Wednesday, October 31, 2012

The story of Crackers & her "Special Friend"

WARNING: This is a long one. Please go empty your bladder and finish eating and drinking. I am not responsible for any accidents, choking, or snorting of things out the nose.

My dad is probably one of the most sentimental people out there. He's also a big dog lover. My brother  & I are much the same way...well cut out the sentimental part for me. My mom, though, grew up the youngest of six on a farm where they had no extra money to feed and take care of pets. In her family, animals were either a food or a tool. So, she's never been crazy about us having pets.

She has softened over the years though,. Consequently, the last dog they had, Crackers, was more spoiled than any we ever had as kids. Crackers was scared of her own shadow. She was also a genius, because she figured out how to brain wash my Mom.

At first it was just, "I got these treats for Crackers, because they were on sale."

Then, even though no dog had ever been allowed to be inside the house when I was a kid, suddenly Crackers was allowed to come inside in the mornings & evenings when somebody was home. Only in the kitchen though, where it was easy to clean the floor.

The the next time I was there, Mom was showing me how she trained Crackers to beg at the dinner table for the half plate of food Mom would feed her every night.

Then, everyone realized Crackers true calling. She was born to be an emergency storm alert dog. She could smell/hear/sense a storm coming a minimum of 2 hours in advance and would start barking at the back door. It was better than the tornado sirens they have hear. When let in, Crackers would pace the kitchen floor until she saw her chance and dart into the hallway bathroom where she would hunker down until the storm passed.

My Mom thought this was so pitiful and cute, that she started letting Crackers stay inside over night whenever there was a storm coming. After all, they live in tornado country & everyone, including the dog, knows that potential high winds is a reason to run and hide in the most central room in the house.  So, Crackers was really saving their life by warning them to take cover as she was doing. As Crackers got older, Mom gave in more often & let her stay in for no reason at all.

My dad--the softy, who was an only child, so his dogs were his siblings--always referred to Crackers as "Baby Girl." Although he made sure to clarify around me that I was his first baby girl, so I wouldn't feel left out. He also referred to himself as Cracker's "Pops", and made mention that she was mine & my brother's sister. Something that we went along with because A) we're both dog lovers too, so we get the silly family relationship references & B) it's just not that big of a deal to us. However, Mom took great offense when Dad would call her Mom. or anything else motherly, in relationship to the dog. It always embarrassed her, especially if  Dad said it in public, so she discouraged it 100% (i.e. Threatened with divorce or bodily harm, if he didn't quit.)

So, this past fall poor Crackers was diagnosed with a bladder tumor. The news was not good and my Dad was heart broken. However, they vowed to seek out a second opinions & alternate treatments to see if there was anything that could be done. In the mean time, they planed to enjoy as much time with Crackers as possible. This led to an extra sentimental Christmas for them. Lots of presents for Crackers & suddenly Crackers was giving out presents to everyone else.

So, on Christmas day we're exchanging presents and there's a very special one for my Mom. Not because of what it was (I really have no clue what the gift was.), but because of the little "To" & "From" sticker on the gift.

Apparently Dad was behind all the gift giving from Crackers to "Bro", "Sis," "Pops," etc. However, he knew better than to write any form of Mother for my mom's gift. Since I was closest to the tree, I was the one handing out the gifts and reading out loud the tags while handing out gifts. I silently read this one while waiting for whoever to finish opening the previous present handed out.

I must have looked like I was convulsing, when really I was shaking from trying to hold in the biggest laugh ever. Anyway, it catches Jim's & Mom's attention who seem a little concerned.. I lean over and show the present to Jim who guffaws and then decides to read it out loud while I continue to try to hold in my laughter.

To: Lady Buddy
From: Crackers

Mom gets this horrified look on her face and screeches at Dad, "Why would you call me that???" My Dad sheepishly explains that he thought this was an appropriate name, since in his mind Mom is a lady AND she and the dog are at least friends now.

Jim, my brother, and I are dying laughing, because we have so many other scenarios running through our head of when someone would be referred to as "Lady Buddy." Mom has obviously thought of at least one too and that's why she's so horrified. My dad who is a little naive (Read as: Still doesn't realize that Kitty from Gunsmoke was a prostitute.) really didn't get the joke, but knew he was in big trouble and has never used the term since.

Jim, who doesn't have to live there, decided this was too good to let die out so easily. He immediately told another family member, who's one of the jokesters in our family. Together, with encouragement from me, they have ensured that Mom will forever be known as "Lady Buddy." I've already ordered the tombstone.

Unfortunately, we had to say goodbye to Crackers last week. My dad misses her greatly. Even though, she won't come out and say it...deep down, I know Lady Buddy does too.

Thursday, October 11, 2012

The cure for my procrastination...

So a certain person, let's call him/her G, has been calling my phone every day since she/he harassed another person who had my number into giving it to him/her. Now I have a particular relationship with G that on the surface sounds like the same kind of relationship that most everyone else in the world has. The difference is most of the rest of humanity cherishes that same relationship, because it functions in a manner that would lend itself to mostly happy, pleasant memories of good times spent together.

Instead, I'm pretty sure that G's parents performed an experiment where they decided to teach him/her different meanings for random words. For example, they might have said that the sweet, frozen, milk-based treat was called poison. Hint: they didn't...G loves ice cream.

However, I think they might have taught G that the act of only caring about oneself was called "being selfless"; and that animals are your friends and that humans are only servants/intermediaries created to care for all your friends; and titles like mother, father, sister, brother, grandmother, grandfather, wife, husband, etc., are strictly for the sole purpose of documenting the passage of DNA from one servant to the next. Okay, that's not really fair. I never really knew G's parents. Maybe G mis-learned all of this on his/her own.

Anyway, to make a long story that much longer...G's last message was: "Just wanted to see how you, Jax, & Gabby were settling into your new place. Call me when you have nothing better to do."

Now, to the casual observer this would seem like a perfectly sweet message inquiring about my family and wanting to talk when it was convenient (no hurry). As I said before, G has picked up some curious meanings of words along the way. Therefore, you have to translate everything G says.

This phone message was actually: "Michelle--" (G has finally noticed that servants respond better if you use their name sometimes) "--call me ASAP and let me know how my friends Jax & Gabby are settling in to their new home. I would call them myself, but have been unable to train my friends to use the phone. Also, I'm going to want a report as to why you abandoned my cat friends Niles & Max.* Be prepared to answer or else. That is all."

* - They were relocated to live with family members where they would not be harassed by the dogs anymore. That equals abandoned in G's mind...or at least breaking protocol, because I didn't obtain G's permission to do something to MY pets.

Notice also that there was no inquiry into how Lawyer Jim is doing. That's because in G's eyes he is superfluous since it was not his phone G was calling; therefore, not worthy of acknowledging. Also, some of you may be doubting the translation about the cats, but believe me it's there. You have to read between the lines.

So, to sum up. I now have a list of about a hundred things that I've been procrastinating doing that I suddenly need to work into my regular hectic schedule. Sorry, G. It's going to be quite a while before I have nothing to do but call and report to you.

Less spiteful post to follow. I promise.

Thursday, October 4, 2012

Life, moving, and more excuses for not writing.

I know my whole 2-3 readers have been sitting on pins and needles waiting for my next post. Okay, we all know that's not true. Who would sit on pins & needles waiting for anything? I guess...if I were forced into a tiny waiting room where my choice was sit on pins & needles OR sit on steak knives that had been used to cut up raw pork three days ago...I would probably get the hell out of that doctor's office.

Anyway, I apparently took a sabbatical from writing for the past few months. Well, that's not exactly true. A sabbatical indicates taking a break from one's normal job to rest and/or acquire new skills or training. Perhaps, too tired to write after working twelve hours a day seven days a week, moving my crew across two states, while consolidating an office and two houses into two townhouses in two different states would be a more accurate summary of the situation.

I know, I know. Quit whining. There are people who have it worse off than me--Big Bird, Cookie Monster, Elmo, and Bert & Ernie; the Arkansas Razorbacks football team; and Mitt Romney, every time he opens his mouth. Although...maybe not ol' Mitt. After all, even though I'm sure he's hit his insurance limit for the year (maybe the lifetime limit) for having foot-from-mouth extractions, I'm pretty sure he can afford to just pay out of pocket and write it off as a business expense.

Perhaps the difference is that the three above mentioned groups are all so ridiculously sad that people voluntarily write about them as if they were tragic comedies. Okay, that and they are all a part of pop culture. So, until I can get my own entourage/stalkers to follow me around and report my every ridiculous move, I guess I'll start writing again.

Stay tuned.

Saturday, June 30, 2012

How did you spend your extra second today?

Apparently, we all got an extra second today. See So, what did you do with your extra second?

This is how I imagine most people spent their leap second:

A) Quick inhale/exhale,

B) Blinked,

C) Took a really tiny nap, OR

D) Quarter farted. (Because you can't do a whole fart without a full 4 extra seconds.)

Or, if you're like me, you wanted to fully utilize your time so you did all four at once, because you're that awesome.

Happy belated Leap Second everyone!

Thursday, June 28, 2012

A new rainbow for everyone!

I'm trying to hone my Rainbow Hunter skills, because it of course will make me and everyone else more awesome in the process. So, really it's a win for everyone, because who CAN'T benefit from a rainbow every once in a while.

To prove my point, there was a new fabulous rainbow this week that many of you have probably already seen.  However, in case you were locked in a dungeon until today, here it is:

I think it's one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen. It's actually so cool, I would NOT want to eat it. In fact, I might eat less desserts, because I can just go look at this all the time and feel satisfied. Okay. That's a lie, I'll be happy when I'm dunking cookies in milk WHILE I'm staring at this image. Because, now I'm eating dessert AND being reminded that everyday there are a few less bigots than the day before.

Oh, and for those of you who think this rainbow is blasphemous, ungodly, sinful, and you're now boycotting Oreo, well I think you should actually be thanking them. After all, if you're really so pious, then you shouldn't be eating Oreos in the first place. After all, the Bible teaches its sheep to treat your body as a temple of God. Since Oreos are just a bunch of yummy carbs & fats, then I don't see how they are temple worth at all.

So, thank Oreo, for pissing you off by having a belief different from your own and forcing you to pledge that you will never eat another Oreo, because they just helped you be a little less sinful. Well not less sinful really, because you obviously still don't have that "love one another" thing

Plus, we all know you'll just go eat the store brand Oreos instead. So, the whole body as a temple, yeah, you probably need to keep working on that one too. However, if you REALLY feel like you got it all goin' for you on the God front, then by all means, cast the first Oreo.

P.S. Why are you even reading my blog? You should be boycotting it too, because I fuckin' love Oreos of all colors. Well, not the mint ones...but that's a taste thing, not a color thing.

Wednesday, June 27, 2012

Permission to die?

So, Lawyer Jim and his paralegal, Mrs. Byrd, left today to go on a week long trip to kick karaoke pirate ass. (It's a very specialized area of the law we practice here.) So, we spent all morning packing up the mother ship with all the appropriate ass-kicking gear.

Then comes the big goodbye, since we're not going to see each other for an entire week. Sexting and sending dirty pics to each other doesn't count, people. Besides, we would NEVER do that, ahem, again. Seriously. Never. Doing. That. Again.

So, in the middle of a fairly long, sloppy passionate goodbye kiss, a little tongue got involved and suddenly I tasted salt.  Like Jim's saliva had turned into saltwater. Disgusted Startled I pulled away and informed him that he wasn't allowed to die on this trip, because I didn't want his sweaty kiss to be the last kiss I ever got from him.

Then I might have indicated, that if he died after that kiss, in my grief stricken state, I would probably end up kissing EVERYONE in sight, in an attempt to get the sea salt kiss out of my mind. Kind of like when you listen to a hundred songs to get the annoying one unstuck from your head?

So, Jim proceeds to calmly eat a couple of Starbursts from the office candy jar & downs a Coke. Then kisses me again. Apparently, Jim's some kind of mad chemist, because magically there was no more sweaty kisses. Woohoo!

However, as I'm thinking back on it though, I realize that since his last kiss was no longer the sea salt variety, he now technically has my permission to die. So, I'm about to be a widow. Poop.

On top of that, Lawyer Jim's ghost is probably going to haunt me, to tell me that technically I no longer have permission to kiss ANYONE after he's dead for the same reason he had permission to die. Double Poop.

Wait! All of this was specifically about kissing. So, I can't kiss anyone if he dies, but EVERYTHING else is fair game, right? So, if he decides to not die, I now get to kiss everyone I want, right? Ha! Take that Mr. Lawyer! In the future, he'll think twice before trying to trick me into giving him permission to do anything.

Sneaky lawyers.

Thursday, June 21, 2012

I'm learning to twit...or tweet...or squawk?

Yep, I've finally given in and signed up for a damn twitter account. My handle is @MicInsanity in case anyone wants to follow me.

So far, I feel like I'm 92 learning how to use a cell phone. I also felt like this when I signed up for a Facebook account a few years ago.  That reminds me. Maybe I should make a FB account for this blog? You my whole 2 followers have multiple ways of keeping up with me? I'll get back to y'all on that. (Yes, I say "y'all". Get over it.)

Anyway, I wrote 3 random tweets last night. Today, I have some random follower. How does that happen!?!? I don't know, but having total strangers following me makes me nervous. Not like, hey do you think this guy is stalking me? More like, oh shit! This guy is not one of my friends. He may not be so forgiving, if I don't tweet daily.

So, I succumbed to the pressure and quickly tweeted something about killing a bunch of fleas. Yep. That's me. Performing superbly under my own self-inflicted peer pressure to tweet. Fleas. If it's possible to have negative followers, I probably will by tomorrow.

What social media should I use next to embarrass myself?

Friday, June 8, 2012

Why do all the murders happen when Jim is gone?

So, Lawyer Jim started another marathon of business travel this week. I think our pets sensed I was a little down, so they decided to take care of me.

For instance, the dogs insisted on cuddling right up against me in bed. To the point that they almost pushed me off of our king-size bed. I had to use an extra comforter to build a divider between us so I wouldn't be snuggled to death.

The next morning...I got up and stumbled into the living room, only to see that one of the cats had left me a present to make me feel better. NO. It was NOT a hairball. That I could handle. It was some dark gray rodent bigger than a mouse. In fact, it was more rat-sized, but it could have been a baby possum. I don't know, because I never got close enough to look for a head, tail, feet, birthmark, etc., to identify it. I paused and thought, "Oh. Great. The murders begin again just as soon as Jim leaves town," Gabby, our Chocolate Lab/Kelpie (Kelpie, not Kelp. Although that would be grossly awesome. Google, people, do you use it?), immediately races over, picks it up, and takes it outside. Where I presume she rewarded herself by alternately treating it as a chew toy and something to whack into the ground to show it who's boss. I don't ask, I don't look. I'm just always glad she doesn't bring them back in. This is how we bury the bodies in our household, and I'm fine with it, because I've grown weary of scraping up halves of dead squirrels, rabbits, mice, shrews, lizards, birds...and it's ALWAYS the butt end that's left.  Apparently our cats are Kosher.

This process was repeated the next day, only it was some sort of small bird with gray/brown feathers. I don't know exactly what it was because the feathers are all I ever saw of it. I was a little surprised that we had two homicides in a row. Weekly, and sometimes daily, murders were common when we lived in the country. Now, we're back in the city, so the murders have been few and far between.

The next day, no evidence of murder. Yay! I think the cats were just offended that Gabby kept stealing all of their offerings. I would like to think that Gabby was trying to help out since Jim was out of town. Go Girl Power! However, I'm pretty sure each time she just thought, "I'm not letting anyone else get their paws on that fabulous new chew toy!" After all, she's kind of a selfish bitch.

Either way, I'm making Gabby our official paw bearer, because Jim's going to be traveling a lot this month, so we're probably going to have a lot more corpses in need of disposal. Woohoo! Blegh!

P.S. I wonder if the two murders were part of some feral cat mafia initiation? After all, there's a cat across the street that is a long haired version of our solid gray cat, Max. We didn't know the cat's name for a long time, so we just called him Hippy Max. However, it turns out his name is Demon. He's not feral, but I'm pretty sure he's the Don. Maybe, he's modernized and allows house cats in, if they can prove their killers. I guess mine passed the test. Anybody know a good feline gang interventionist?

P.P.S. As I was updating this post about my feral cat mafia theories, a feral cat that hangs out around our office suddenly popped up in front of the glass door of our conference room where I am working. Obviously he's a low level wisecat that Demon sent to scare me, because I've outed him. He stared at me through the glass for a long time. Then I think he left a horse's head on the step. I'm not sure. I'm afraid to look.

Here's a picture of him, in case I suddenly disappear.

Creepy, right?

Friday, May 25, 2012

"Oh, that's going on the blog..."

A more apt title would be: There would be 50 more posts on here, if my memory didn't suck and/or I wasn't opposed to having blog posts temporarily tattooed to my body.

Once again, Lawyer Jim & I were having some discussion that started out perfectly normal and straight forward, only to have it make a severe left turn, followed by a complete 360, double somersault, and triple toe loop, and inevitably, doing the splits instead of sticking the landing. Invariably, one of us will say, that should definitely go on the blog. I make a mental note so I can write about it later--because we are usually in the car or about to pass out for a few hours sleep when this happens--and move on to what's for supper or snoring.

Then by the next day, I get on my computer and realize that once again I am suffering from temporal amnesia. Rarely do I remember what the serious conversation was about. Even when I do, I can no longer remember what happened to make it so hysterically funny that either of us thought it was blog worthy.

It's been happening so often lately, that I started wondering if I was just dreaming this stuff up.

You know when you have some dream about going to take your final exam in a class that was crucial to you graduating, only to find out the professor--who in real life was your 3rd grade teacher--has declared that the exam is only worth 10% of your grade and the rest is based on attendance. Which sucks because you haven't been to class all semester since you already knew how to color inside the lines, do basic addition/subtraction, and read above a first grade level--for those of you who can't follow my dream, this is what the syllabus you got on the first day said would be covered in your world history course--so you never went to class since you knew you would ace the final exam.  Also, you realize you're going to flunk the final exam, because apparently your World History professor covered differential equations, advanced spanish grammar, and geospatial imaging in order to properly teach the course.

Then you wake up in a cold sweat, looking around to see everyone's disapproving stares, only to realize it was just a silly dream, because you didn't sign up for World History this semester. Never mind the kindergarten level syllabus, the 3rd grade teacher that just happens to become your college professor, the random mix of upper level subjects thrown into a World History exam, or the fact that you haven't take a college course in over a decade that should indicate to you this was a dream.  It's the fact that you specifically remember choosing to take Latin American History instead of World History.

What? You only have dreams about unicorns pooping gold?  Well, screw you. Not all of us can have rich, fanciful dreams in this economy.

Anyway, the point is. I thought maybe I was dreaming up these blog worthy conversations and didn't realize they were dreams because the absurd parts of a dream obviously don't register in my brain as possible indicators of dream versus reality. Plus, since the real conversation part is factually correct, my brain wouldn't say: "That was obviously a dream, because you are actually filthy rich, so there's no reason for you to be having a conversation about whether you should A. go to the dentist or B. take one of the three pets, that are well overdue for vaccinations, to the vet this month.  You're swimming in money after all, so go get titanium dental implants and a new stupidly inbred toy poodle and donate your old pets and teeth to the poor."

Instead, my brain says: "Sorry, that dentist versus vet thing was total reality. You're so poor, that you should be glad they don't have debtor's prison anymore. However, I noted your anxiety disorder was kicking into overdrive again when you realized the answer was neither this month, again, since images of toothless Lawyer Jim in court and worm infested dogs and cats were coming in faster than I could delete them. So, for your own good, I created a brain distraction, so you didn't overload, and when you were sleeping I removed the whole conversation from the files. So, that's why you can't remember that conversation, but no it wasn't a dream.  You're welcome. Oh, and before you start thinking about the dentist versus vet thing too much again...a giant metal chicken, a weasel, and a monkey with a leprousy snout knock on Lawyer Jim's door and invite him to buy into their Tardis timeshare, which only costs four new sets of towels a year." (Ok, if you didn't get that joke, you obviously still haven't discovered The Bloggess. Shame on you, because that joke was fucking hilarious!)

However, I don't trust my brain to tell me the truth these days though, so I asked Lawyer Jim about it. He also remembers the words, "that is definitely going in the blog," being uttered. However, he also seems to be suffering from temporal amnesia. Probably, because when you've been married for almost 15 years you develop this wireless link between processors, I mean brains. It's good most of the time, because you often don't have to verbally communicate with each other, however, if one of you gets a malicious brain virus (most humans refer to it as a stress induced panic attack), then the other is in danger of getting it too.

I'm also realizing this whole posts is not going to make sense to anyone but me and possibly Lawyer Jim. If you do understand it, then be afraid. Be very afraid. Also, have you're brain scanned for malicious viruses, stress, anxiety, faulty wiring, old age, etc.

Oh, yeah. The temporary tattoo thing. As the Insanity Wrangler, I have a strict policy against ME having tattoos, especially ones that have more than one word. First, because it'd hurt like hell, and I'm a wimp when it comes to pain. Secondly, temporary or permanent tattoos of a blog nature would freak me out all the time, because I would forget that I had them. Then invariably I would get all self-conscious and freak out when people stared for extended lengths of time at specific parts of my body up close like they were examining some hideous mole with a long hair coming out of it, all because I forgot that I had to write in very fine print to fit the entire post on my left, bicep.

Thursday, May 17, 2012

I'm pretty sure Lawyer Jim is NOT going to let me forget this day for a long time.

I was anticipating today to be a pretty awesome day. After all, even though Lawyer Jim had all four wisdom teeth yanked out yesterday, he seemed to be recovering very well. So, I was anticipating being able to  go to the office for awhile to get some work done, and then going with my friend Lady Bird (more on her some other time) to the book signing for The Bloggess.

(What? Why did you just ask "What's a bloggess?" OMG, OMG, OMG! It's not a bloggess! It's THE BLOGGESS. There's only one. Stop, stop, stop! Go read here, then come back. I know it may seem like a random blog entry, but trust me, it's not. This is the place to start reading her blog. If you don't immediately think, "Wow, she is the most awesome person ever!", then you just don't get it and you never will.

You won't get me either, for that matter. I swear, The Bloggess and I are kindred spirits. I just have to figure out a way to let her know, without appearing like a total stalker. To sum it up, The Bloggess is awesome. I wish I was a tenth as awesome as her. Today was my chance to bask in her awesomeness.)

So, back to me.

Instead of the day going smoothly like I planned...God, Zeus, the Flying Spaghetti Monster, or insert your own deity here, laughed so hard he pissed his pants. And, the day went like this. I unknowingly fed Jim poisoned yogurt as soon as he woke up, which made him wretch & vomit for the next SIX hours. During that time, I tried everything I could think of to be helpful and comforting. However, by the end of it we were both exhausted, and I was convinced that my breathing the same air as him was what was causing him to worship the trash can all day. So, between almost killing Jim and dealing with my ever increasing anxiety over finally getting to meet The Bloggess (or not, as it seemed at this point), I went into full melt down.

Yep. Jim can't keep anything down, including anti-nausea medication, and I'm bawling about being the worst wife ever, the worst friend ever (Lady Bird was having to make alternate plans for going to the book signing), and generally the worst human ever.

So, suddenly Jim tells me he's done vomiting, to get ready to go, and he's going to escort me to the book signing. In my defense, he really likes The Bloggess too, so he's not doing it completely for me. Okay, he so is, because he knows it's a big deal for me to meet her, even though I'm totally embarrassed at the same time that I actually idolize someone semi-famous.

That's right folks. Not only is Lawyer Jim the most awesome Pirate Karaoke Hunter ever, he's now Super Jim. Whose super power is the ability to stop vomiting at will. I hear snickering, but you'll change your mind one day when you have Norovirus, and are begging anyone within ear shot to put you out of your misery before you vomit for the 100th time.

So, we went to the book signing. Jenny was awesome! (We're not really on a first name basis, but I like to pretend we are.) I wanted to say awesome things to her, so she would realize we were kindred spirits, and she would invite me to travel with her on the rest of her tour. In actuality, I just mumbled a bunch of crap about almost killing Jim today with bad yogurt. Not surprisingly, I didn't get an immediate invite to travel with her. She's probably worried I'll try to poison her too.

We did get our books signed. And, even though, she'll probably never remember us, I know I'll never forget the day I got to meet her. I also know that Lawyer Jim will never, never let me forget either. Oh well, it's worth it...I think.

Wednesday, May 2, 2012

UPDATE TO: TSA's refusal to full body scan me, or otherwise feel me up, is starting to affect my self esteem.

This will make a lot more sense, if you read the original post first. Well, maybe it will. Got it? Now, read on.

Upon my return flight home a couple of weeks ago, the old TSA agent guy sent me to get my full size nudie pic taken. They made me wait on the other side for a minute. I assumed it was to give me my copy, like at the photo booths at theme parks. However, they just let me go without explanation. I suspect the old guy is keeping it for himself. So, now I feel a little a creepy, only the old men want to see me kind of way. Yay me.

The old guy did NOT let Jim get his picture taken. I guess Jim's not his type. However, Jim had such a massive nest of electrical cords in his computer bag, the other guard suspected he had a bomb. So, the guy unpacked his bag and ran it through the scanner again. No one tried to grope him this time either. He looked a little exasperated. I reminded him that he had to go through 10 more times before he gets another complimentary "special massage".

Things NOT to do when a US Marshal is knocking on your front door at 6 AM.

1. DO NOT not answer. He can hear the tiny dog yapping, and then being quieted, and then yapping again the 2nd, 3rd, 4th...15th time he knocks on your door and rings the door bell. He's NOT going to go away. You ARE pissing him off.

2. DO NOT lift the paper covering the transom on your door to peep out, and STILL NOT answer.  We all just saw you and now US Marshal & Lawyer Jim are pissed off that you're wasting their time avoiding the inevitable.

3. DO NOT send your overnight guest out the side door, to see if the US Marshal & entourage have given up.  He just looks ridiculous, when he looks directly at our car down the street, starts texting "somebody" on his phone, and then pretends to go for a little morning stroll.

4. DO NOT try to sneak out in your mini van to go to work & not expect the Marshal & Lawyer Jim to do a classic police car interception to stop you & escort you on foot back to your house. Yes, we were blocking the street for several minutes. Yes, it was awesome.

5. DO NOT lie to the US Marshal & say you didn't hear him pounding on your door for 15 minutes, when he dresses you down for wasting his time. It's a ludicrous excuse--half of your neighbors clearly heard us, because I've never seen so many people walking their dogs, pushing out their trash cans, picking up their papers, etc., at 6 AM all with one eye on your house.

6. DO NOT interrupt the US Marshal to ask if you can call your work to tell them you're going to be late.  As pointed out by said US Marshal, you had the last 45 minutes when you were hiding out in your house to advise them of the possibility of your tardiness. Now you are on his time & you don't get to waste his time. (There's really no font that conveys the tone he said all of this in. Try to picture a parent dressing down their teenager for attempting to sneak into the house after curfew, but in total Drill Sargent mode.)

7. DO NOT lie to the US Marshal & Lawyer Jim about the number of counterfeit products you own that are to be seized & where they are all located. You were easily tripped up by a couple of simple questions about it, at which point you finally admit there's another set in one of your vehicles. So, now NO ONE is believing your personal sob story you told us a few minutes earlier or feeling sorry for you at all.

8. DO NOT suddenly decide that the best time to start a new honesty policy is when the US Marshal asks where your "friend" (the one that was doing counter-surveillance) is going to by replying, "I assume he's going back to his wife's house." You just forced the slightest facial reactions between US Marshal & Lawyer Jim (kind of a half eye roll/slight glance to each other of "Did she REALLY just say that?"), who magically otherwise keep a straight face.

I, of course, chose to turn around and giggle on the inside at her insanity, and hoped no one noticed my convulsing, as I tried to keep it together.

Still, I think US Marshal is now going to have to submit himself for a refresher course on "How to Keep a Straight Face in Absurd Situations". Good news! You probably will make it into the 2013 US Marshal's training manual on a new example of how to handle the absurd. That's something to be proud of...I...guess.

So, in summary, if the US Marshal knocks on your door, just open it right away & deal with it (Or, duh, stay away from your door & call in sick!). Never interrupt said Marshal. Finally, it's time to realize that if you're at the point where a US Marshal is pounding on your door with a seizure order, honesty is probably the best policy. Unless you're talking about your overnight guest. Then vagueness is appreciated.

Thursday, April 26, 2012

It's a conspiracy...or, a bunch of excuses...for not posting new posts.

So, there should be at least two new posts on here from the last week. However, Blogger, my tablet, and what I can only describe as, a sphere of concentrated gravity holding me down keep messing it up.  So, now I'm blogging about blogging.  Thanks a lot universe!

Anyway, the point is, if I can get all technology to work correctly AND get to where I don't feel like I've been knocked over and sat on by a giant ball of BLAH, then there will be several posts popping up at once. I would say more, but I fear Blogger will eat this post too.  That is all.

Wednesday, April 18, 2012

Politically incorrect pillows. No, no, no! Not what you're thinking.

Scene: Jim and I just arrived to our room for the night at our favorite hotel in our current undisclosed location.

Me: "I just remembered the one thing I don't like about this hotel.  The miniature pillows.  We technically have 4 pillows.  In reality, we really have 1 1/2. "

Jim: "I'm sure if you call the front desk and ask nicely, they will bring us some more pillows, so you can build your nest."

Sidebar: I have a tendency to use 4-5 regular & king size pillows to create this heavenly nest that I sleep in.  Jim complains about how crazy it is.  All four pets will back me up on how awesome it is, because they are always trying to sneak into it to take a nap.

Resume dialogue:

Me: "Okay, I'll give it a try."

Jim: "Ask for one for me too."

Me: Rolling my eyes as I pick up the phone, because I know Jim would have suffered silently with his two miniature pillows, if I wasn't here to ask.

Front Desk: "Good evening. This is Generic Front Desk woman. How can I help you?"

Me:  "Yes, I was wondering if we could have a couple more of those midget pillows like you have in all the rooms?"

Front Desk: "Oh, sure no problem. I'll notify housekeeping."

Me: "Thanks so much!"

Jim: "Did you just use the words 'midget pillows'?"

Me: "Yes, and the woman didn't react at all. Obviously, they get a lot of requests for additional midget pillows, because their pillows are so midgetized in the first place."

Jim: "I can't believe you are so politically insensitive.  The proper term is either dwarf or little person pillow."

Me: "Well, that would be correct, IF the pillows were actually for dwarfs or little people."

Jim: (Sigh) "I hate to say it, but you may be right."

In conclusion, the house keeping lady has to be a kindred spirit, because she actually brought me THREE midget pillows. I think she must have sensed my nesting needs. So, now I have five pillows to make a midget nest. Or, four if I share one with Jim. God, I love this hotel!

Tuesday, April 17, 2012

TSA's refusal to full body scan me, or otherwise feel me up, is starting to affect my self esteem.

So, this is my second time this year to fly out with Lawyer Jim, to undisclosed locations, to do some karaoke pirate hunting--don't ask. It's a nice change, since he's gone two to three weeks a month, to be able to travel with him sometimes. Even if it is a work trip, since this is as close to a vacation as we're going to get in probably the next three to twenty years. Woohoo!

This year is also my first time to fly since they instituted the full body scan--basically TSA justifying their massive compilation of nudie pics. OR, optional FULL body massage--apparently it's not as relaxing or pleasurable as it sounds though.

So, I naturally assumed they would want to add me to their collection. After all, I AM sexy & I know it. I work out (once or twice a month). AND, I have trouble sitting still for very long--wiggle, wiggle, wiggle...well you get the picture.

Instead, this is the third time I've gone through security, only to have some random TSA agent barely glance at me & tell me to go through the old style metal detector.  Meanwhile, it's Jim's 23rd time (I lose count) to go through security. I assume he has been flagged as stud material, because they insist on sending him through the porn scanner every time!

Last time, when he was returning home, Jim even had some male agent start sticking his hands down his pants (without asking), insisting he needed to search for contraband. Jim was--I guess understandably--SEVERELY annoyed! I thought he should have been pleased that they were throwing in the special massage for free. You know, get 12 body scans & get a bonus groping.

Eventually the guy gave up and let him go through. Jim immediately spoke to the manager on duty. Apparently, it was all just a big misunderstanding  about whether penises are still allowed to be carried on or have to be secured in your checked luggage.

Anyway, all of this begs the question...What's wrong with me?!?! Well...besides not having a penis? Three times now I've gone through security, and each time...No pics taken...No inappropriate groping...Not even a look that lasts just a little too long.

I don't get it! After all, I've always thought of myself as a strong, independent, sexy, and more than a little crazy woman. You would think one of those qualities would warrant "further inspection".

Apparently, it's all in my head though, since I can't get anyone in security to make up a bogus reason to justify adding me to their porn collection, much less make eye contact. Then again, maybe my Insanity Wrangler abilities are more powerful than I thought, and they dare not look at me for fear they suddenly come up with logical security measures? Yep, that must be it.

P.S. We're thinking of getting t-shirts made up for all our karaoke pirate hunters that says on the front: "OFFICIAL KARAOKE PIRATE HUNTER" & on the back: "WE'RE TAKING OUR BOOTY BACK!" Catchy right?

Wednesday, April 4, 2012

All marketing people should be fired. Except for hair gel marketers. I'll give them one more chance.

Once again, I question why corporations hire the people they do for marketing. This time it happened while I was dutifully brushing my teeth & swishing mouthwash. After all I have to brush my teeth for TWO minutes & then swish for at least THIRTY seconds. While these are worthwhile uses of my time...I guess...I always get bored.

This morning I happen to notice that my Crest toothpaste flavor is not just cinnamon, but "Clean Cinnamon". This caused me immediate & great concern, because I worried that I had used the "Dirty Cinnamon" flavor in the past. I started contemplating a lawsuit that lawyer Jim could file on my behalf against Crest for causing me cavities in the past, when they sold me the "GERMY CINNAMON" toothpaste.

Then I took a breath & realized that this was just marketing trying to justify their paychecks. Crest Marketing apparently thought this would make me feel more confident that my teeth would be clean when I brushed with this particular product. So, basically I'm not smart enough to realize if my teeth are clean or not, unless they print it on the tube. Well, maybe their test panelists aren't smart enough to know that otherwise.

"Please select the adjective"--because they don't want you making useful suggestions--"that best describes how Crest cinnamon flavored toothpaste makes your mouth feel after using it:"

A.  Fresh
B.  Tasty
C.  Clean
D.  Dirty Whore

We all know your best bet is to pick C on a multiple choice test.  Plus, how many people besides me would pick D? Most people would have quit reading by then. Or, they don't want to be overly critical, so they pick the most neutral one, when they're really thinking: "My mouth is kind of gritty, but it does appear to be clean."  That's obviously how you get the flavor "Clean Cinnamon".

Okay, so all of that used up about 45 seconds of my brushing time. So I started looking at the other toiletries on our sink & such and ended up making a list, because I've got a minute forty-five left.  If you're in marketing, please take notes.

  1. Act mouthwash - Tropical Breeze - Not sure what a tropical breeze is supposed to taste like, because I haven't noticed Jim's breath tasting tropical or feeling extra breezy when I'm tonguing him.
  2. Listerine mouthwash - Fresh Mint - When I was making my list on my tablet, auto correct first interpreted "Fresh" as "Death". I think it may know what it's talking about, because my mouth feels like it's being killed when I use it. It does have a hint of mint as it's doing it though.
  3. Colgate toothpaste - Gentle Mint - This is a toothpaste for super sensitive teeth. So, of course they had to let you know the mint would be gentle too. After all, this mint is NOT into the rough stuff.
  4. Softsoap hand soap - Milk & Honey - This just makes me hungry for a glass of milk & a peanut butter & honey sandwich. It also explains why our dog Gabby licks our hands every chance she gets.
  5. Febreeze air freshener - Linen & Sky - I think marketing fell asleep halfway through naming this. I know what Linen smells like (I am assuming they meant "Clean Linen" scent); however, I have no idea what their idea of the "Sky" smells like. Plus, I'm thinking this probably doesn't sell well to areas that live near chicken farms, sewage plants, etc. where their "sky" might not be the optimal marketing smell.
  6. Degree deodorant - Orange Flower & Cranberry  - I really like the scent of this, but once again, why are you naming something that is supposed to be scented after foods? Plus, I can't stop Jim from licking my armpits, which kind of defeats the purpose of the deodorant in the first place.
  7. Bath & Body Works hotel soaps (Yes, I stole them. Don't act like you don't do the same.) - Coconut Lime Verbena - See commentary from number 6.
  8. Crew hair gel - Nothing - Because it doesn't have a scent. Woohoo for your marketing department!  
  9. got2b hair gel - Nothing - See number 8.
Warning for marketing people for 8 & 9.  I'm sure there's a least one marketing guy in each of your departments reading this who is now staying up late writing a proposal to add Citrus Cinnamon Honey Winds scent to their gels. NOTE TO SAID MARKETING GUY:  You're an idiot, if you think this is a good idea and should probably apply for a marketing position at any of the companies for products 1 - 7 above.

Now for the rest of you gel marketers, quit using light, firm, extra-firm, and throttle for hair control descriptions. Those are clearly descriptors for stroking or choking certain things. How about we stick to the number system? All gels should have a number between 1 and 5, with 1 being "you're wasting your money buying this" and 5 being "you will need paint thinner to get this out of your hair."

Friday, March 30, 2012

I think I'm going to add Rainbow Hunter to my resume.

If you've read my previous blogs, you know I am currently employed as an Insanity Wrangler in Lawyer Jim's office. Boring people would refer to it as an Office Manager. Lately, even with the self-appointed title, I've had, shall we say, a wee bit of job dissatisfaction. It's actually been building for a long time. Mostly a "This is not what I had envisioned for my life," kind of thing.

So, I often dream about the day I escape, and go out into the world and really do what I want to do. Which is? Like many people, I still can't quite put into words what I want to do when I grow up. Actually, I can, but I haven't figured out how to make enough money doing it to pay my bills.

What I really want to do is just help. Not with any particular cause on any particular day. I just want to have supersonic hearing (or the internet will probably do) where when I hear of someone that needs a little help, I just go and help them. I would be THE HELPER. Or, I want to find a home for every child in the world. Either one works for me, and maybe they're really the same thing.

Either way, I figure I'm going to need to spruce up my resume to get people to take me seriously. I figure that there will be quite a few that will be pretty impressed with the fact that I've been an Insanity Wrangler for the past eight years or so.

After all, someone having a horrible, insane day or week would naturally think, "I just really need to hire someone temporarily to help me corral the crazy in my life right now." So, then I'll show up at their door 10 seconds later (I have supersonic speed too, but I do need to allow for traffic.) and say: "I can help you wrangle the insanity in your life. Here's my resume. As you can see I have years of previous experience." Most people will naturally, and with great relief, say, "You're hired."

I anticipate a few will be distrusting though. So, I need something on my resume to really wow them. Then I realized there's one qualification that would convince anyone that I'm the real deal. RAINBOW HUNTER! Kind of like tornado chasers, but much safer, because I'm going out AFTER the storm.

So, anyway I can go out and capture cool rainbows, double rainbows, monochrome rainbows, moonbows, etc on film. (I would list all the types of rainbows, but I was starting to feel a little Gumpish. Instead, everyone go read the Wikipedia article about them right now and get you brain fiber for the day.)

Anyway, the point is rainbows are a sign of hope for people all over the world. (Well, except the Amazon & Peru. Apparently, rainbows cause disease & miscarriage there. I'll have marketing re-work my resume for that part of the world.) Regardless of whether it's based on spirituality, desire for monetary gain, or just pure science, people always seem to get a little bit happier and nothing looks quite as bad, crazy, or impossible after you've seen some rainbows.

So, I'm thinking for the doubters, I'll say:  "Look, I have tons of experience mitigating insanity, so I'm sure I can help you. However, you seem to need a bit more to give you the confidence that if we get you going in the right direction, things will eventually turn out okay. You need hope. So, here's a rainbow I caught the other day. You can have it for free. No obligation." Of course, after someone looks at their rainbow, how can they NOT believe I can help them? More importantly, I think they'll believe they can help themselves.

So, when I make a new resume, I'm definitely adding RAINBOW HUNTER to the top of my qualifications. Maybe, I'll just start being THE HELPER now. Part-time. Anybody, in the market for a part-time insanity wrangler/rainbow hunter? Just give a shout out, and I'll be right there with my resume & references.

Just need a rainbow to brighten your day? How about two? See below. I captured this double rainbow from our local Walmart parking lot last weekend. Rainbows totally work by the way. Jim and I were both dreading the Saturday afternoon grocery shopping for the week at Walmart thing. After seeing the double rainbows, we got in and out in record time, under budget, and without any panic attacks. If that doesn't convince you of the power of rainbows, then you're probably from the Amazon or Peru and should close your mouth before looking at the picture below.

Wednesday, March 28, 2012

Best Calling Card Ever!

So, apparently the Jehovah's Witnesses were in our little neighborhood last week.  I'm sure most people have experienced  their particular type of proselytism in the past.  While I view religion as an individual right but not an obligation, I really hold no ill will toward them or any denomination of Christianity or any other religion that wants to try to sell me some faith, as long as they're not pushy.  I HATE pushy sales people.

Since Jim & I work about 10 to 12 hours a day, they would have to be really dedicated to actually catch us at home in order to give us the full, in-person spiel.  Of course, we weren't home this time either.  So, I'm about to unlock the door late one night, when I noticed what turned out to be their calling card/invitation to something--I forget--at the local events arena.  It was in the form of about a 4" x 7" brochure, that was folded length wise a couple of times and shoved in our door so all you could see was this:


Now the pics here were taken in daylight, so you'd actually be able to see everything. However, keep in mind this was late at night and pretty dark, so all I could see on the paper at the time was "JESUS".  I pulled it out of the door to see that it was actually a multiple choice question.

Multiple choice question, but maybe they should make the possible answers a little bigger next time.
I didn't notice the three possible answers below, and Jim was curious to know what it was.  As I show him the question, I blurted out, "Well, I just saw Jesus in my crack!"  He sighed and pointed out that was probably not the answer they were expecting, as he pointed to the possible answers below the question.  I told him it was too late, and that if they want me to take Jesus seriously they should try hanging him on my door next time instead of shoving him in my crack.  He walked off mumbling something about being in Hell or going to Hell.  I don't know.  I do know it was the best calling card ever and if I'm ever in the market for some new religion I will call the Jehovah's first.  They obviously have a sense of humor.

Thursday, March 22, 2012

I just realized I have non-imaginary readers now.

That's readerS.  As in plural.  As in TWO.  I was totally intimidated by it all, and then I realized it was just Jim & Dr. V. Okay, that sounds bad, because neither of them are just anything.  They are both superheroes that fight bad guys everyday for the good guys--one fights karaoke pirates and the other fights heart worms, fleas & ticks.  Really, that's just their day jobs though.  They're superheroes because they are always taking the time to make me feel better when I am down and are always telling me I'm awesome, even when they're exhausted and worn down themselves.  Now I just worked myself up into intimidated again.

Anyway, I will make an effort to post more frequently now that I have more than imaginary readers.  Maybe you two can analyze me and figure out why I'm so weird.  I'm sure a lawyer and a vet can figure out what to do with me.  And, yes, I realize that a flea dip and legal institutionalization might be the best answer.

Monday, March 5, 2012

So I am unique?

So, I've been slowly filling out and updating (Read as, torturing myself trying to get it perfect.) this new blog of mine.  I finally updated a little of my profile tonight.  So, when you click to view the full profile (Don't feel obligated to do so.), you'll see that the blogger's occupation is clickable.  So, of course I click to see where it takes me.  Apparently, it's just a link to show you how many other blogger's there are with the same occupation.  I have no idea why this would be of interest to anyone.

Maybe it'd become apparent if I clicked someone who had the occupation of "writer"?  Oh, there are only exactly 226,000 bloggers with that listed as their occupation.  Big surprise.  Of course, I want to immediately read each and every one of their blogs, because I'm feeling the kindred spirit.  Does anyone know if there is an HTML tag for sarcasm?

However, interestingly enough--at least to me, I am the only blogger in the entire world with the occupation of "Insanity Wrangler".  Really?  That makes me the expert then, right?  I think Jim's going to have to add that to the company website.

"Areas of expertise:  Patent, Trademark, Copyright, Litigation & Insanity Wrangling."

Yeah, I can see it now.  That's going to bring the clients right in.


Update (7 PM PST):  So, every time I click the writer link above, it brings up a different number.  Always round numbers, but different.  The link has resulted in the following numbers in the last 1 1/2 hours.

169,000.  226,000.  117,000.  141,000.

I only point this out so,

1. my imaginary readers don't think I'm crazy, if they get a number different from the one in the original post.
2. to use this as evidence that a writing career is obviously highly volatile and should probably be avoided.

Insanity Wrangler, on the other hand always has one.  Me.  Now that's some excellent self-appointed job security.

Another bit of brain candy, but more like the sugar-free butterscotch your Great Aunt Stella always forces on you, because she hates it too.

WARNING:  You may need to access and have an open (read "warped") mind to understand this one.

So, Jim & I are semi-addicted to Words With Friends.  If you like word games, then you should try it.  If you don't, well I promise not to make fun of you because you're not as nerdy, cool as we are.

Anyway.  So, we're playing a game of Words as usual.  Now we both have some unusual words sometimes, but about half-way through I started thinking this particular game is just getting a little bit weird.  See for yourself.

So, you all see it too, right?  Suave, zeal, hamulate, abomasi?  Don't tell me you don't see it.  Well, I did and felt compelled to send Jim the following Skype to clear things up once and for all.

Me: Geez.  Let me just say this now.  No matter how suave you are and how much zeal you use to try to persuade me, there is not a djin on this earth that can persuade me to have Nazi sex with you tonight.  I don't care how many abomasi you offer either.  Oh, and if you try this with one of our lessees, our contract will be demitted and some goon will work you over so bad your hamulate penis will never fit in my canoe again.

Jim:  [NOTHING.  Because he was laughing so hard, I could hear him from all the way in his office.]

So, now you understand.  Or, maybe not.  I warned you that you would need a warped mind or a dictionary or both.  Supposedly, he wasn't trying to send me secret messages through the game like I thought, though.  Or, so he claims.

Later on the drive home.

Jim: You know my favorite part about your little rant is about the hamulated penis not fitting into your canoe.  That was great!

Me:  Thanks?

Jim:  I just want to make it clear, though, that my penis is NOT hamulated.

Me:  Your making this clear to me.  Your wife.  Okay.  Of course, it isn't hamulated.  Yet.  Obviously, the hamulating thing doesn't happen until after the goons rough you up for trying to have Nazi sex with our lessees.

Jim:  Oh, okay.  Well as long as that's clear.

So, never mind, the fact that we don't have any lessees and I'm not aware of any abomasi stored in our freezers, or being available for purchase at the grocery store.  (Maybe the local butcher would sell you some?) Oh, and we don't believe in djin, and I just accused him of trying to have Nazi sex--whatever that is--with me and a bunch of other people.  He just wants to point out the crooked penis thing is not true.

So, for those crazy people that think word games aren't fun, try making it into a sex game.  If you still think it's not fun, well then, you're probably not doing it right.

Thursday, February 23, 2012

Okay, if you read all of my first post, you deseve a little bit of brain candy now. If you didn't read it, then just know you're brain may get fat reading this one.

A short text conversation between me and my best friend the rbqg, Dr. V.  Oh, and don't ask what rbqg stands for.  It's top secret.  You should know that Dr. V is a veterinarian, although I hope it would become obvious rather quickly.

Dr. V:  Favorite quote of the day: "well she's just been humping everything.  Thought that meant she was in heat for sure!"

Me:  LOL! Did you let them know their sex life versus the dog's is not exactly analogous?

Dr. V:  I don't think she would have understood those words.  She could have said "my dog got her period."

Me:  Oh, I was leaving the translation up to you, but here you go.  "Ma'am, just because you only want to hump your husband when you're egg is rolling out of the hen house, doesn't mean your dog is the same way.  It just means she likes masturbating.  Which, incidentally, is why her paws are so furry."


So, there you have it.  I'm now qualified to translate veterinarian to dog owner.  "LMAO" is obviously every veterinarian's stamp of approval.  Please email me for my rates and terms.

What is mitigated insanity? If you know, please tell me.

For a while now, actually for years, my darling/annoying (depends on the day/hour/minute) husband, Jim, has been encouraging me to write down all the crazy stuff in my head.  For the most part it's been sweet words of encouragement.  Lately, it's been, "Damn it, go write a blog and make us rich so I don't have to work anymore."  Those who know Jim get how funny this statement is coming out of his mouth.  For the rest of you, "You'll understand it when you're older." In the past, I've always shot him down with an assortment of excuses.  I don't like writing, has been the big one.  When really there are two main reasons I've never voluntarily tried writing before.

One, I can be pretty obsessive-compulsive about how I do things.  I mean, in order to do something I want or need to do, I will spend hours trying to come up with a plan to get from A to Z while trying to also account for a possible L, M, N, O, and P that may or may not ever exist between the two points.  Usually, if I can't find an answer to all possible scenarios, I just give up.  Seriously, why even bother to try it, if I can already see that there's plenty of opportunities for failure?  After all, I'm not asking for a PERFECT path from A to Z.  I'm simply asking for a signed and notarized contract from my brain (with two forms of picture ID) that says if there is an L, M, N, O, or P between points A and Z that they eventually will get me to Z without any loss of life, limbs, or puppy dogs (You can have the cats, since they are currently on my shit list). Why is that so hard!?  Well, as Jim has pointed out many times I'm setting myself up for failure before I even start.   So, I'm working on changing, but it's slow.

This attempt at blogging is a good case in point.  I spent parts of two days coming up with the name of this blog.  Just the name!  Ask Jim, he had to talk me down the second night.  I really like the name now though.  Then I started obsessing about how the actual site looked, which meant looking through hundreds of blogspot templates and then all the ways I could adjust them.  Oh, and I'm not happy with how it looks, but it'll have to do until I can create something on my own--that's a whole other OC project.  At least this time, I reminded myself that I can change it later, so it doesn't have to look perfect immediately.  It's a work in progress, just like me.

So, on to actually writing.  This is where I got into the real obsessing.  What should I write my first post about?  Should I create different folders for different types of topics?  Can I even do that in blogspot?  Should I use my real name?  What about the names of other people?  Should I get their permission before talking about them (Thanks a lot Lawyer Jim for sticking the legality questions into my brain.  I thought you were trying to help?)?  I became so panicked after trying once before to write a post, when all of these questions started popping in my head that I quit.  Kind of.  I told myself I was going to quit.  But for two weeks, it has been nagging at me.  I realized once again that it doesn't have to be perfect, and I don't have to write it all at once.  So, I'm back trying again.  This time I can't seem to stop writing.  So, I guess that's progress, maybe.  Anyway, I know this is long, but bare with me...or don't, because I'll probably never know. I'm not even listening to the imaginary you that's complaining that this post is so fucking long!

All of this kind of leads into my second reason, which is FEAR!  Mainly, a fear of failing.  I don't mean failing something that I don't really care about.  After all, it's one thing to try to learn to French (Something I tried for about 1 day, okay 10 minutes) and fail. Since, when I fail I can just tell myself it doesn't really matter because I didn't really want to learn French.  It was just something to try one day when I was bored.  I was really bored!  It's another thing to write a blog, a story, a book about me that's out there for everyone to read, evaluate, analyze, criticize, ignore, Q, R, S, T.  After all, people might see the real me, and they might not like what they see.

Which leads to my other major fear.  I have a GIANT fear of disappointing people.  I'm always telling Jim I don't want to do X, because I'm afraid it will upset someone else.  He always asks me why I care so much if they're disappointed.  Recently, I've really started asking myself that too.  Why do I care?  I mean, it's one thing to care about disappointing someone because you've actually done them harm.  However, it's finally starting to seem silly to me to care if someone is disappointed because I have a different view point or belief.  After all, I may think some of their ideas are crazy too, but I still value them for other things they do.  And, if I can't find any common ground with a person, then why am I obsessing over what they think about me?  Not worth it anymore!  Or, is it? After all if I don't write things that every one can agree with, I'll lose all of the imaginary readers I have and will never be able to publish that self help book, that will be the answer to every single person's problems!  I can see now that I've already failed.  Wait, self help book?  That wasn't point Z was it?  Maybe I shouldn't worry so much about Z right now, and just focus on getting to B?

So, I've decided to mitigate some of the insanity in my head, and start saying what I think.  At least, I'm going to write what I think here.  I'll branch out to real people later.  I'm not sure what all I'll write about in the future, but there will probably be a lot more cursing involved--my close friends already know that I curse like a sailor.  All of this will probably upset some people--possibly to the point of them disassociating themselves with me.  If that's the case, then so be it.  That's one less person in my head telling me I'm going to Hell.  For the rest of you, I'm hoping my writing will be therapeutic for me, and at least amusing for you.  I just plan to write about life as I see it.  Unfortunately, or fortunately, that can be pretty warped sometimes.  So, future posts are sure to be much more amusing and probably not this long.  Of course, you don't have to read it, if you don't want to.  Except for Jim.  He has to read every word, because he's the one that talked me into this.  Thank you, I think?