awesome sending his son off and barely nods any type of acknowledgement to Harry.  "Yeah, you're welcome for saving your freakin' life.  You're welcome. I could've let you burn to a crisp in that fire and watched you cry like a little girl, but no, saved your life so you could have a son and your super hot wife." said Harry, in my version of the ending.

I don't know if others feel the same as me about this movie or not because I think I've watched 100 marathons of the movies.  Great background noise.  So, now I have a stupid opinion that doesn't even matter, and yet here I am typing about it...because for some reason...it does to me.

One more thing, when all his dead friends and family come to greet him before he goes off to confront Voldermort and voluntarily die, where the hell is Fred?  He'd been very close friends with Harry for years and wasn't part of the "send-off" party.  Why?  He should've been there.  He should've been there.

Oh, why do I watch these movies so many times to formulate a non important subject to write about?  What has become of my life?

Oh well, better stop typing so I can go back to my marathon...again.

Pffffft.

Charmin Softness

Farrah:    "Mommy, why are there bears in a commercial for toilet paper?"

Me:         "Because Charmin toilet paper is made out of bears."

Farrah:    "Whhhhat?!!

Me:         "Yeah.  Bear fur is really soft, so the company at Charmin thought it would be a good idea to make super soft toilet paper out of bear fur.  That way it doesn't hurt if you wipe more than once."

Farrah:    "I don't like that."

Me:         "I know honey.  Me neither.  That's why we don't buy Charmin because I don't believe in bear-fur toilet paper.  We'll keep using the stuff made out of trees."

Farrah:    "Whhhhat?!"

Grandma Kathy

I am a Grandma today!  Alex and Joanie had their daughter, Reese Elizabeth Moody.  I couldn't be happier to have such a beautiful little addition to our Moody family.  Farrah is super excited to be an Auntie!  How cool will it be for Reese to come over and play?  She'll have someone to play with (other than me and Mike).  Farrah has been practicing holding her doll just right so she will know how to hold Reese.  Mike and I went to the hospital tonight to meet our Granddaughter and she's gorgeous.  She and Farrah have matching toes!  Mike was beaming with pride.  GrandpaMoo.  ; )  Alex and Joanie, I'm so proud of you two and I love you both to death!  Thank you so much for bringing Reese into such a big family that is full of a lot of love.  Your daughter is going to grow up to be such a happy little person with such great parents.  Welcome to the family Reese!  You're already loved so much.

Little Miss Reese Elizabeth Moody

Proud GrandpaMOO

Special moment between my husband, my stepson, and my granddaughter.  Love you all.

One tough mama! You did such an amazing job, Joanie.  I love you and can't wait to see you in action. You're going to be a wonderful mother.  Alex and you will make it look easy.

Fifty Shades of GREAT

Yes, I read the books.  All three of them.  Beginning to end.  And truthfully, I was entertained.  Once you get through all the screwing (which I totally don't mind reading about...who doesn't?), the story is fun.  It isn't a favorite of mine, but if a book can make my eyes water a little, big points to the author.

I am a total nerd, but I kind of have to be for the path and journey I'm on.  So, I'll read anything at this time that might spark some extra imagination for me.  Plus, reading exercises my brain.  Shit, I must be a genius by now! (Kidding)

I read the first book and yawned from time to time when there were too many (is it possible, yes) "sex scenes" because every book I read gets down and dirty.  Reeeeal dirty.  Nowadays, that is what the public wants.  OBVIOUSLY, by the massive positive outcry for this book that so many have expressed.  But I'd finished a lot of other books recently and decided to go back and read Book 1 again.  Okay.  It wasn't boring as much as I just wanted to focus on the character development.  Once I got that, I started to really enjoy it.  Then I bought book 2.  Read it.  Then book 3.  Finished.

It's fun.  It's flirty.  It's rags to riches.  It's naughty (I mean down right constant CONSTANT f*cking; sometimes it simply gets to the point that you skim through the screwing so you can get back to the story), but like I said...I was entertained.  KUDOS to the author for doing something that she'd always wanted to do, take on such a risqué topic (and in three books nonetheless), and making so many women out there HAPPY that someone could appeal to what women want.
Side note:  I noticed at the grocery store yesterday where all the Fifty Shades of Grey books are, below them are about 4 other books that are all about sex.  Clearly, Pandora's sex box (hee hee) has been opened.  Thank you writers!  You're so scandalous.

I only have 3 favorite authors who's style is very much like mine and I've been lucky enough to have discovered them.  Every author has a different style, different way to tell a story, and a different way to keep readers intrigued.  There are some that get published and I'm like, "what?"  But, again, there is something for everyone.  And a story teller for everyone.  I've read some really awful stuff, but I'll admit that Fifty Shades will not go on my shelf in the "Do Not Ever Read Ever Again Even If You're Sick Or Broke And Can't Afford Any More Books" section.

Honestly, I think a BIG part of me enjoyed reading this because the author chased a dream and succeeded immensely!  How can one not be inspired by that?  So, while reading these books that had some serious effed up (but not at all horrible) parts to it...it made it even so much better knowing I was reading something that someone decided it was time to make a change and do something she'd always wanted to do.

I might start reading them again.  Like I said, I'm a nerd.  And...we'll call it "research".  ; ) 

Awwwwwwwww YEEEEEAAAAHHHHH

We bought a pool!  It's been about 100 degrees everyday this summer and will continue probably until the end of September.  It's HOT!!!  Sometimes it's too hot to open the door and step outside for more than 10 seconds.  I have literally stepped out and turned right back around to go into my wonderfully air conditioned house.  However, we've been missing out on enjoying the sunshine because we can't even sunbathe for more than one hour to half an hour even with the sprinkler giving us a little break from the angry sun.  

So we made the decision....

Time for a pool that was more than the blow-up pool that only goes up to our calves.  Can't quite afford the in-ground  pool just yet, so we went another direction.  

Jealous?

You should be, because it's hotter than hell over here and we actually get to enjoy some sunshine and not get crispy!

Moves Like Jagger...

Nope, I still have not seen "Magic Mike" but I have every intention to see it.  Nah, this is about my Friday-Night-Life.  It's not as fantastic as you'd think but I think it's pretty freakin' fun.  Sometimes I get a wild hair and plug my phone into the Bose stereo in the kitchen and blast the hell out of it.  And I dance.  Dance like a maniac.  In slippers.  Nothing sexier than that.  So, tonight started with "Moves Like Jagger" and danced like I was in a club for Farrah.  Probably not appropriate, but who cares?  She won't judge me.  When she was done eating dinner, she actually joined in the fun and I was quite impressed with her skills.  Skills she learned from watching...me.  Then one of her favorites, "Video Killed the Radio Star."  I had to chalk it up to my cardio for the day because it's damn hot out here even with the AC, but still a sweaty mess.  But TOTALLY worth it!  Mind you, as soon as I find a club I can shake what I workout so hard on, I'm grabbing a friend and going out dammit!  Because honestly, dancing in a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, kick my slippers off and finish my moves in socks...not hot.  But sometimes...it is. ; )-

Smiley

This is a dumb, but "feel good" post.  My cheeks are hurting from smiling so much and laughing so hard, and what a great way to go to bed? Why? Because for the past year, I have deprived myself of watching the Daily Show. AppleTV and Hulu decided to go out for some cocktails, go dancing and hook- up and it looks like I now have the joy of watching one of my very favorite shows. So I've watched three episodes and enjoyed several scream-laugh moments all to myself and grinning ear to ear from the moment a show would start until the credits rolled. Ahhh...back to some normalness for me that I thoroughly enjoy. Thank you AppleTV and Hulu for being smart and sharing your love of each other with the rest of us. I heart you.

Bisque-gusting

I thought of this title and figured it was so rad I might not even have to tell the story associated with it.  But then you'd be left hanging and wondering, "Kathy. What was so bisque-gusting?"  Oh, I'll share.  Warning though, it is one of those stories that suck and aren't funny or really even interesting.  I just like my title because it's so damn clever.
Here's the lame story...  I live near a Fred Meyer and the other day Farrah and I needed to make a quick stop for various crap and I wanted to get back home for the opening ceremonies for the Olympics.  While there, I eyeballed the soup section where they sell their "selected" soups.  Easy.  No effort.  The perfect dinner.  I grabbed the Lobster Bisque with Sherry.  Mmmm...sounds interesting.  Why the Lobster Bisque?  When I was 18, my parents took me out to dinner for my birthday and I'd had Lobster Bisque.  It was wonderful.  Being the silly person that I am, I assumed Fred Meyer had the same quality of soup as the 5 star restaurant I'd been to.  Of course, I expected the same damn soup.  I cooked it, sat down to watch a cheesy movie, and could feel my face contort.
It was pretty terrible.  And yet, I continued to eat it.  I don't know why sometimes I do this.  Maybe I think of starving people and I feel guilty if I don't finish.  Maybe my tastebuds will adjust and miraculously the taste will improve.  Maybe I know I spent a good hard earned 5 dollars on this crap that could have just as easily gone to the coffee shop I go to everyday for a mocha.  I just kept eating it.  What makes it so effed up was I could actually pinpoint what the flavor was that I was tasting.
Bile.
Somehow, Fred Meyer had found a way to make Bile Soup and call it Lobster Bisque.  LIARS!  You know when you are running around and you kinda over do it and a little up-chuck burns your throat.  That's bile.  That taste...is Fred Meyer's Lobster Bisque with Sherry.

Ultimately...I threw in the towel and made myself something else to eat.

It was worth having a bowl of bile just to come up with the title of this blog entry.

The soup was Bisque-gusting.  Get it?

Salad Debacle

I ordered lunch today and chose the Caesar salad as I have before, with chicken.  When the girl put the plate down in front of me, I started to chuckle.  "So...am I suppose to cut the romaine?"  The romaine lettuce was cut in long sheets about 8-9 inches long and had strips of chicken and drizzled dressing over the top.  She quickly brought over a butter knife for me and I had to shake my head.  I let her know that I hate being a complainer, but there was no way that I was going to be able to "chop" the lettuce as it should have been in the first place with a butter knife nor on the size of plate that had been given to me.  I told her I just wanted lunch but didn't want to work so hard to get the food into my mouth.  She said this was how it had always been.  Not true.  I had the same salad and loved it last week.  The romaine was chopped in bite size pieces in a large bowl with bite size grilled chicken.  She told me she would take it back to the back and have them cut up the lettuce for me.  Grrrreat.  We all know what kind of risk we take when we send something back.
She took it and and brought back what looked like the chef had taken the knife through the whole thing one time because a single piece of lettuce was the size of my face and placed in a small bowl.  When she brought it, I thanked her for trying and let her know I'll still have to cut it and I just didn't want to make a mess.  So what happened?  Every time I cut a piece of the romaine, 2 pieces would fall onto the table.  This happened about 3 times until I had a small pile of my lunch ON the table and not one bite yet in my mouth.  Eff.  This.
I signaled for someone else who looked like they were more in a management position and told him to just take it back.  He looked at it and said, "Why is it in such a small bowl?  Did you get the long strips of romaine?"  Ugh.  He looked at the mess in front of me and I said I hate to be the person to send something back, but this was stupid.  He took it back with no qualms and returned to me a normal Caesar salad.

Here's the thing...
I learned in Culinary Arts that the food you made needed to be beautiful, delicious, but also practical to eat.  This was someone trying something way too artsy and impossible to eat, and therefore not fun to enjoy.  For the price I paid for my salad, I shouldn't have been expected to do all the freakin' work.  That's how it felt:  Here's a bunch of leaves of romaine lettuce, a few strips of chicken, some giant croutons, and a lot of drizzled dressing.  Good luck not getting it all over your shirt and thanks for the money to do my job for me.

Anyway, not ordering that again.  That's not artsy...that's lazy.  No matter how pretty the presentation looks, I should still be able to eat the damn thing.

Fail.

Hand Shaker

I can't be positive that I haven't already posted about this subject matter at some point or not...but if I have, it must be because it's important.  When meeting someone for the first time, I think people should take some time to evaluate how they intend to shake the other person's hand.  First, don't have a pussy hand shake.  ESPECIALLY if you're a guy.  Nothing makes me have less faith in whatever you're going to be like when I feel like I need to bow down and kiss your hand like a gentleman.  Because I'm not a gentleman.  I'm a 100 pound woman who shouldn't have a stronger hand shake than you.  Also, don't be a sweaty mess.  Hell, be honest and even tell me as you're wiping the sweat off onto your pants that your hands are all sweaty before you touch my hand.  I don't mind.  I mind, however, suddenly having a hand that I now have to wipe on my pants.  Thanks.  Finally, there are the guys that have to either prove their masculinity by trying to break my bones in our friendly greeting.  What is wrong with these people??!  I just met some guy who works out at my gym and he introduced himself to me by squeezing my hand and fingers together to the point of almost cracking something.  BE CAREFUL!!!  I'm delicate!  Also, it makes me super angry when my hand is being gripped by a stranger and I feel like I'm already in an abusive relationship with them before I can share what my name is.  When guys do that to each other, it is positively rude.  It's almost a sign of pea-cocking without actually having to puff out the chest.  It's like a game of "who's got the stronger handshake".  Well, asses, to take you seriously in any type of greeting when shaking hands, your handshake must be firm and serious but never painful.  You're just a jerk at that point whether you realize it or not.  How about you practice shaking hands with your mother or 90 year old grandmother?  Or try with a homeless man who's lost everything.  Would you be such a jerk that you would grab that man's hand and squeeze what's left of his pride out of his hand, or would you shake it like you are truly glad to meet him?

In any case, this obviously just happened.  I should've said, "Hey jackass! Nice to meet you, but how about I take a hammer and slam it down on your hand and see if that enhances this greeting.  You'd hate me about as much as I'm hating you right now."  But, I'm not that way so I let him get away with it unfortunately and he will shake someone else's hand violently and they will suffer...and I honestly don't think he is even aware that his handshake is a total put off.  Next time I see him I'll just waive.  Protecting myself.  Geez, sweaty-hands-McGee just came up and said hello and now my right hand with it's delicate bones and tendons are also covered in someone else's sweat.  Gross.

Ssssssssssnake

For the past few days, my garage has been a stinky stinky smelly gross...place.  Couldn't think of another word there.  Well, I've been wondering what the hell I dumped in the garbage to make the whole place smell like death.  Did I roast a chicken like a month ago and suddenly decide to throw it away now?  Did I decide to thaw out some trout that we caught while camping and just keep it in the garbage can for the past 2 weeks?  Did I change a shitty diaper and wrap it up in another shitty diaper and not remember doing it?  Why, god, why did it smell so bad?  I sprayed all of my recycle cans as well as the garbage can down with a ridiculous amount of Lysol hoping that it would ward off the stench until garbage day.  Yesterday, Farrah and I were walking through the garage to head for the mailbox and low and behold...the smelly problem made itself known.  Somehow, a gardner snake had slithered its way into our garage and miraculously got its whole midsection smushed, like something drove over it.  I don't know how it would have been driven over and then drug its sorry snake ass back into my garage to live out its final hours, but something along those lines happened.  After the discovery had been made, Farrah and I had the heeby-geebies all the way to the mailbox and back.

How the hell was I going to get the evil dead out of my garage?  Every time I visualized any means to do it...I'd wiggle around as if a mouse just dove down my shirt.  But it would have to happen eventually.  Now that I knew what the source of the stink was coming from, my gag reflexes were working overtime whenever I walked out there.

So, once I picked Farrah up from Summer Camp/Summer School, I made the critical decision.  It had to be done.  Today.  But like hell if I was doing it alone!  Farrah was going to have to be my side kick in this matter whether she wanted to be or not!  I grabbed a shovel and moved certain obstacles out of the way to do what I had to do.  I knew if I watched what I was doing, I'd probably freak out.  So, I decided to use the shovel and angled it for the thrust to scoop up what I could with my head turned the other direction (I could tell part of the snake was "stuck" to the ground).  Once I felt the weight shift onto the shovel's head and I looked, I screamed like the goddamn thing woke up and I started to run from the dead snake.  This wasn't just a dead snake.  It had some sort of bulge that I had assumed was it's guts being pushed all together because on the other end, it's eyeballs were pushed out of its face.  I know.  Gross.  But it wasn't its guts.  No.  The bulge was a silly massive amount of maggots withering around having the time of their life while I watched in horror.  How on Earth was I going to scoop this thing up which still had a foot of tail that needed to be taken along with the rest of its dead body?  I gave the snow shovel a small glance, then said screw it.  I couldn't be a total pussy about this, so no to the snow shovel.  I gave my shovel one more push and made sure I had the whole damn snake while I ran with it.  Then came Farrah's role in the whole ordeal:
"MOMMY!! THROW IT IN THE NEIGHBOR'S YARD!! THROW IT IN THE NEIGHBOR'S YARD!!!"
Well, that was out of the question because, of course, they would have heard her giving me directions on where to discard the carcass.  So I opted for some rocks near a bush in the open where I prayed some other nasty ass animal might find it appealing and eat it.  Or even better, have the upcoming 90+ degree weather completely dry that thing out.

In the meantime, the area in which the snake had met its unfortunate death and stuck a little to the garage floor, I had sprayed down with kitchen bleach cleaner.  That wasn't enough for me because there were about 10 maggots still crawling around in the poison.  So I went for the gusto and poured about 1-2 cups of bleach on the whole area.  The damn things were swimming in it.  Farrah was freaking out because "it wasn't working!!!"  I let her know to just give it time.  They would not survive.  Payback for the poor snake.  The poor, disgusting, smelly, rotten, decaying, maggot infested snake that chose my freakin' garage.

I hope it goes to hell.

Look at the eyes!  Sick.

15 Years Today

15 years ago today, I had my first date with Mike Moody.  I had been looking forward to an evening with him and scared as hell, too.  It was on a Sunday.  We went to the Ponderosa Tavern even though I was only 20 at the time and he was 30.  He told the bartender not to give me a hard time for not having my ID on me because I was going to be "the next Mrs. Moody".  He even had the courage to tell me he told her that and asked me if that bothered me.  I remember smiling at him, blushing, and admitting that it didn't bother me at all.  We shared a pitcher of beer (probably Bud Light) and talked all night.  Mike was razzed by a bunch of his friends about our date and we came to find that we had several mutual friends, too.  That made things easy so that there wasn't a whole lot of awkwardness in meeting everyone.  His sister was there too.  We stayed until we felt we'd talked all that we could for the night before a work day (plus we'd been getting to know each other for the past two days always up until 6AM - this just happened to be our "official" date).  When we arrived at his house, he walked me to my car and we both said that we had a great time and we'd like to see each other again.  Then Mike said, "Would it be alright if I kissed you?" Melt.  Of course.  It was gentle and passionate and absolutely forever unforgettable.

Ironically, I had been reading a book last night when one of the main characters said the same exact thing...I smiled and started to cry.  When Mike and I were together that first night, everything about it was fun, exciting, new, and romantic.  For crying out loud, what he said to me 15 years ago, just so happened to be in a book that's 3 years old!

Happy Anniversary Mr. Michael Moody

Love Always,

Mrs. Michael Moody

Graduation 2012

On the 20th of June, Miss Farrah Raquelle Moody graduated from the Kinder-Ready program at her school.  It was held at a park on a perfectly beautiful day.  Farrah had her dress all picked out for the day which actually started in the morning at a different park where there was a bouncy house, face painting and oh god, a clown.  All the kids got pop cycles, Farrah and I sat on our picnic blanket in the back of the group (can't be too close to clowns), and when it was finally time to do the balloon tricks, L-Bow the clown walked back to give Farrah the poodle, while the rest of the kids whined about it.  Lucky.
Anyway, we got her all ready and I even did her hair the same way I did for her first day of school.  Mike was in charge of picking up some flowers, but I had to give the list of what not to buy that could make me non-functional due to stupid flower allergies. They turned out awesome.  They even put glitter on the flowers!
Well, we (parents) were in charge of bringing assigned pot-luck dishes for the post grad picnic.  This is a very healthy school so pretty much everything was green.  I thought long and hard about what healthy salad I could bring since that was my task, and I decided to go for unhealthy instead.  I made two LARGE dishes of Caesar salad with lots of cheese and croutons.  I know this post is about Farrah's graduation, but sorry, I'm giving myself a BIG pat on the back for picking something that went in a hurry.  It was almost like a relief to many when we opened our two containers of sauciness , cheesiness, croutony, and some Romaine lettucey goodness.  Are any of those words?

Anyway, the kids all sat in a line in alphabetical order and Miss Becky began to speak and immediately began to cry, which of course made the rest of us get teary eyed.  She just loves the kids so much and the teachers with all her heart.  After her speech, the diplomas were handed out to each child, along with a photo of their class, and a rose.  After their name was called and they gathered their things, it was announced what they wanted to be when they grew up.  Audrey, Farrah's best friend, wants to be a podiatrist.  What?  Then there were two heart surgeons-to-be, firemen, police officer, and other things that made me think I definitely had Farrah at the right school.  Everyone was so ambitious!  Then Farrah's turn, "Farrah Raquelle Moody!  Farrah wants to be a cooker and a singer when she grows up!"  Of course I cheered for our little girl.  She knew she wanted to be a chef before she ever even knew that's what I went to school for.  And singing?  That's just a given in our musical family.
We got lots of pictures and couldn't help beam with pride with the awesomeness that is our Farrah.  The three of us stayed until the very end.  I remember Glen, Audrey's dad look a little confused and asked Audrey if she knew what a podiatrist is (because this seemed to be a surprise to him and Cheryl) and Audrey said no.  Then he explained what it was, and then she said, "Oh yeah. That's what I want to be!"  So kudos to Audrey!

Farrah, I can't say how proud I am of you and have it mean as much as I feel it.  You have lovely penmanship, you can do math, you love science and are intrigued with planets and dinosaurs.  You are incredibly good at art and you tell me all the time, "But mommy, I'm only 5 years old and I don't know much stuff.  I need you to tell me everything!"  I will do my best and I am doing my best.  You are so bright and knowledgable at such a young age, I can hardly fathom what wonderful adult you will become because at 5, you're one of the very best people I know.  Your intuition is very uncanny and your desire to see everyone around you happy is a characteristic that at your age is not learned, but simply ingrained into your soul.  I love you so much.  You are what I want to be when I grow up! ; )

Winter Coat

This isn't about the one hanging in my closet.  I'm wondering if we, as humans, have "winter coats" like other animals.  Both Farrah and I have experienced an excessive amount of "shedding" lately and quite frankly, my vacuum can't keep up.  Thank god we have a lot of hair, some we can spare.  We moved from an area where the climate was at a consistently uncomfortable temperature except for 2 months (maybe 3 if we were lucky) out of the year.    Yes, like normal people I'd comb my hair and expect a strand here and there.  No big deal.  But holy geez!  This is out of freakin' control!!  I've been in 10 degree weather throughout the winter and in some windy and crazy snow storms on this side of the mountains.  Chilly!  Now, it's going to be 90 tomorrow.  I'm hoping desperately that Farrah and I are dropping what I can only imagine that can be a winter coat due to the harsh change in temperatures.  I also hope this stops soon because I'm sick of finding strands in every towel I grab and every pair of socks I own.  They're like magnets.  I have to constantly pull an invisible hair off of my right elbow at least twice a day.  I always get it, but it drives me nuts!  Anyway, weird post, I know, but this hair madness must end soon.

The Most Entertaining Travel Experience

About a week ago, I went to CA for business with Mike.  The trip itself was awesome and successful.  We met some great people and look forward to building some amazing relationships with them all, let alone doing business with them.

But what I'm writing about has absolutely nothing to do with that.  My lil' story begins at the airport on our way back to Seattle.  We were in a pretty long line for Alaska Airlines and it was moving very slowly.  Mike had me stay in line while he went to one of the kiosks to check us in and get our tickets.  While he did that, I watched the men on the other side of his kiosk, using theirs.  They were older men who had been standing there from the moment we walked through the door, got in line, Mike got us checked in, and got back in line.  They were there until we made it towards the front of the line and their wives in front of us began to panic.  At the moment that it looked like we were getting close, the counter ladies started to make announcements for anyone who was there for the 7AM flight to come to the front of the line.  Ummm....what?  One by one, people behind us started to make their way in front of us and I remember thinking, what the hell??  We were there on time and when the airlines tell us to be there: 2 hours before flight's departure.  These people were an hour late and their plane was loading. I remember when that had happened to us.  And we weren't moved to the front of the line.  In fact we were told: too freakin' bad and we'd have to wait until an airline had an opening for us.  OUR flight hadn't even started to board yet and we were still considered to late.  But I guess Alaska Airlines treats people different.  Once all the tardies made their way away from the front counter and on their way to security, there was one more person that I noticed.  A little old lady who held a paper that looked like it was printed from Expedia.com in her hands.  She walked up to an Alaska Airlines person and said, "I don't know what I'm supposed to do."  They proceeded to scoot her up to the front of the line.  Again, the rest of us were just waiting patiently for our turn that was actually 20 minutes ago.  I simply watched, entertained.  I had to mentally scold myself that she was just a little old lady that "didn't know what she was doing."  Yeah right.
She knew.
She knew.
She was another 8AM passenger along with the rest of us.  And off she went to security while the rest of us sweaty and tired people waited to flagged down for our turn.  We got checked in finally and we were on our way to security at the John Wayne airport.  Worst - Security - Ever.  Long ass lines in a tiny airport with SO many security personel.  While we waited in line, there was a man to our left who was in super panic mode while he spoke quite loudly in his cell phone, "I DON'T KNOW HONEY!! I'VE BEEN HERE WAITING FOR YOU!!  I'M PROBABLY GOING TO MISS MY FUCKING FLIGHT BECAUSE I'M SURE NONE OF THE PEOPLE IN FRONT OF ME ARE GOING TO LET ME GO AHEAD OF THEM. - Oh, thank you."  Yes, we let him in front of us.  Then a couple of  VIP fliers walked in front of us.  I couldn't help but smile and laugh then say, "Should I say no cuts-ees to them?  Because that was weird."  These two guys didn't even acknowledge that we were standing there and then they were suddenly in front of us.  How do you not realize you walked in front of two people let alone a whole line and not feel a little shitty about it?
So, we waited in this stupid long line that seemed to go on forever.  I made sure all my lip gloss and hand sanitizer was set aside so my purse wouldn't get searched again.  The yelling-cell-phone-man was still freaking out and swearing and sweating and pacing in his little space of nothingness.  He kept sighing really loud.  He made sure EVERYONE around him knew he was pressed for time.  We got it!  Someone even signaled that he go ahead to the next line that looked like it was moving faster, but no, security lady said, "These ladies were first.  You'll have to wait."  "FUCK!!!"  And my reaction?  Laughter, of course.  How was it not funny to see this poor guy get nothing but bad luck.  I turned to Mike and said, "Would it be terrible of me to wish that they pull him aside to get patted down?  Oh please, god, make him get searched."
I said this and knew...I had just doomed us.
My evil lil' wish backfired onto us.  But mostly because the John Wayne airport sucks.  I watched as some poor man was patted down and searched right in front of everyone without any privacy.  It pissed me off to see that.  Although I wished it on the yelling-cell-phone-man, this poor soul was being touched and prodded with everyone's noses pressed up against the glass wondering if he had a bomb hidden up his ass.  I think not.
The back fire for us that I clearly made happen because Karma is a bitch, but c'mon, was when we finally got to the ramp that pulled our crap through the Xray.  When it got to my box, the guy sat there staring at my shit.  He looked around trying to find some help, called for help in his walkie-talkie, and waited.
And waited.
And...waited.
Someone finally showed up to help with my purse.  "Oh, ma'am, you're not supposed to put anything on top of your lap top so it has to go through again."  Awesome.  So my stuff went to the back of the line to go through again while I stood there in shame.  Then Mike's came through. "WE'VE GOT ANOTHER WITH SHOES ON THE LAPTOP!!!"  Oh my god, this was getting too rad for words although I'm writing several.  Back to the beginning Mike's stuff went.  Because his SHOES were sitting on top of his computer.  VERY dangerous!!!
We made it through and not angry but a little entertained.
Time to load our plane...computers went down.  Of course they did.  And the lady who was checking us in while writing our tickets down on paper, was the same lady that made us sit there with our daughter in shame only a month or so ago after Disneyland because she wasn't 2 years old, but in a stroller.  Usually, the rules are "passengers who need assistance and those with children."  Both, thank you.  Strollers need special treatment at the base of where you get loaded.

Okay, finally the best part...
The little old lady who cut in front of all of us was sitting in front of us along with 2 other VERY old people.  I thought it was a great fitting for them.  I had a gal crying next to me for the majority of the trip and I constantly felt like hugging her, but that could've been weird.  But back to the older people... Mike pointed something out to me that he felt I just had to see.  He pointed out that the man sitting in the middle of the two woman was reading a Kindle in big font.  The font was SO big it only held 6-9 words to the screen.  AND Mike was able to tell me that the man was reading about anti-abortion on the NY Times.  I was laughing so hard, I thought I might scream.  It was too freaking funny and I just couldn't stop.  In fact, I wrote a note to myself that I would be writing about it, so here I am.  Probably not funny in the slightest to anyone reading this, but picture the font at a size 50...not kidding.  It was so big.  I wasn't sure who out of that group was driving, but I sure as hell hoped it wasn't him.

Pukes

I felt it necessary to write about this because of the magical word that came from this boring story.  I had Farrah sleep with me one night after she had an excellent week at school.  A little reward, if you will.  We sometimes watch movies together or she'll watch her own while I read.  Well, since it was a sleep-in day for us, we woke up at an unreasonable hour.  We both woke up at the same time and she looked disheveled and puffy eyed.  I could taste my ass breath and knew the greasy mess of a mop on top of my head was plastered to my skull.  I did that gross lip smacking thing that you do when you first wake up while looking at her.  She mimicked my action and spoke, "Good morning, mama."  Oh LORD!
Me:  "Farrah, your breath smells as bad as mine tastes.  Gross."
Farrah:  "Yeah, gross."
Me:  "We're both gross and smell like poop."
Farrah:  "We're pooo..ah...pukes!"
Me:  (Scream laughing) "Yes! Yes we are pukes!!!"
The word "pukes" is now frequently used in our vocabulary to describe ourselves when we are what others like to call a "hot mess".  Let's be honest with ourselves.  Hot mess?  Really?  No.  Think about it.  When you haven't showered, you passed out in whatever sweatpants and teeshirt concoction you've thrown together to fall in bed in, you can still find a piece of almond in between your teeth from your midnight snacking adventure and you look like you've been punched in both eyes because you like to rub your eyes with your fists when you first wake up and smear any leftover waterproof mascara...you are NOT a hot mess.  You are gross.  You are a puke.

Puke.

Keep in mind...this word can be used to describe just about anyone and anything just like the term "hot mess."  It's more honest.  Like this, "Oh my lord, did you see that girl? That outfit and that hair? What a puke." Caddy girls like to think they're being cute and kind when saying "hot mess" when in fact they're just ass holes like everyone else who is talking shit.  So keep it real folks.  Call it like it is.  The word will catch on and Farrah and I will be the ones who revolutionize it.  Just watch.  So try not to act like a PUKE or look like a PUKE and we won't tell anyone.  In the meantime, we'll practice the word on ourselves.

P.S.  I took a half-ass shower today, so I will proclaim myself as being a puke today.  And I will wear the word with pride until I wash it off tonight or whenever the hell I feel like it.

Bio-terrorism

Farrah is funny.  Very funny.  But at times she can take her humor to a place that crosses an invisible line.  A few weeks ago Farrah was talking to me and then turned to me and whispered that she needed to tell me something.  She slowly walked over to me and came up to my right ear and full on SNEEZED (for real).  My kid sneezed...in my face...on purpose.  I laughed so hard and so did Farrah and so did Mike, but at the same time I knew somewhere in that moment I needed to teach her a lesson.  But what lesson can you teach a 5 year old when you are scream laughing from the fact that your kid is clever enough to come up with something so funny and sneaky?  It took me a bit to calm down and let her know this wasn't okay.  Obviously, chuckling through the whole reprimand didn't help plead my case of seriousness.  I went through the whole thing that it was "rude", "gross", "not nice", etc.  Blah, blah, freakin' blah.  Whatever.  It was funny.  However...I didn't want her to do this again.

Well, two days ago she was looking at me and walking up to me slowly then WACHOO! in my face!!!  Again, I had to try even harder this time to keep my laughter locked up and try a different approach with her.  (Mind you, so you don't think my kid is a total ass, her sneezes were mostly just loud but little to no snot or spittle hit me - but how does she sneak up like that without that awkward twisted look on her face like normal people get right before the explosive sneeze?).  I ended up telling her that what she just did was against the law.  I told her if she ever jokingly spit on me (she makes spit bubbles then laughs and might get a little on me) or sneezed at me on purpose, I'd call the cops and she'd go to jail.  Her laughter dwindled away and sadness and fear replaced her smile.  In fact, she started to get a little teary.  "Why would you call the cops on me mommy?!!"  "Because what you are doing could be considered biochemical warfare against me.  What if you sneezed sickness on me?  That is against the law and I will have to do my duty and turn you in if you do it again."  "But mommy, I don't want to go to jail.  You love me!"  "Of course I love you and I don't want you to go to jail, but you'll avoid jail time or cops coming if you stop sneezing in my face."  "BUT MOMMY!!! WHAT IF I CAN'T HELP IT?!!"  "You know when a sneeze is coming on, so turn away from me or anyone else...or we'll have to get the authorities involved."  "Okay Mama."

Yeah, I won that one.  Very cleverly I might add.

Another comical moment from Farrah was last night after playing a round of UNO.  She's very good, mind you.  She beat me...again.  But it was her victory celebration that was SO funny and not something I'd expect a 5 year old little girl (except for mine) to do.  She turned around, poked her butt towards my face, said "CH! CH!  Pkew! Pkew!"  Those are supposed to be the sounds of her cocking a gun and blasting it at me.  While she did the "pkew pkew" she popped her butt out like she was firing the "gun" at me.  She's terrible and awesome at the same time.

Binky

I found this little treasure today.  I don't know what compelled me to NEED to take a picture of it, but I did.  All that came to mind were the numerous captions that could go along with this.  Right off the bat, I was thinking "this is a perfectly fine binky, what the hell? Why leave it behind?"  Or you know how sometimes babies drop their binkies and mommies pick them up, suck on them to "clean them up" and put it back in their baby's mouth? Where was the mom on this one?  WTF?  Someone dropped the ball as a mother on this little task.
OR, someone gets the Mother Of The Year award if they do clean that thing up thoroughly and has the thought, "Yep, good enough for Jr."  OR Worst Mother Of The Year award if this is just given back to the baby.  I think that's what kept going through my mind that made me laugh so hard at this.  I actually pictured in my mind a mom just picking it up and handing it over to her baby without even thinking about it except to keep the baby quiet.  You know, sometimes we moms get tired and a little retarded at times.  Some worse than others.  This was a worse case scenario.  I'm probably not doing it any justice, but if anyone wants to come up with their own caption, they're welcome to it.  I'll be working on some real ones and post them somewhere on the world wide web, I'm sure. ; )  It's lying down on a dead leaf and next to leaked car oil.  Or is that a fish tail?

What if this JUST popped out of a babies mouth?!!  That's what this baby's binkies ALL look like!! Gross.  And yet, to me...awesome.

When Kid Games Go Wrong

This morning Farrah wanted to play a game with me.  "Let's make silly faces!"  It's not one of my favorite games, but she enjoys it a lot and I think mostly because she's learned how to cross her eyes and thinks it's hilarious.  Well, we'd gone a good 5 minutes going back and forth, back and forth.  Finally, I went for a different tactic.  I proceeded to pull my lower lip out and then down...further and further and further.  "Mama, you're freaking me out. You're freaking me out! YOU'RE FREAKING ME OUT!!!!"  Of course, her face filled with terror only made me want to continue doing it even more and then add a little more by lifting my tongue back and showing my tongue veins.  I'm such an ass.  "STOP IT MOMMY!!! I DON'T WANT YOU TO RIP YOUR LIPS OFF!! DON'T PULL YOUR LIPS OFF OF YOUR FACE!!!"  I stopped and started to scream laugh so hard.  And my poor fragile daughter began to cry.  I had to explain that I wasn't going to rip my lips off my face and they were back to normal.  No harm done.  Then she said, "I was afraid if you ripped your lips off your face you would die."  I'm SUCH an ass.  Big hugs after that and a promise that I wouldn't try to pull my bottom lip out ever again.

However, I reserve the right to pull my bottom lip out as far as I can should she be disrespectful or not minding me.  I'll remind her how awful she's being with the threat of ripping part of my face off.  I'm not sure who wins there though.  But I'm sure it takes less energy than a good ol' fashion scolding.

OMG...Did this just happen

This literally happened to me less than 30 seconds ago, but it shook me to my core enough that I needed to post about it because it's that important.  I was looking for 3 inch pens for a project I'm working on.  An ink pen about the size of those little promo flashlights.  You can picture what I'm saying, right?  Well, I read through some of the sites that popped up on Google and none of them said anything.  However, one did say 3 inch pens.  So, of course I clicked on it.  And what should appear but a 3 inch PENIS.  Seeing a penis doesn't shake me to my core, but seeing it in a public coffee house where the potential of others seeing the 3 inch penis on my computer screen DOES shake me to my core.  Ooops!  "X" out of that page and pray to god that no one just saw that.  Let me say, it was only about 10 minutes ago that I had people sitting within eyesight on either side of me.  Luckily, I was alone when the 3 inch penis reared its ugly head.  Tee hee.  Gross, but funny.  Apparently, I have to be more specific in my search category.  "Pens" is short for "Penis", I guess.  Had no idea.

Sleep Over

Farrah had a sleep over at her friend's house a few weeks ago, but we decided it was our turn to have the sleep over at our house.  The two girls are very fond of each other and love to play together, but of course there's always going to be incidents.  The first one was the dead bird.  I saw them going up and down the back deck and then huddled together in a chair.  When I was on the phone, I had to quickly excuse myself so I could tell the girls to put down the dead bird and stop petting the poor thing.  "We want to bury it." was Farrah's response.  "I wish I could take it home to my house." was Audrey's.  Eww, eww, eww.  My response:

"DROP IT! DROP IT! DROP IT!"
"Come inside. DON'T TOUCH ANYTHING!"
"Come wash your hands. Don't touch ANYTHING!"
"Please don't touch that bird again. I know it's sad, but it's a little gross too."

Next...AGHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!  On the phone again, "I gotta go, gotta go, gotta go!"  "MOMMY!!!  AGHHHHHHHHHH!!!!"  Tag + slammed doors + little fingers = no bueno.  While Farrah was okay and survived with all fingers intact and no broken bones, she was not a fan of the ice on the hands.  When a 4 year old friend, says she's sorry...they mean it, but more for fear of getting in trouble.  How do I know this?  Because Farrah had the same sort of apology for Audrey later.  They were arguing because Farrah wanted to sing "Circle of Life" from The Lion King, but Audrey wanted to actually watch the movie.  So during their argument, Farrah threatened to eat Audrey.  Audrey came downstairs crying and Farrah was freaking out and screaming "I SAID I'M SORRY!!!"  She wasn't.  So, I had to clarify whether Farrah intended on using salt and pepper when eating Audrey or not.  This made them laugh.  Then Audrey said she's bitten herself before and I asked her how her arm tasted.  Not good.  "See Farrah, not a good idea."  I got them to settle down for now, hope they're out for the night.

Nightmare 2

I thought I should share about this nightmare that Farrah had, since she's only had a small handful of them. The first one that was shared was about me...this one is about her Daddy.

"I had a bad dream last night.  It was about Daddy.  He was in a chair and there were monsters all around him making this face" (She proceeded to make an angry face showing all her teeth).  "They were putting salt on him.  I think they were going to eat him.  They put tape on his mouth."

Ick, I know.  But this will probably be the last of the shared blogged nightmares.

But there was a baby doll one with the red light.  That one freaked me the hell out.