My Insane Sunday

Story 1:

This is why owning weird pets is horrifying when your husband is out of town. So we have Pokey the Hedgehog, otherwise known as Monster. Monster gets live superworms everyday, which is revolting enough. But every time I open the lid to where we keep the worms, just like I did a few minutes ago to give them food so that they stay healthy and pass along those healthy vitamins to Pokey, the condensation from worm goo always splashes on to me.

There is no amount of bleach or lye in the world that can ever make me feel clean again after having worm juice splatter all over me. And I’m not particularly squeamish about things, but worm juice? It landed on my arm, my hand, MY CHEEK!!!! Good Lord. My cheek. I can probably cut off the arm and manage a fairly reasonable life, but I can’t cut off my face! What’s a girl to do?

Well, I’m going to go vomit now. Kidding, but that’s how grossed out I am. Those worms will be lucky if they get this food ever again until the hubby gets home. ICK!

Of course, we all know that deep down I’m a big softy, so I will give them more food. But I will want to puke the whole time.

Story 2:

You might think that being splashed with worm juice would be the hardest part of my day today. That would be inaccurate.

I’m trying to make the house somewhat less disgusting because my darling friend Brenda (literally known her since we were 1 and 2 years old) will be in town and I don’t want her to vomit when she walks in my house because I have not really been able to do any cleaning for the last nine months and she is very neat. She even vacuums when we are on vacation–God bless her.

So I very stupidly, very very stupidly, sit on the floor to try and reupholster a sofa cushion which is about the size and weight of a queen-sized mattress.  Keep in mind, I haven’t done more than walk to the bathroom for the last 9 months, but I’m determined to have a decent looking house when she visits. So, there I am… using those upholstery twisty things trying to clamp this king-sized blanket on to this enormous sofa cushion which weighs more than a car. I’m huffing and I’m puffing and I’m exhausted by the time I’m done. And then I realize I can’t get off the fucking floor.

I’m still in my boot after surgery on my foot, so that entire leg is essentially useless because I can’t get it underneath myself or put full weight on it. And while my arm that was broken is mostly better, it still can’t take any real weight.

So I have only a right foot, a right arm and I’m trying to get my wider-than-usual ass up off the floor. I tried everything. I tried rolling around. I tried getting on my knees. You would think I’d be a pro at that by now, but it did not help in this particular case. 😉 I tried rocking back and forth to build up some momentum. I rolled onto the sofa cushion figuring that would give me an extra 4 inches of lift. Fail. Fail. Fail. Fail.

It was only through the grace of God, who I’m quite sure was laughing hysterically at me, and some magical hand reaching into my dining room and pulling my ass up off the floor that I’m not still sitting there. I should have taken a video of it. It was the most ridiculous 20 minutes of my life! And, of course the phone was no where near me so I couldn’t call someone to come lift my ass up off the floor!

Anyway, I finally manage to get up off the floor, and then I had to move that heavy motherfucking cushion from the dining room onto the sofa in the family room and by the time I got it on there I realized that I’m never moving again for the rest of the day. If I have to use the bathroom I’m just going to pee on the sofa.

Conclusion:

That was my Sunday. WTF was I thinking? Have I lost my mind? I need to just stay on the sofa, not move and say fuck it to anything that’s still messy. That’s my vow and I’m sticking to it!

Love you guys!!! 🙂 XOXO

 

Ahhhh…the good ol’ days

I got to thinking tonight, after visiting a Facebook page dedicated to the small town I grew up in, about how much fun it was to grow up in the 80s as a teenager.

Yeah, we didn’t have the Internet (eeeee gawds!).

We didn’t have cell phones.

I had to get my lazy ass off the dent in the sofa to change the channel. My tolerance for mis-aligned rabbit ears was quite high. I could watch a show even though its horizontal tuning made the picture flip up every 10 seconds.

I didn’t even have caller ID until I was 22.

My 1973 Buick LeSabre (the boat) had an AM radio that would change stations if I took a sharp turn (doing 85mph!).

That same “boat” saw tons o’ backseat action from my friends (and occasionally me) at parties at the Peach Orchard or on someone’s farm or backyard.

Good music. Great friends. Lots of beer!

Good music. Great friends. Lots of beer!

I hid my smokes and my birth control pills under the seat in my car and blamed them on my friends when my mom found them.

We had tons of parties most weekends since my mom was newly married to my ex-step-father and they’d go out and come home very late with leaves in their hair.

At those parties, everyone would throw their beer cans into the snow in the backyard, only to be discovered by my mom when the snow melted. I lied on the spot SOOOO well about where the beer cans originated that I somehow managed to not only NOT get in trouble, but garner sympathy from her.

At those same parties, we once had someone take the bananas in the fruit basket and half eat them, then stick their gooey remains all over the house to be found by my mom upon coming home. That was harder to explain than the beer cans, but I managed.

The banana sticker collection from all those dang bananas!

The banana sticker collection from all those dang bananas!

After those awesome parties, boys would toss rocks at my sister’s and my bedroom windows to get us to sneak out–we typically did! We just had to wait for either the AC or the heat to kick on as it was so loud you couldn’t hear the suction noise the front door made when it closed.

That's the rock-collecting window, me for prom and my little sis that would warn us when the parents were coming home so we could kick everyone out the back door before they pulled into the driveway. :)

That’s the rock-collecting window, me for prom and my little sis that would warn us when the parents were coming home so we could kick everyone at the party out the back door before the ‘rents pulled into the driveway. 🙂

At one of those sneak outs, I had I guy tell me we could use his dad’s hot tub. When we got to his dad’s apartment he filled the bath tub with hot water and said, “Voila! A hot tub.” No, he got no ass that night. 😉

I remember having a teacher at one of my high schools and the sluttier my friends and I would dress, the more he’d let us skip class and hang out in his office drinking his liquor and smoking stogies.

I remember another teacher who was a total perv, and I had him for 2 classes, so I skipped both of them for an entire year and right before summer break my vice principal called me into his office and asked where I’d gone for those 2 classes all year long. My response was, “Away from that pervert….” Yeah, I didn’t get in a bit of trouble. All was forgiven.

I fondly recall driving by hot guys’ houses and writing in chalk on the road in front of their houses things like “You’re hot.” God, what a doofus.

Once, I went to the Rock-n-Roll Revival (an awesome music show my HS put on) and doodled my love for a certain guy all over the show’s program while leaving comments (most of them flattering) next to all of the cast members’ names, then stupidly dropping it in the floor instead of the trash can so that EVERYFUCKINGONE could read it. I still feel bad about doodling that one girl had duck feet. She was so nice and I didn’t expect for anyone else to lay eyes on it.

That's my smokin' hot sister on the left in the Rock-n-Roll Revival.

That’s my smokin’ hot sister on the left in the Rock-n-Roll Revival.

I loved making mix tapes for boyfriends and misery tapes after the breakup. Kids nowadays have no idea how hard it is to skip through every radio station looking for THE song so you could get it on tape, just to miss the first 5 seconds. That wonderful stress of NEEDING that song but knowing the challenge you faced actually finding it for your tape.

I remember putting bologna slices all over a dickbag’s car because, well, he was a dickbag. Boy was he pissed (that was as bitchy as I ever got, and I know it wasn’t really nice). But seriously, he was such a dick, he had it comin’.

I recall when one of my best friends kicked the glass panel in the exit door by the Ertzman Theater and put her foot through it. Yep, their was blood.

I used to get such a thrill out of running away from Jack the Hall Monitor at my first high school and buying Ruby the Hall Monitor at my second HS some McDonalds so that she’d let me skip and not bust me.

I thoroughly enjoyed wearing bra tops and miniskirts with 4-inch heels to school ’cause, yeah, that’s appropriate.

I was terrified when a different vice principal at my second HS came and dragged me out of my 12th grade English class to “explain” the state of my locker to him. It was OUR locker, not my locker. But luckily for my locker-mates, they all just happened to not be in school that day, so I had to scrub the fucking thing clean with Ajax while wearing those 4-inch heels. Oh, and yes, I was MORTIFIED by the nasty shit written in that locker when the VP was standing next to me. We had drawn perversion all over it. It was awesome!

Try and read all that naughty stuff! Good grief!

Try and read all that naughty stuff! Good grief!

I longingly remember making out with sexy boys and not letting them get to 2nd base because I liked being a good girl (sometimes, not ALL the time!).

Faces have been blurred to protect the innocent! 😉

I loved going to OC (the beach at Ocean City) and not going to sleep until the sun came up and praying no one would smell the pot under the door of the hotel. I never had a desire to go to jail.

Yeah, that smoke is not from cigs. ;)

Yeah, that smoke is not from cigs. 😉

Walking a mile in deep snow to get to the High’s for an ice cream cone was awesome and well worth it.

The High's was on the right, just as you entered the shopping center. It was awesome.

The High’s was on the right, just as you entered the shopping center. It was amazing.

I’d make visits to the Sandy Spring Bank, all dolled up and smelling pretty, to go flirt with an old flame.

Sandy Spring Bank

And I’d eat at “The Deli” with my mom all the time. They had the best grilled provolone on Rye with tomato sandwiches and veggie soup I’ve ever had!

My mommy in front of The Deli. Yum!

My mommy in front of The Deli. Yum!

All of these things I loved so very much and I miss my hometown all the time.

To all of you who grew up around the same era as me, I hope you had as much fun as I did.

And much love to all of the wicked, naughty friends I had that contributed to my debauchery! I know I corrupted a few of you back, and damn was it fun! XOXOXOXO

Double-dropped Kitchen Floor Ice Cream

I still believe that icecream should be one word. WHY ISN’T IT ONE WORD??? It doesn’t make any sense. Iceberg is one word. So is Iceland. What about iceman? Even iceweasel is one word–though I have no flippin’ idea what it means.

Anyway, I digress!

You guys know I love chocolate.

If I could eat it all day, every day without dying of malnutrition, I’d do so. To hell with being able to fit into a car. Chocolate rules!

So, in an effort to eat food that is as healthy and non-processed as possible (meaning if it contains plastic, shit I cannot pronounce, or metal shavings, I’m trying to shy away from it), I thought that what I’d do is when I’m dying for some chocolate I’d just eat one spoonful of my favorite chocolate iceCREAM (dammit!) on earth: Ben & Jerry’s New York Super Fudge Chunk. Just the name of it makes me a bit randy! And it contains ingredients that don’t tongue tie me.

Believe it or not I’m perfectly capable (though it takes ALL my strength) of eating only one bite per day. It sates my chocolate craving and is only about 25 calories for a small bite.

About a week ago I realized that my month-old pint of B&J is down to the last bite. Yes! It lasted a whole month. I am quite proud of myself.

I was so excited about getting that last delicious morsel of orgasmic chocolate heaven into my gaping maw that I attacked the pint with a ferocity typically known only to mother lions protecting their cubs.

Alas, that damn stuff was so frozen that it was not very accepting of my spoon. It bent the damn thing in half. (I know I’m not the only person with like 10 oddly bent spoons in their silverware drawer from where hard iceCREAM bent it and you had to try and mush it back into shape with only moderate success.)

Dang bendy spoons!

Dang bendy spoons!

So, back to the inaccessible B&J: GAME ON BITCH! I was gonna get that chocolate onto my spoon come hell or high water. PMS waits for NO frozen iceCREAM.

Finally, after digging at it and prying it away from the edge of the pint, I get some success. The spoon is in and the iceCREAM is slightly mobile, if not still a wee bit stuck.

With one final YANK I free the chocolate bliss from its wretched home and watch it go sailing through the air to land with an unceremonious splat on my kitchen floor.

Fuck!

Now, I don’t know about you, but my kitchen floor isn’t…well…clean.

As I refuse to clean anything in the kitchen and it all falls to the hubby, I can’t complain if the kitchen floor is gross. If I’m not willing to clean it, I also can’t bitch if it’s not clean.

I look lovingly upon my iceCREAM splat and say, “5 second rule!” I’m eating it and I don’t care.

I pick it up off the floor, analyze the 8 cat hairs and various other ickies now attached to it and decide that it’s worth the risk.

I remove all of the extra floor sprinkles now added to my piece of chocolate heaven and go to put it into my mouth.

Alas, my fingers are warm and with all the picking off of the ickies the iceCREAM has slightly melted and whoops! Through my fingers it falls again onto the floor.

DOUBLE FUCK-A-DOODLE-DO!

But, eh, to hell with it. I cleaned it once, I can clean it again.

Now I’m back to removing cat hair and other Typhoid-carrying elements from my manna from Heaven. Finally, it looks clean enough to eat (well, sorta) and I pop that bite ‘o yumminess into my waiting mouth.

Mmmmmm…chocolate…mmmmmm…in love with Ben & Jerry. Wanna marry them…mmmmm… WHAT THE FUCK? Yep, there was a “what the fuck” moment while luxuriating in the chocolate bliss that is New York Super Fudge Chunk. I guess my iceCREAM picked up a hitchhiking pepper seed that had fallen to the floor a few days ago when the hubby was cooking Thai food.

Not sure how much you know about Thai peppers, but to say they are hot is like saying that Megan Fox or Chris Hemsworth (Thor) are just kinda okay looking–a tremendous understatement.

FIRE dammit! My mouth is on FIRE!

Yes, the iceCREAM did help it a bit as the cold helped numb my poor tongue. But whatever kind of pepper seed attached itself to my hunk ‘o hunk of burning dessert was bound and determined to survive.

My damn mouth burned for over a full day. Son of a bitch! Dumb floor. Dumb extra-frozen iceCREAM. Dumb pepper seed.

What…no “Dumb Jodi” in that list? Yeah, I should have been at the top of it! Single-dropped iceCREAM is bad enough. Double-dropped? I should have taken the second drop as a sign from God to just slowly back away from the chocolate. But since I don’t listen to anyone, including my own common sense, I had burny-tongue as my lesson of the day.

Well, actually, I didn’t learn any lesson. I’d still eat double-dropped iceCREAM if it was the last bite in the pint. I’m horrifyingly gross and I’m okay with it! 🙂

XOXOXO