I Have Comment Envy

How come everyone comments at PetuniaFacedGirl and no one comments here?

Don't pretend you didn't make your way here from there.

Comment, bitches.

My husband's awesome blog, theracemonkey.com, has the same non-commentary issue. As does the awesomeness that is anawesomeaday.blogspot.com.

Really, what is wrong with you people? Have you NOTHING to say?

I am so jealous of Susannah and her nasty Anonymous cat-calling comments.

Say SOMETHING. Say ANYTHING (insert photo of John Cusack with boombox over head).

Random Thoughts

• Is Anderson Cooper really gay? Because, goddam he's cute.
• Anne Heche. Seriously. What's up with that? I'd love to have lunch with her just once so I could ask her about the aliens.
• Do you use your parking brake? I totally don't. Do you have to live in San Francisco for this to be a real issue?
• Mafia Wars on Facebook. Why am I obsessed?
• Dave Letterman. Clinton before that. I was an intern once - how come the boss didn't want to fuck me??
• Firefly Sweet Tea Vodka. If you haven't had it, run out and buy it. Now.
• Am I the only one that seriously thinks that Depends are a good idea on an almost daily basis?
• Yon Ka. Best skin care line ever.
• Thanks to TMZ, I now know Oprah's middle name. It's Gail. Kinda creepy because that's her best friend's name. (It's official. I know way too much about Oprah.)
• If you're not following John Mayer on Twitter, you're totally missing out.

See Chelsea??

See how behind I am?

I need a suggestion for my next post!

Puppy Chow

Oh, that's. Just. Awesomely. Bad.

see more Fail Blog

The Thing(s) Is(are)

I can't sleep.

I'd call it Insomnia, but I can't help but suspect it's my alarming lack of a schedule.

Always been this way. I remember tottering out blurry-eyed in my cotton Strawberry Shortcake nightgown. Dad watching 10 o'clock news would say to me "then stay up all night" when clearly I was hoping for a glass of water or a bedtime story. His throw-off was much more wildly successful. Damn. Might as well sleep. Or stare at the ceiling.

I am pudgy.

And I know this is because most nights I cannot sleep. So I stay awake with wine and one 100-calorie-pack after another until I have consumed 1,000 calories. Easily. Maybe more.

So here it is: 1:00 a.m. That's a lot of colons, my friends. And what do I do with all of those when the alarm goes off at 6:45 am? Snooze, snooze, snooze bar.

I decided to take up smoking (this week) in hopes that I would stop eating and start puffing instead at 1:00 am, forgetting that the nicotine high makes me... well... high. Which is not conducive to sleep.

I have this dumb ass National meeting in Orlando next month and I got it in my head that I would lose all this weight and be fabulous for it. But, instead, here I am. 1:00 am. Red wine and 100-calorie-pack.

Have you seen that show "Obsessed" on A&E? Oh, I highly recommend it, though it is not for the squeamish. Toothbrushes and rectums and all. (Rectum real good, Johnny).

Still, I wonder if I should find me a local cognitive behavior therapist who will fix my naughties. 1:00 am and wine and 100-calorie-packs and do you know how much I bite my nails? Constantly, even in important meetings to close the deal when I know the client is looking at me like, "What is with this chipmunk in my conference room?"

It's like heroin, this wine, calorie pack, cuticle addiction of mine. But it is mine. Mine all mine.

And who out there doesn't have vices? I ask you.....

What IS The Matter with Kansas?

Fuck you, Scott Roeder.

Fuck you and all your friends and your fucktarded religion.

Let me get this straight: Abortion is wrong because The Bible states "Thou Shalt Not Kill". In fact, it's one of them there "Commandments". The last time I checked, those weren't exactly optional.

Thou Shalt Not Kill. And this "abortion doctor", George Tiller, he was killing babies. I get it, I get it. Some may argue that this "murder" was up for interpretation, but I understand your angle, Scott. I'm scooping what you're pooping.

So, this guy is killing and you can't kill. Ergo, the only rationale is to kill. Kill the killers! Kill the killers and then you're...not...a...killer?

Fucktarded!

Now, we watch the other Christian fucktards on CNN. With their picket signs "Abortion is Murder" and "God Bless Tiller's Killer". Cuz that makes sense.

What if those babies that The Baby Killer killed grew up to be a Baby Killers? Then wasn't The Baby Killer doing a good thing by killing babies? Wasn't it God's Work then?

What do you mean that doesn't make sense? It makes just as much logical sense as the swill you fucktards are swilling!

Here's my fervent wish: That all this nonsense that I think is nonsense isn't nonsense. And Scotty boy goes up to the pearly gates sitting on a big fluffy cloud and walks (floats?) up to Saint Peter with his golden clipboard. And he proudly tells Saint Peter that he did God's work and eradicated The Baby Killer. And then Saint Peter looks down at his list and says...

"What part of Thou Shalt Not Kill didn't you understand? Fucktard."

I'll Be Seeing You

In December of last year, I wrote a post about our dog.

I began it with the statement that I was heartbroken. But, no. I was wrong. NOW I am heartbroken.

The Poochie of My Heart is gone. Dead.

Just when she had turned the corner. Just when she had become our baby girl's best friend, best playmate.

Something got her.

It started out with a few scratches on her ear. Then the scratches got red, so I made a vet appointment. Then just a few hours later, fever and an abcess.

Then surgery, IV antibiotics, sepsis, blood transfusion, pulmonary embolysm, and cardiac failure.

We called her The Tank because she was so indestructible. Chasing tennis balls full speed into concrete walls. Eating bees and railroad ties like they were dainty petit fors.

When the vet called and said she was failing, that there was less than a 2% chance she would survive and even if she did he couldn't say what she would be... like... my god, how I howled.

I must have said the word "no" a hundred times. A thousand times. It just wasn't possible.

My husband rushed to the vet to say goodbye, but when he got there she was already gone. He called me on his cell phone to tell me. Standing next to her, clutching her fur, he told her again and again how sorry he was. How sorry we were that we couldn't save her.

The guilt overwhelmed me at first. The guilt that I had considered giving her away, that I had ever shouted at her or cursed her, that I didn't clean her scratches well enough or call the vet soon enough, that I didn't love her enough, that I couldn't fix it all.

I scurried to remove traces of her before my husband could return from the vet. Her beds, her toys, her dishes all dumped hurriedly into an empty diapers box. I re-arranged the furniture to conceal the marks from her crate. I'm not sure what I thought I would erase.

It's like that old song...

I'll be seeing you

In all the old familiar places

That this heart of mine embraces

All day through.

I swear I hear the clink of her collar, a yawn, toenails on the tile floor. The other night, stumbling back into bed after checking on the baby, a shadow lay across my covers and quietly, without thinking, I said "Move, Katie." She always loved the warm spot we left behind on the sheets. "Move, Katie," I said quietly aloud before the shadow became just a shadow.

I'll find you

In the morning sun

And when the night is new.

It is amazing to me the impact that pets have on our lives. How they curl up in the warmest chambers of our hearts and wait for a biscuit. In the first days, I vowed I would never get another dog because I could not stand to take the pain again; it was too raw and jagged. And I was almost embarassed that I could give so much of my heart away to a damn dog who never could behave decently in public.

But as days have passed, and I grow used to the quiet of the house, I think only of the joys she brought to our life: the kisses, the snuggles, the play, the laughter. And I realize with a shuddering jolt that it is only a matter of time before another dog comes skittering into our life.

Katie, if you didn't already know it, and god I hope you did, we loved you very very much. Thank you for all you brought into our lives. I will never ever forget you.

I'll be looking at the moon, but I'll be seeing you.

The Service Level Agreement of My Hair

It's 10:26 a.m. and I have a haircut appointment at 12:45 p.m.

All morning, I have been thinking about my hair.

I have come to the conclusion that my relationship with and about my hair is the second-most complex relationship I have in my life.. the first being the relationship I have with my waistline. And I don't think I'm alone in this.... am I, girls?

First, the expectations I have for my hair are completely out-of-line and unreasonable. I expect it to single-handedly make me gorgeous, glamorous, polished and skinny. If my hair looks bad, I feel bad all day. If I am having a good day, glance in the mirror and find my hair has betrayed me, my mood immediately plummets.

Second, the expectations I have for the man who cuts my hair are completely out-of-line and unreasonable. Why can't he make my fine hair thick and glorious? My short, uncooperative, somewhat frizzy hair become long and sleek? Why can't he maintain my current style AND keep the length I have worked so hard to grow out? Why can't he keep my bangs from growing out so damn fast??

Side note about my hairdresser: When I inform people that my hairdresser is, in fact, a male, people automatically assume that he is a homosexual. I fully understand why, of course, and I fully pity him for the raised eyebrows and assumptions he deals with. But the fact is that if you met my hairdresser in a dark alley, you would be terrified. The man encompasses the term "vato". Shaved head, tattoo sleeves, multiple piercings. Low rider with rims and his last name in gothic lettering on the back window. A virile chicano specimen.

Maybe I should try a new hairdresser for a change... but I'm too scared to leave him.

Obseity Ain't Just a River in Egypt

I grew up in Texas, home of the deep-fat-fried twinkie.

My mother and I, in a fit of genius, once melted Kraft caramel squares down and dipped marshmallows into the goo.

I've been known to eat butter straight and an entire can of frosting with my fingers.

My traditional "last supper" before starting a diet is Easy Mac and a tube of cookie dough.

It's no surprise to me that I struggle with my weight. I just like food too damn much. The high I get from turtle cheesecake is akin to shooting heroin between my toes (I have never actually shot heroin between my toes, so turtle cheesecake may, in fact, be better).

When my husband sent me the link for ThisIsWhyYoureFat.com, I realized that I should be mostly disgusted by the pictures... but I am deeply admiring.

That's a giant burger between two large meat pizzas, eggs, bacon, colby and pepper jack cheese.

There's also a Deep Fried Cupcake With Chocolate Syrup And Sprinkles. French fries topped with cheese curds, egg, bacon and covered in brown gravy. French Fry-Encased Hot Dog On A Stick. Here's a Bacon-Wrapped Meatloaf With A Layer Of Mac And Cheese.

Check it out and enjoy the mild queasiness mixed with deep hunger...

Okay, I'm back...

... but don't go pinning any expectations on me.

If I completely over-analyze myself, I realize that the main reason I have procrastinated re-starting the blog is that I cannot suffer the obligation to write every blasted day.

I mean, people! I am not that interesting! Sure, thoughts flit across my brain all throughout the day... but turning them into an actual entry would be nearly impossible.

Sadly, I almost understand the appeal of Twitter. Ugh. How trendy.

For instance... how does the Internet know I'm fat? I understand the concept of cookies (yes, that's a double entendre), but it's become eerie. I can believe that the prevalence of Wonder Diet Drug banner ads might be just coincidence. But Lane Bryant follows me everywhere. Every. Where. Yahoo, Cakewrecks, Facebook. It's starting to creep me out.

Also, I returned from the restroom at work about ten minutes ago. But I am still gagging, literally physically gagging, from the smell the gal next to me was producing. Just thinking about it sets me off. *GAK* What could she have eaten to produce that stank? Burnt rubber tires with an acetone chaser? *GAK* Just typing this... oh, people walking by my office would think I had a hairball.

Today's water cooler discussion topic:
Is that Bachelor guy a schmuck or what? He's such a douche, I can't believe I didn't date him.

Yah, I suck

I am completely unmotivated and somewhat depressed.

My husband is harassing me about my abandonment of my blog.

Tinkerbell has lost the ability to fly because she doesn't think that anyone believes in her....

Encourage me! Someone! Anyone!

Dear Malia and Sasha,

If you have not already done so, please read Barack Obama's letter to his daughters... and to the American citizens... and the world.

'What I Want for You — and Every Child in America'
By President-elect Barack Obama
- Next Tuesday, Barack Obama will be sworn in as our 44th President. On this historic occasion, PARADE asked the President-elect, who is also a devoted family man, to get personal and tell us what he wants for his children. Here, he shares his letter to them.

Dear Malia and Sasha,

I know that you've both had a lot of fun these last two years on the campaign trail, going to picnics and parades and state fairs, eating all sorts of junk food your mother and I probably shouldn't have let you have. But I also know that it hasn't always been easy for you and Mom, and that as excited as you both are about that new puppy, it doesn't make up for all the time we've been apart. I know how much I've missed these past two years, and today I want to tell you a little more about why I decided to take our family on this journey.

When I was a young man, I thought life was all about me-about how I'd make my way in the world, become successful, and get the things I want. But then the two of you came into my world with all your curiosity and mischief and those smiles that never fail to fill my heart and light up my day. And suddenly, all my big plans for myself didn't seem so important anymore. I soon found that the greatest joy in my life was the joy I saw in yours. And I realized that my own life wouldn't count for much unless I was able to ensure that you had every opportunity for happiness and fulfillment in yours. In the end, girls, that's why I ran for President: because of what I want for you and for every child in this nation.

I want all our children to go to schools worthy of their potential-schools that challenge them, inspire them, and instill in them a sense of wonder about the world around them. I want them to have the chance to go to college-even if their parents aren't rich. And I want them to get good jobs: jobs that pay well and give them benefits like health care, jobs that let them spend time with their own kids and retire with dignity.

I want us to push the boundaries of discovery so that you'll live to see new technologies and inventions that improve our lives and make our planet cleaner and safer. And I want us to push our own human boundaries to reach beyond the divides of race and region, gender and religion that keep us from seeing the best in each other.

Sometimes we have to send our young men and women into war and other dangerous situations to protect our country-but when we do, I want to make sure that it is only for a very good reason, that we try our best to settle our differences with others peacefully, and that we do everything possible to keep our servicemen and women safe. And I want every child to understand that the blessings these brave Americans fight for are not free-that with the great privilege of being a citizen of this nation comes great responsibility.

That was the lesson your grandmother tried to teach me when I was your age, reading me the opening lines of the Declaration of Independence and telling me about the men and women who marched for equality because they believed those words put to paper two centuries ago should mean something.

She helped me understand that America is great not because it is perfect but because it can always be made better-and that the unfinished work of perfecting our union falls to each of us. It's a charge we pass on to our children, coming closer with each new generation to what we know America should be.

I hope both of you will take up that work, righting the wrongs that you see and working to give others the chances you've had. Not just because you have an obligation to give something back to this country that has given our family so much-although you do have that obligation. But because you have an obligation to yourself. Because it is only when you hitch your wagon to something larger than yourself that you will realize your true potential.

These are the things I want for you-to grow up in a world with no limits on your dreams and no achievements beyond your reach, and to grow into compassionate, committed women who will help build that world. And I want every child to have the same chances to learn and dream and grow and thrive that you girls have. That's why I've taken our family on this great adventure.

I am so proud of both of you. I love you more than you can ever know. And I am grateful every day for your patience, poise, grace, and humor as we prepare to start our new life together in the White House.

Love, Dad

Head of the Pig

I come from a long line of extraordinarily stubborn people. My grandfather was perhaps the pater familia in this department... the man had a quadruple bypass at the age of 60 and managed to live another 30 years, most likely out of sheer stubborness.

A recent example from my own life: I was so convinced that my husband had failed to get Tide detergent even after I had carefully printed it on the grocery list. He insisted it wasn't on the list. So, I went out to the big trash can in the garage and went through it bag by bag, piece of crap by piece of crap until I found the list. Just to prove to him that I had included it and he had failed to procure it anyway. It wasn't on the list.

As I've grown and matured a bit, I've become a bit more willing to admit when I'm wrong. Oh, it doesn't happen often; I am nothing if not overwhelmingly correct 99.9% of the time. But in the aforementioned incident, for example, I actually brought the grocery list into the house and admitted to my husband that I may have had a slight oversight. In the past, I would have stuffed it into the bottom of a banana peel and claimed I couldn't find it but was still secure in the knowledge that I was indeed correct. As always.

This pigheadedness was undoubtedly a contributing factor to the demise of some of my earlier relationships. That and my past predisposition to dating complete assholes.

Even though I've made vast improvements in this department, I still find it difficult to admit when I'm incorrect about something. My tongue tends to swell a little and become cottony. My mind has trouble seizing upon certain pertinent words (e.g. "I" and "was" and "wrong").

So, in the spirit of self-improvement...

I may have been a bit hasty in my previous judgement of the novel "Twilight". Oh, there is little doubt that the first 177 pages of the book are pure crap. But on page 178, Ms. Meyers seems to have wrested control of the keyboard from her 6-year-old and actually started to write the book using the English language and at least an 8th-grade writing level. The story has become intriguing, suspenseful, complex... I get it now. I get The Phenomenon now.

I admit this because I would hate to deprive someone from this reading experience simply because I might possibly have been a bit hasty in my judgment.

Let us never speak of this error again.

Now, I will continue my life of perfection. Thank you for reading.

Vampires, Shmampires

Dear Ms. Meyers,

I have given in to the hype and begun to read "Twilight", your sales-record-shattering novel that has millions of 14-year-old girls in knee-wobbling ecstatics. After all, there are several Young Adult series that I have enjoyed, namely: Harry Potter, Inkheart, Eragon. Therefore there is a likely probability that I will enjoy this series as well, right?

Stephenee (or however the weird you spell your first name), I must begin by giving you props for the story. You've chosen a nice setting for the hi jinks.... a gloomy, rainy town in the Pacific Northwest. I'm still working on how you chose the name, but suspect that you had just finished a pasta lunch when you started writing. You seem to have a nice story line working. The plot is pretty engrossing.

But, Stefanny, I have to inquire: Have you ever heard of ghostwriting? That's where you tell your story to someone who is actually capable of putting intelligible sentences together. It's created for people who really cannot write, such as movie stars, athletes, and fashion models. You may have picked up a book with the tell-tale "As Told by" notation... that's ghostwriting.

I bring this up, Stayfenny, because your writing "style" makes me want to gouge out my eyeballs with a cotton swab. I call it a "style" because it's nicer than saying that I cannot believe that you are a published author. I would love to meet your editor because I suspect that she has a deskful of empty red ink pens, after having bled over the Lockerbee crash that had to have been your original manuscript. If this is the final product, I can't imagine what you began with. 

Not only are the sentences ridiculously abrupt. But. You have also provided us with. The most paper-thin one-dimensional characters to ever grace a cheap trade paperback page. The only character study I could possibly wring from your protagonist is that she hates being referred to by her full name. And she is too stupid to recognize the vampire until more than halfway through the vampire book. Otherwise, she is so boring that I fervently wish she HAD been killed by that renegade van in the parking lot.

I am also convinced that you called upon Roget to find a synonym for nearly every word in that book. You say "sneered" when you clearly mean "whispered", "pleaded" instead of "questioned", and "The next day...." when we wish you would say "The end."

As I read this best seller, I try not to despair of the future of our youth. I think of the fantastically written books of my adolescence... A Separate Peace, A Wrinkle in Time... and cannot believe that America's teens are buying the sequel and the threequel of this sludge with abandon. Are they just so attuned to the abbreviated text messaging speak that any prose with all vowels intact is suddenly Faulkner?

Will I manage to finish this book of partially hydrogenated palm oil? Or will the shitty prose eventually distract me enough that I toss the book into the garbage disposal and scream "Die, Edward Cullen. Die!" as it is shredded into tiny shitty prose pieces?

Only the undead know. Whooooooooooooooooo. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Barf.

Love,

Minckle Mouse

Happy Now?

One of the best parts of my job is the great stories about customers that I get to collect. Please keep in mind that, in general, I work with business owners, CIOs, CFOs, and CEOs. But I have quickly learned that the title on your business card does not guarantee that you will be either intelligent or professional.

This was only my second day back at work and I already had a great one... a customer complained to one of my reps that he had left me several voicemails during my maternity leave and had not heard back from me. He pretty much implied that our deal had fallen through because I had been unresponsive.

I seriously never got any of these voicemails, nor do I remember seeing him on my Missed Call list, but I am a new mom and sleep deprivation does things to the brain.

So upon hearing this, I immediately thought, "Uh oh. I wonder what happened. I should investigate. I work for a cell company so I have the tools to fix this if needed. What if other customers had this experience?" 

Of course, another part of me thought, "Seriously, dude? You called me, listened to my voicemail which clearly stated that I was on maternity leave until January 5th and left me a message anyway?" But, I chose to listen to the angel on my left shoulder in the Tahari suit and send him an email. 

(A side note here... I went out on leave when I was 7 months pregnant. Obviously, I thought I had a good two more months of work left to go, but when the doctor says "emergency inducement to save the life of the child", you don't ask for a few days to answer some emails. Sadly, there were several customers that, even upon hearing why I had left suddenly, were completely ticked off that I had abandoned them. Phrases like "left me high and dry" and "that's no excuse" were used. To say that I will never again go above and beyond to help these assholes is an understatement.)

In my email I began by apologizing that he had not been able to reach me and that I was concerned that I may have missed other calls. Could he tell me what number he had called? Had he reached my voice mail when he called?

He replied, "Yes. Called several times, did receive your voicemail and left multiple messages."

Now this doesn't answer my first, most important question... I do have both a desk and cellular phone with separate voicemail systems... but it did raise a new concern. My voicemail left the phone number of my assistant, urging folks to contact her for assistance. Had she been unresponsive to him? She was generally reliable, but everyone is apt to drop a ball every so often. 

So, in my next email I asked: Since he did receive my voicemail, was he able to reach my assistant through the number I left on the outgoing message? I would hate to think that he'd had an immediate need and he had been completely ignored. 

He replied: "Sorry I made everything up happy now?"

I am transcribing the punctuation verbatim so that you can fully appreciate the effect here.

Dear reader, I ask you for your opinion... Is the guy genuinely bugged by my inquiry and thus being a sarcastic jerk? Or is he pissed off that his lies couldn't withstand my innocent line of questioning and therefore is going to cop to his own bullshit?

Please leave your opinion at the tone. I'll be sure and deny later that I ever received it.

Back in the Euphemistic Saddle Again

Ladies and Gentleman.

I am writing to you from the belly of the beast.

I am. Back. At work.

And how was leaving the house this morning, you inquire?

I'm proud to report that I did not burst into tears in front of the nanny. Nope, not me. I totally waited until I was in the car to eradicate my mascara. Then I sobbed all the way to work.

But once I was back at my desk, with my 73 software updates completely hosing up my laptop, I started to feel as giddy as a school girl. 

I'm back! I'm back! O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!

Now. Who the fuck took my stapler?