A little sanity for the working poor from Comcast...Hopefully.

When I write, it's usually about the crazy, insane things happening in my life. However, this is more of a public service message, that I want as many people who need it to know about.

If you currently can't afford internet for your home, but would like to have it instead of gathering up everyone to go to your local library between the hours of 9 and 6 (which might require a couple of bus transfers to get there), then this program might be the answer. Comcast now offers an "Internet Essentials" plan that allows families that have a least one child eligible to receive reduced or free lunches, to have broadband internet in their home for $9.95 a month plus tax.

The program has actually been around for a couple of years now, but I think it's finally been tweaked enough that it's worth looking into if you qualify. Most importantly, they recently increased the speed for this program to 5 Mbps downstream and 1 Mbps upstream. There are no installation fees or equipment fees, and the price is fixed for life as long as you continue to meet the qualifications. There is also the opportunity upon qualifying for the service to purchase a computer for $150. I know that can still be a big chunk of money for a family who has an income tight enough that they need any of these services, but it might be worth looking into.

Now for the qualification details:

1. You must live in an area where Comcast service is offered.
2. You must have at least one child that is eligible to receive reduced or free lunches.
3. You can't currently subscribe or have subscribed in the last 90 days to Comcast Internet service.
4. You can't have any overdue bills with Comcast OR unreturned equipment.

Unfortunately, those four qualifications, are going to eliminate a lot of people that still really could benefit from this service. To be honest, Comcast probably doesn't really care if anybody signs up for this program. Low income customers are not their target market, but at $9.95/month they're not losing money on this deal since it's using infrastructure that's already in place. Plus, if some poor person stops paying, they just cut them off after a couple of months and send them to collections, like all their other customers. However, every time someone signs up, they get to add it to their tally to point to and say look how many poor people we're helping to educate by providing cheap internet in their home. This is good for Comcast, because they've been buying up the internet market (and NBC, but that's another story). So when people start pointing fingers saying Comcast is becoming a monopoly, they can say but we make sure everyone can afford to have internet in their home.*

*Don't look at the old person on a fixed income, the childless couple, the single person just out of college earning $8/hr with their bachelor's degree, or the family that is just beyond the lunch qualification and chooses providing lunch for their kids over internet at home. Look away! Okay, rant over.

However, the reality is there are a lot of people who do qualify, and I hope they sign up for it. Oh, one more improvement that has occurred this year with the program. Look at the wording on qualification number 2. You just have to be eligible to receive reduced or free lunches. What that means is that they've opened up who qualifies to families of children in private, parochial, cyber, and home schools in addition to public schools. See this article from Comcast, if you don't believe me.

If you think you might qualify, contact Comcast by calling 1-855-8-INTERNET (1-855-846-8376). If you have access to the internet somewhere, you can go to www.internetessentials.com (English) or www.internetbasico.com (Español). If you know someone that could benefit from this program, please mitigate their insanity just a little and let them use your computer or phone to apply.

Finally, if you don't live in an area where Comcast internet is available. Try calling them up, explain what Comcast is doing and ask nicely if they have a similar program. If you get the cold shoulder, try writing a letter to the president of the company. Hand write it and send it via snail mail explaining that you have to contact them via pen & paper, because his/her company is more greedy than Comcast and on your limited income, you opted to feed your children over paying their high priced internet fees. Just a thought.

Which would you choose?

So, while we were getting ready for the day, Jim tells me he has a question for me. I never know what kind of question it will be when he says something like this, so I've learned to just roll with it.

Jim:  If a witch doctor forces you to choose between two potions to drink, which would you choose?  The first one will make you smell horrible to all other people, but you will smell sweet and pleasant to yourself. The second one will make you smell nice to everyone else, but you will smell moderately offensive to yourself.

Me:  What happens if I don't choose?

Jim:  You'll be killed. Stop trying to attack the problem.

Me:  Is this a philosophical problem, or are you trying to tell me I have a body odor issue?

Jim:  No, you smell nice. Just answer the question.

Me:  I choose not to choose. The first option would be very lonely, because no one would want to be around me. With the second option, I know I can't stand to be smelly, so I probably would just sleep all the time so I wouldn't have to smell myself, which would also be very lonely. So, I'll just let the witch doctor kill me, rather than live a lonely miserable life.

Jim:  Interesting. When I developed the problem, I didn't anticipate that being an answer.

Me:  You've known me for how long, and you still didn't anticipate my answer? What would you answer?

Jim:  Well, when I developed it, I was going to pick option two. It was about what I could still do for other people, and I figured I would get used to my own body odor eventually. The question was supposed to be a way of assessing a person's selfishness.

Me:  So, what does my answer tell you then?

Jim:  I'm not sure. You managed to input a 2 into the binary code that can only handle 1s and 0s.

Me:  Hmm. So my answer does not compute. I'm pretty sure I just destroyed the Daleks and saved the universe. So, I believe that makes me the least selfish person ever. I win!

Jim:  [SIGH] There's no winners or losers. Plus, you know the Daleks don't really exist, right?

Me:  I know they don't exist...anymore. You're welcome.

Jim:  [Shakes his head] I think I need to go lay down.

So, which would you choose? Also, If you don't know what a Dalek is, then you probably don't realize the importance of my choice. I suggest you have a Doctor Who watching marathon and then come back and thank me.

Despite Mrs. McConkie's best efforts...

Blogging is hard, y'all! You disagree? Well, you try being me and committing to weekly (or even monthly at this point) blogging. There's a great whirlwind going on in my head all the time and getting it to slow down long enough to pull out the interesting, humorous, thought provoking bits, while keeping the rest corralled in there is a daily--and often hourly--challenge. Believe me, you do not want to encounter ALL the things that go through my mind.

My therapist had to get her own therapist to deal with it. I'm referring to my imaginary therapist that I meet with every Tuesday, Friday, and every third Thursday. Her name is Chamomile. She does not make me sleepy and I seem to give her nightmares. I mention this because the circles under her eyes are getting darker and she is looking more disheveled lately. I wonder if her own therapist has pointed out the irony.

I feel some of you judging me right now, but really, it's OKAY. I never really got into the imaginary friend thing as a kid--Ignacio never did anything but sit there, so I ditched him. So, now I'm making up for it with an imaginary therapist. Which if you think about it, is perfectly fairly somewhat logical.

Real therapists exist to provide someone to listen to you when you're too scared to talk to anyone else or everyone else is too scared to listen to you. The goal is that through talking out loud about your problems, you eventually realize how it all became a problem in the first place, how to fix the problem or accept that you can't, and maybe how to avoid it in the future. Well, my main problem is that I'm always broke. So, I can't afford a real therapist, so I just talk to my imaginary one. I'm pretty sure this is not what Chamomile had in mind when she agreed to take my case, though. Example: Problem--I can't buy a new unicorn or fix my current one, because I never have any extra money in the budget. Solution--Suck it up or get a new job that gives you a bigger budget that includes farriers, better oats, horn wax, and an on call unicorn veterinarian (because the farm vet is just out of his league). Future--Stop buying unicorns.

Anyway...I digress. The point of all of this is that whether you think I'm creative or crazy, I have a hard time putting my thoughts into written form. It seems that the award winning ideas always happen when I'm away from a typing utensil. After all, even I draw the line at bringing my laptop into the bathroom with me. I've also tried just sitting at the computer and trying to write something. As it turns out, that is the best way to lock up every interesting thought to ever cross my brain.

My sixth grade teacher, Mrs. McConkie, can attest to this. Mrs. McConkie, who was one of my most favorite teachers ever, used to insist that we keep a creative writing journal with daily entries. Sadly, Mrs. McConkie must have thought I was the most boring pupil she would ever have. Forced creative writing entries always went something like this (but in big loopy handwriting to fill the page faster):

"I wonder what I will write about today. I could write about what we had for dinner last night, but I think I wrote about that last week, and I think it was beans and cornbread that time too. I could write about my dog Pal, but all he does is eat and sleep. Maybe I'll write about my favorite book. Well, that's not really creative, because I'm just talking about something that someone else creatively wrote. I've got it. 

There once was a girl that was supposed to write something creative. However, she could never think of anything to write about when asked. So, her teacher had to read very boring stories about nothing instead, and questioned whether she should have become a teacher at all. The End."

So, in honor of Mrs. McConkie, I'm providing a list of topics that have popped in my head at an otherwise busy time, and never got around to writing about. Things that might be actually interesting for other people to read. If you want to read the full story on any of them, then leave a comment. I promise to try to write them all in the next year or so. Best not to push for any sooner, unless you want to end up feeling like Mrs. McConkie.

1. I just gave a honey bath.
2. Should I get Lawyer Jim to file a class action suit against...?
3. So, I've had a cast from just below my...
4. Did the zombie apocalypse happen already?
5. Move it over here...no, over here.
6. Stocking up on food rations for the end of times is easier than you think, if you are a "member" of a certain elite warehouse club.
7. Federally mandated "Procrastination Day".
8. Friends come in all packages, but remember to always leave a breathing hole.
9. I'm pretty sure a pharmacy tech, an HOA president, and now the NSA think I'm a cooker/dealer.
10. "The good news is that you'll be at your menstrual nadir," is surprisingly not what most people think of as good news.

So, after that list, anybody dare to be my new Chamomile?

Must...escape...the...Dungeon Cave.

WARNING: This post has a butt load of run-on sentences, misuse of punctuation, the Roman Asterisk footnoting method (patent pending), and other assaults on the English language. English teachers, librarians, scholars, and those who think they might be a scholar probably should not read this. Side effects may include, headaches, irritability, depression, mania, a desire to stab me with a red marking pen, and/or unmitigated insanity. 

Ever rented an apartment or house with little time to shop around, so you pick the one that meets the majority of your basic requirements thinking, "Okay, it's dated & not that nice looking, but it's in my budget, a decent location, and it will do for a year until I can find something better."

THEN, within a couple of months of moving in, when the landlord has completely ignored a simple request to fix the two faucets that are dribbling water (one was leaking 2 1/2 gallons a day), all the faucets leak at the handles when you turn them on (except for temporarily stopping when the water pressure randomly drops to nothing again, which happens 90% of the time), and the garbage that the landlord's handyman threw in a pile in the parking lot when he was prepping the place next door has been sitting there for a month, etc., etc., etc., you start to think..."Hmm, so they're really throwing down the gauntlet to see if I'll stay here the whole year."

HOWEVER, you're traveling a lot, so you tell yourself it's really only like six months that you have to live there. No big deal.

THEN, you have an ice storm that leaves you without power for four or five days, and you can't even go to McDonalds to get some "food" and warm up, because you're parked at the far end of your parking lot and then there's the driveway that is only slightly less than a 90 degree slope* all covered in ice with a layer of snow that is just thick enough to get your tires spinning on the road to nowhere and completely solidify all snow underneath it into a marble ice slab.

HOWEVER, you remember by the second day that you actually own a snow shovel** and decide to start shoveling & see if you can make a path to get out. Turns out you can when you're a kick-ass snow/ice shoveler (I expect my invitation to be on the next US Winter Olympics Snow Shoveling team any day now.), and you have a couple of people to relieve you every once in a while.  So, three hours later, two-thirds of the parking lot is shoveled, as well as the entire Evel Knievel driveway and you finally make it to the in-laws house who already have power on.***

THEN, you eventually make it back home once the power is on, thinking about how nice it'll be to be in your own place again, only to remember the refrigerator FULL of food that has to be cleaned out. BONUS, the 35 year old stove*^, which came with three whole functional burners and an oven that likes to sit there randomly with its door open a little, like a mouth breather during allergy season, has initiated what one can only guess is its final death wail for itself.

HOWEVER, you decide to ignore it for awhile, because A) given the landlord only fixed the leak on 1 1/2 faucets (The second one still drips, just not as much. All other water issues are untouched.) B) the trash heap is still sitting in the parking lot C) landlord's answer to pointing out some mold on the living room ceiling, was to assure us it was a continuing problem with the bathtub upstairs (Oh, that wasn't disclosed to you before you signed the lease?), and that he would fix it by redoing the entire bathroom, kicking you out of the place for at least a week to do it, and charging you more rent (Didn't happen, of course.), it seemed rather unlikely that generous landlord would do anything about a depressed, old, but somewhat functional stove. Plus, it kind of feels like you're kicking Grandma to the curb just because her broken hip and emphysema were slowing her down to much.

THEN, two months later the heater unit decides your electric bill has been way too low. So it decides that sometimes when it kicks on, it will only run the blower, and not the heating element too that actually heats the air it's blowing, so instead of heating the rental unit, it actually cools it until you notice that your teeth are chattering and go and reset the whole unit again. So, after dealing with this somewhat random problem for a couple of weeks you call the landlord about the heater and the stove that still hasn't stopped moaning. Amazingly, he actually sends someone out to fix the heater the next morning. [Insert SHOCK FACE!!!]

HOWEVER, you're amused because the fix is a $3 can of cleaner and a pocket knife to clean the sensor, and the whole time they're musing over the ancientness of the whole system^, along with the fact that there are giant unfilled holes in the furnace closet where piping used to be, and give you a stern warning to get a carbon monoxide detector (A quick look around reveals that there isn't any in the house. Doh! You expected there to be one along with the smoke alarms, or at least a mention that their not included? Ha ha ha ha. Silly you.) No one ever comes to check on the stove, because she's obviously unloved at this point, but you do buy carbon monoxide detector and install it the next day, because you would hate to have survived this long only to be killed by some gas coming from an obviously vengeful heating system.

THEN, you happen to look up in your dining room one day...big mistake, NEVER, look up...to see that the portion of the ceiling just on the other side of the beam from the living room mold...that was reported 3 months ago...has a significant patch of green & black grossness. BONUS, the living room side of the beam now has two visible wet spots, not dripping, but wet, and all of this seems to be under the toilet area upstairs. Landlord, without looking at it, insists it's still the bad bathtub plumbing, which he's more than happy to replace (with the same previous conditions attached) or he can have his guy just fix the problem, and notifies you that his guy will be out there the next morning to diagnose. Landlord's "guy" shows up a little after 6....PM! the next day, and agrees that it is probably just the toilet, and will be out the next afternoon to fix it. Two days later, the wax ring is replaced, the moldy portion of the ceiling is bleached and then covered with a couple of coats of spray-on Kilz. BONUS, he decides to re-caulk around the outside of the tub in case the one drop of water that escapes the shower per day was the real culprit of the mold farm growing below. UN-BONUS, he didn't realized he purchased black caulk, until he'd laid about 20" of it, then since he only uses silicone caulk (Because "It's the only way to get a real good seal.") he just squirted some white over it the next day, except he didn't cover all the black, so it just looks like our caulk is all moldy there. [Insert IRONIC FACE!]

HOWEVER, you're happy content for now, because the leaky/moldy spots don't seem to be reappearing, so it would seem that the toilet was the issue, and total cost for supplies to fix it was about $15 including the bonus caulk job, an hour in labor cost, and three months waiting on the landlord to finally send someone to look at it. You get a small bit of satisfaction from knowing you were right, but you're annoyed that it took the landlord so long to address it because he's too busy trying to up-sale you. You make a mental note, to research if said landlord was ever a used car dealer or some other shyster salesman.

THEN, you look at the parts of the ceiling that were Kilzed (What is the past tense of Kilz?) and are reminded for the 264th time that the walls in this place are the color of dirt and the trim and ceiling are the color of off-white with a little extra dirt thrown in to coordinate with the walls, except for the kitchen and bathrooms that  break up the dirt motif with the occasional 70s gold marble counter top or 80s blue wallpaper with floral pattern to add a bit of pizzazz, and the flooring, which consists of 95% carpet, is an ancient Berber the color of dirt mixed with some gravel and pebbles.^*

THEN, your mind briefly awakens from the fog you've been in for say the last eight months, to realize that the reason you haven't wanted to do anything, including writing quirky, humorous, [insert other positive adjectives here] blog posts is that you actually rented a dungeon cave loosely disguised as a two-story townhouse.

That my friends,^** is what happened to me and Lawyer Jim, exactly eight months ago. I swear it really is a dungeon cave. Think about it. It has "dirt" walls and a floor with the occasional rare flora that can grow in a cave and fools gold vein running through it, water is always dripping, it gets colder and darker as you go to the lower levels, there's a weird ghostly moaning that pervades the place, it's sucking the life out of us and we've been sentenced to live here for one year. That is the very definition of a dungeon cave.

Now that we realize what it's doing to us, we are rapidly planning our escape. Unfortunately, money always seems to get in the way. So, rapidly means four more months, as of today. Let the countdown begin. In the meantime, I'll try to score some black market anti-depressants or something so I can keep writing while serving out my remaining time.

*I SWEAR I'm only exaggerating a little. There should be a run-a-way ramp installed on this driveway.
**Turns out that snow shovels are a valuable tool to own even when living in the south, where you get snow on average once a year, because they're also great for shoveling giant loads of mulch & fertilizer around all of those lovely trees and flower beds one must have when one owns a yard.
***They are famous for 7 to 10 day outages after any significant storm, summer or winter. So, it really was a Festivus miracle that they got their power back 24 hours after it went out.
*^Not making up the age at all. Google knows all and dated this stove back to 1977. In 1977, I'm sure all the other housewives were jealous, because this thing had all the bells and whistles. Now it just has all the moans & aches.
^You're less amused the next month, when your electric bill has increased by 50% due to your heater playing freeze out on your dime.
^*Landlord obviously believes one can't have too much carpeting in a rental unit, including the bathrooms. There must have been some concern about the kitchen, so landlord covered it in a laminate that is obviously meant to look like a floor made from dirt tiles.
^**You are obviously my friend, if you've read all of this insanity. Thank you. Please message me if you know where I packed my lasso and I'll try to reign it in a little next time.

An important safety message...

More excuses...but mitigating the insanity in many little world has been about as futile as trying to keep the pollen washed off your car in the springtime. You can clean up the mess, but turn away for a moment & it's already back. Sometimes it's just better to hunker down & wait it out. I'll do a catch up soon.

In the meantime, an important safety message from our trash can:

"Don't forget to leave a little room at the tip."

The tragic tale of the magical card that almost died, but was saved, only to realize it wasn't so special after all.

The story you are about to read is true. Especially the magical parts. The names have not been changed to protect the innocent, because that would just turn it into gossip. Some details have been omitted by He/She Who Must Not Be Named, because I don't want you nut jobs knowing where someone used to live. We're all about privacy here. Mostly. Frankly, if you can fill in the details from what's revealed here, then you obviously have super powers and would have gotten it out of me eventually anyway. This is my story. Dunh, dunh! (Also know as the doink doink or the chung chung.) 

So, this card was delivered to our house in January. It was postmarked 12/27/12 from MD and addressed to Ms. Linda [CLASSIFIED]. I was pretty sure it was a better late than never Holiday card. We're used to getting previous tenants' mail, so I was just going to return it to the post office on my next trip. However, I noticed that the house number on it was not ours. So, being in a giving spirit and wanting to support my fellow procrastinator, I decided to just hand deliver it to the correct address. 

I went driving down my street, and it turns out there is no such street number. So, I took it by the local post office and explained that:

A) This was delivered to my house, but I'm not Ms. Linda. Ms. Linda does not live at our house, but admitted that I hadn't checked the Harry Potter closet lately for squatters.

B) It was supposed to be delivered to 2204.

C) I checked our neighborhood and there is no 2204. I admitted that I had not tried to reach in between 2202 & 2206 to see if there was a magical mailbox slot for 2204.

D) There is a Methodist church where 2204 should be & perhaps the 2204 #2 is to indicate Linda's aisle and seat in the church.

The kind postman, who's used to dealing with crazy, rich ladies (I'm obviously not any of those, but he hasn't seen my certifications proving otherwise.), smiled and said he would take care of it. I immediately forgot about it.

Fast forward. No, too far. Back up about four days. Okay. Now hit play.

Among our Tuesday sale ads, there was a card in the mail. As usual, addressed to not anyone who currently lives here. I throw it in the stack to drop off at the post office the next time I go. The next day, when I'm gathering the stack to take to the post office, I look at the envelope a little more carefully.

Postmarked MD, on 12/27/12, addressed to Ms. Linda. Mr. Postman obviously changed the second 2 to a 0 and redelivered it. Poor Ms. Linda still didn't have her card! I was prepared to take it back to the post office again, and explain that Linda still hadn't moved to my house, so it could at least be returned to the sender. Then I noticed that there was no return address anywhere on the envelope. Therefore, if I took it back to the post office, it would just end up in the dead letter file. Which we all know is like a paupers grave site for undeliverable mail. Poor Ms. Linda would never know her forgetful friend tried to contact her via a slow & tree killing form of message.

I couldn't let the card die! After all, a thoughful note from a friend can make a world of difference in someone's otherwise dreary life. Plus, there might be money or gift cards in there for Poor Ms. Linda--which could really lift Poor Ms. Linda's spirits too. While I was debating what to do...magically, the envelope fell out of my hand, opened, and the card inside fell out of the envelope, then rested open on the counter! It's Kismet! There wasn't anything of monetary value in it (I felt it my duty to check), but inside was this message:

Obviously, Madalene put a lot of time and thought into this note to Poor Linda.

Poor Linda! The message was too late. Not only did Madalene mail this TWO full days after the celebration of Christmas****, but over a month later, due to Madalene's substandard addressing skills, Poor Linda still had not gotten the message. Without this message, Poor Linda has surely forgotten Jesus by now. Plus, Poor Linda probably has forgotten her friend Madalene too, because Madalene doesn't call, she doesn't write, she doesn't send smoke signals.

****In Madalene's defense, on the back of the card she was sending National Geographic told her "That for a long time, the celebration of Jesus' birth was observed along with the celebration of his baptism, on January 6." I'm sure Madalene thought she was still in the grace period, when she mailed it on December 27th. After all, who knows more about Jesus and Christmas than National Geographic?****

Now, Madalene probably thinks her friend Poor Linda doesn't like her anymore, because she was wrong about the grace period thing and so Linda completely forgot about the birthday party for Jesus! Additionally, Poor Jesus is sad because Ms. Linda ditched his birthday party. Probably to go eat Chinese food and see a movie.

It's a sad story all around.

Maybe something good can come of it, though.

One, if you know, Linda & Madalene, tell them to pick up a phone, email, tweet, or instant message each other every once in a while, so they know where to send the invites.

Two, don't waste time killing trees to send your "friends" pointed reminders about what you think their religious views should be, if you can't be bothered to keep up with their address or put your own return address on the card.

P.S. If you insist on sending mail to a person's address that you are 99% certain is no longer correct just to alieve your own guilt trip, it's only polite to slip at least a twenty in there as a Christmas bonus for processing & handling.

In ultimate procrastinator style...My last two months of 2012.

I guess if I was really the ultimate procrastinator, I would write this next year. However, waiting 14 months to write a post just to prove how big a procrastinator I am is a little more than I was willing to commit too. Since you had to wait so long, I'm not leaving out any of the details. So, here it goes:

11/1/12 - Day of the dead, All Saints Day, - Either you all are saints for dragging your butts out of bed after your candy induced diabetic coma from the night before, even though you won't admit that you ate more candy than your kids...OR you call you boss to inform him you need to take a sick day, which literally translates to I need to deal with my sugar addiction by sleeping like the dead today. I personally, did not fit into either holiday, because I sat in the dark the night before with no candy. I did waste a lot of the day thinking about buying a bunch of half-price Halloween candy to binge on. So, I guess that puts me closer to the Day of the Dead side.

11/2/12 - All Souls Day, Deviled Egg Day - I kept my poor soul hidden behind locked doors worrying constantly about the evil souls trying to trick me into eating their deviled eggs.

11/3/12 - Sandwich Day - Peanut butter & honey with pear slices on 12 grain wheat bread. I'm assuming that's what I ate, since it's my favorite sandwich and why would I not eat a sandwich on Sandwich Day? Can we all just pretend we knew it was Sandwich Day and agree that we ate some kind of concoction of food stuffed between bread? I'm willing to count a calzone or even an ice cream sandwich here people.

11/4/12 - King Tut Day, Peanut Butter Lover's Day - Walked like an Egyptian while eating another peanut butter & honey with pear slices on 12 grain wheat bread sandwich. Made a mental note to petition for the combining of Sandwich Day & Peanut Butter Lover's Day into one day.

11/5/12 - National Donut Day, Guy Fawkes/Gunpowder Day - Ate a dozen chocolate iced donuts while contemplating whether the British know what the heck they are celebrating on Guy Fawkes Day or is it just a giant excuse to dance naked around bonfires and set off fireworks. Made a mental note to remind people that any instance of oppression can most likely be overcome with enough donuts instead of gun powder. That's probably why these to holidays are celebrated together.

11/6/12  - Election Day - Otherwise known as the day Mitt Romney called his career counselor.

11/7/12 - 12/31/12 - Became extremely unsuccessful in mitigating the insanity in my life and decided to ignore the stupid calendar because it kept lying about what was supposed to happen on any given day.

In summary, we spent the rest of that week mourning the death & celebrating the life of Jim's grandfather who died on Election Day. As is often the case, we spent a lot of time with family and friends. Some we hadn't seen in years, others I had the pleasure of meeting for the first time while hearing wonderful stories and learning new details about a man that I thought I already knew so well. I'm grateful for the time spent with all those wonderful people.

After that, a rather laid back Thanksgiving. Followed by a somewhat depressing, but not unexpected, final Razorback game of the season. However, there was at least some borderline orgasmic steak, cooked by Chef Jim, and consumed by all while watching the game.

December was a blur of Christmas preparations, work, work, trivia nigh, work, work, work, last minute wrapping of gifts, work, last minute baking because some douche kept buying every single pecan pie in town, non-stop family holiday parties, giant snow storm that left us without power and heat for four days, work, work, then nice relaxing New Year's eve spent with two of our best friends and their awesome kids.

So, two weeks late...Happy New Year!

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.

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.

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.

How did you spend your extra second today?

Apparently, we all got an extra second today. See http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Leap_second. 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!

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 down...at...all.

Plus, we all know you'll just go eat the store brand Oreos instead. So, the whole body as a temple thing...um, 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.

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.

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 know...so 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?

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.

Because...as 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?

"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 b...um, bicep.

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.

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 special...in 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.

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.