dear patience: i hate you

I never paint my nails in the house.

It’s not because I don’t want to. It’s just…

I’m not allowed to anymore because the last time I got nail polish on the bed…and on Tim’s shirt my shirt (his t-shirts…THE BEST. And I steal them)…on the counter…on the bathtub.  Hell if I know how any of that happened…same as I said to Tim when he was all, “THE HELL, WOMAN? Why is there a pink heart-shaped splotch on my sink?!”

I refuse to cut paper if a straight line is required.

I don’t like to wait for anything to pre-heat. I just throw it in there all, “it’ll cook eventually.”

Same goes with things “cooling off.”

Which results in disasters like this:

And “this” was a lemon cake that was supposed to probably be like…three inches higher and all in one piece. The top layer isn’t even attached in some places. 

My first mistake was tinkering with the recipe. TWO eggs? We don’t need all that extra cholesterol, hell, let’s try one egg plus lots of applesauce. Oil? Nah. More applesauce. Then, while it was busy doing its baking thing, I opened the oven around 50 times to check its progress and poked it about 300 times with a toothpick.  Once I decided it was done baking…

Let me stop right there…and answer the question I’m sure you’ll ask yourself: Why didn’t she use a timer? Yah…well, we do actually have one. I’m just not allowed to use that, either. Last time I tried to time something on the oven timer thingy, I managed to explode the circuit for the entire left side of the house. Ok, so maybe it didn’t explode exactly, but I had to sit in the dark with no TV or internet until Tim came home.  And the whole “look at the clock when you put it in the oven” is lost to me. I mean, sure, I’ll look.

But will I remember?

No. I won’t.

I’ll forget I was even cooking until Tim races into the kitchen and is all, “Why in the hell is there smoke coming from the oven?”  True story.

So, anyway, back to my cake: When I took it out of the oven, I carried it immediately to the counter and flipped the bundt pan thing right over onto a wire rack. I then proceeded to beat the bottom of the pan with oven mits, hoping that would help it come out all nice and pretty, like on the box.

It didn’t.

I was pissed all, “THE HELL, CAKE? You’re supposed to COME OUT IN ONE PIECE AND STAY TOGETHER.”

Then I read the directions: “Allow to cool at least 15 minutes”

Well, fuckitty fuck fuck.

Someone needs to invent directions for us non-patient people.

Something like: “Allow to cool at least 15 minutes before even considering flipping the pan over, dumbass. Did you hear me? I said FIFTEEN MINUTES, DUMBASS.”

Then, I might actually pay attention.

Instead, I get distracted admiring the pretty picture on the front of the box all, “It’s going to look like THAT? Really? Even though I don’t have chocolate shavings or a unicorn shaped pan? Awesome.”

Anyway, lemon rock cake is what I should have called it. Last night, after Tim took a bite of my failed attempt at dessert, I was all, “So, what do you think? You like it, right?”

He looked at me, bewildered, “What flavor is this, again?

Me: Vanilla. Well, vanilla and lemon….actually, it’s vanilla, lemon and apple.

Tim: That…tastes about right.

Me: So, you like it, right?

Tim: mmmmm…so…good…and…dense”

Me: I thought you liked dense cake?

Tim: “Yah….sure do…”

He really shouldn’t try to pull one over on me. I can see through the bullshit like I can a damn glass window.

(Actually, come to think of it, aren’t all windows are made of glass…or that clear plastic stuff like on airplanes?…an example on why proof-reading is kind of important)

Back to the rock cake: Tim’s eyes were screaming all, “This. Is. Revolting. I’m totally going to regurgitate the contents of my stomach after you fall asleep.”

Don’t think I didn’t hear the toilet in the guest bathroom flush about fifty times in succession.

Oh, and remember this one?

Why do I continue to torture myself?

you’re famous?! hell no. hand it over.

First: I will admit that someone did guess my little secret. But that’s all I’m sayin.

Second: I have to completely brag on the husband because he’s awesome…in the eyes of National Geographic.

NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC!!!!!!!

(Sorry, that’s like, you should be totally excited. We’re all sharing in this experience together)

(It’s a screen shot…so you’ll know which picture to look for if you’re all supportive-like and click on it. He’s in the nature category…under one of the weeks in August…it usually pops up under August Week 2, but the pictures randomly change…I even bolded the important parts and hyperlinked the picture for you. Cause I’m nice like that)

He entered a few photo contests a couple of months ago…I finally convinced him that his pictures were just as good as the previous winners and professional photographers. I mean, I think his pictures are incredible. I know, I’m biased but…that’s not the point. Last night, I decided to check out Nat Geo’s website to see when the photo contest ended, ran across the gallery of editor’s picks…started clicking through and then was all, “HONEY! YOU’RE WINNING! YOU’RE WINNING!! THEY PICKED YOU!!” I mean, technically he hasn’t won (yet)…but I mean, getting picked by the editors has to count for something, right?

And you’re all totally privileged. You get to see his little gallery…before he wins or something. Then once he’s like, Mr. Famous Photographer, you can be all, “I knew him when…he had to post his pictures on his wife’s blog.”

You know…if he becomes more famous than me…well shit. I do not have a contingency for that scenario.

All he has to do is take pictures in beautiful, serene locations…the hell?  I write in a fucking box and get tossed a few saltines every few hours by Crazy One-Eyed Mervin all, “DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT RESURFACING  UNTIL IT’S PERFECT.”

That’s kind of shitty, if you ask me.

I mean, not that I wouldn’t be happy for him…I’d just need equal notoriety.

I’m probably acting immature.

Maybe I’ll call today Fuck It Friday.

(that’s “asshole” in fabbit, i think)

First, just to clear up any *potential* rumors from yesterday’s post: No bun in the oven. I mean, really… baby + marathon = bad idea. You’ll have to guess again at my little secret that doesn’t involve a baby. I mean, if you want. It’s not like a requirement. More like something better to do when work has decided to beat you over the head with a frying pan.

Anyway…on to more pressing matters: No one told me that writing a book completely removes you from reality. I had to call Tim yesterday to try and bring me back into the here-and-now.

I was all, “Hi. It’s me.”

Tim: Annnnd?….

Me: Just needed to talk to a human who spoke English. Rabbit’s apparently don’t speak English. They speak rabbit.

Tim: You’re writing, aren’t you?

Me: No, actually, I think I was in a forest with lots of snow…talking to a rabbit or rabbit-fox…a fabbit…or a rox…something furry.

Tim: Yes, definitely writing. Well, by the way, today is Wednesday. And it isn’t cold enough to be snowing.

Me: WEDNESDAY? Shit! Wednesday is when it explodes! And temperature doesn’t matter. Snow shoots out of the tree limbs whenever it feels like it.

You see? There is no hope for me…until December 1.

I’m lost somewhere between I have no fucking clue and I have no fucking clue. Wherever the fabbits are…that’s where you can find me. And when you do, call me Secka and lead me by hand to the nearest bus station. I’ve got an emergency 8.5″x11″ laminated (thanks, honey!) poster with my address and an elastic band in my pocket. Find Gus the bus driver. He knows what to do.

I’ve decided to post pictures. To remind me that I am actually a human.

This was a sunset from the other week…from the backyard…I think.

 

I’m very sad I will not be here for Thanksgiving this year.

I will be somewhere else.

Actually, I’ll still be helplessly lost if someone doesn’t get their lazy ass up and come find me.

That’d be the right thing to do, you know.

I know Tim would probably appreciate it.

He might even send you a picture from his gallery.

Depending on my state of return, though. Cause if I come back speaking fabbit, well, then we’re all fucked.

dear me: you’re fucked.

I’m not entirely sure what I was thinking I have no idea what I was thinking. I wasn’t thinking.

Actually, I’m pretty sure I had a momentary three day lapse in sanity. And that’s way longer than the usual bouts where I forget to turn off the oven for a few hours or leave a cabinet door open or don’t replace the toilet paper and then plop myself down to do the dirty deed. And don’t think I don’t shout out the hallelujah chorus to the inventor of Kleenex and the good sense Tim had to strategically place a box of tissues in every bathroom when said roll has been reduced to a cardboard tube. Except when those are gone too. Then, well, shit.

The crux of my rambling is simply: The hell, me?

Marathon training.

50,000 words in 30 days.

Blogging.

Writing other articles freelance-style.

Fuck.

Did I forget to mention doing the despised domestic duties (DDD), too? Laundry. Cooking Burning dinner. Dealing with the insanity that is Lexi and Maddie. They’re pros at tag-team bullshit. Vacuuming the ungodly amounts of fur that explodes off of each fur-child every day (not that I vacuum everyday. Hell no. More like once a week. If I’m really feeling motivated)…

It’s only…November 4th.

Wait, I forgot to add the little Turkey Trot hard-ass trail race on 11/21.

Fuckitty fuck fuck.

Maybe I’ll just say that 50,000 times.

The teaser will be something like: “Having a bad day? Well, if you’re anything like Jessica and needed to say fuck 50,000 times in a row and then publish it, life must be pretty damn shitty. This book will solve all your problems. Just read until you feel like you’re going to go on a rampage that may or may not involve harming the imaginary creatures that are chittering at you. Then keep reading.”

So, you’re going to have to embrace my nonsense.

It’s only going to get better.

Cause actually, there’s even MORE going on right now…

It’s just that the MORE part is kind of top secret. For now.

I know.

I’m so mean.

You’ll forgive me, though, once you get to come into my little box that has been my life for far, far too long.

I really suck at keeping secrets…so I’m actually really proud of myself. You should be too, even if you’re mad.

Blame it on the stress insanity brain overload.

Anyway, don’t you have some thankfulness to be writing?

Exactly.

Welcome to my circle of hell.

booshy blessings (aka extra work for you…)

I never thought I was very funny…the non-computer-face-flesh-and-blood people would always look at me all, “was that a joke or were you serious? Because if you were serious, something is wrong with you.”

Apparently, my “joking” tone of voice is the same as my “serious” one. I guess that gets kind of confusing (though it’s totally obvious to me). Then you all (I refuse to say “y’all”…absolutely refuse) came along…and you think I’m funny. The hell, people? Could you possibly be anymore awesome?

This got me thinking…my absolute most favorite thing to see are your comments about how I brightened your shitty day or how you could relate to one of my many unfortunate situations where humiliation would be welcomed over the please-just-let-me-sink-into-a-hole-forever feeling.

Making someone laugh or smile may seem like a small thing, but it’s huge to me. Huge.

I’m so, so thankful for it. For you. More than you will probably ever know.

And, in the spirit of the (American) Thanksgiving, I want to know what you’re thankful for.

But not in a comment. I mean, of course you can comment…you can tell me you think this is the stupidest idea ever…just don’t leave your list or whatever. Though, it’d be pretty shitty of you if were all, “This is dumb” and then left a list or story or whatever…

I want it in an email by TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 24th (dearbooshy at hotmail dot com or click the contact me thing on the top of the right sidebar). I know. EXTRA WORK…but it’s totally for an awesome reason.  And be sure to add your name (or pseudonym) and blog or website (if you have one) so I can include it with your thankfulness.

On Thanksgiving Day, I’ll post your story or your list or however you want to express what makes you smile, cry, feel like you’re the most important person on the planet and everything in between. It can be funny or serious or sarcastic…

And if no one sends me anything, then I totally rescind my earlier ”you are awesome” compliment. I mean, I’m giving you like, THREE WEEKS to send me your thankfulness…which for one, is totally generous of me and two, you’d be doing yourself a disservice not to participate to give everyone (including yourself) something fun and interesting to read while they’re gnawing on a turkey leg (for those who still cannot differentiate between sarcastic and serious, ummmm…sarcastic. Unless no one sends me anything. Then I’m completely for serious).

Think of it as an exercise to allow everyone to get to know you a little better…cause we’re morphed into a serious little community here…and I stress little…but we all really should probably consider becoming friends. Unless you want to live in my mean ass neighborhood (You don’t. Trust me).

And if it goes well and you like it, it’ll become our little tradition. Personally, I LOVE tradition…I still get a stocking and an Easter basket. I will never give those up.  And neither will Tim. So, it all works out.

Whether you’re a lurker or have already come out to let us see you, doesn’t matter. I’m all for equal opportunity. I’ll even get Tim to play.

So go, think. Write. Take a picture. Something.

Why are you still reading?

I think you have some thankfulness to be writing.

Still reading, aren’t you?

Remember… 11/24/09 = DEADLINE

I totally just farted.

Wish you had stopped, don’t you?

Farted again.

Completely on command. Impressive. I know.

I think I have to go now.

Yes, definitely…need to go.

(I warned you…you really should have stopped reading)

*updated* i think i just threw up. a little.

Update # 1: I forgot to mention that I actually enjoy pain. Hence my participation in yet another run-until-your-body-says-STOP-or-I-quit. And instead of listening, you keep going.

Update # 2: I mean pain in the normal, body-beating sense.

Update # 3: SELF body beating. No one is *technically* beating me. And yes, this is probably a completely normal activity…for crazy people.

 

I don’t know how much you actually WANT to know about our mediocre little life here in East bumblefuck…but I mean, hell.  November is proving to be milestone month.

Not only am I somehow supposed to be writing a book in 30 days…a major event happened in this household a few weeks ago. I’ve been keeping it a secret until I was sure it was actually going to come to fruition.

And after 3 days in a row of running plus a laminated training schedule posted on the refrigerator, it sure as shit is.

(Yes. I’m for serious. Laminated. Can we all guess who did that? I’ll give you a hint: not me.)

I, along with the man who said he’d never run a mile…would never run any distance unless it involved some sort of “ball” like basketball or soccer…ball…(it works…or something)…yes, this non-runner-in-denial and I will be running a marathon.

A MARATHON.

26.2 miles.

All together. Mile 1 and Mile 26.2 all happening in one, successive bout.

HOLY. SHIT.

I’ve run a marathon before, but this is all I really remember from that experience:

Pain…and some dude saying at the pre-race packet pickup that his buddy wasn’t running because he had “the pneumonia.” (Swear it. His words. THE PNEUMONIA. It’s probably way scary…the pneumonia)

Oh, did I mention the pain? Lots and lots and LOTS of pain…pain during training (especially that one time I ran out of water on a 22 mile training run and then realized I locked myself out of the house. That was a shitty day)….pain during the race…and pain afterwards.

If you’ve never run a marathon before, I’ll save you the guesstimation on ”how sore will I be the next day?”

I was so damn sore the morning after, it took me 15 minutes just to open my eyes. I think my brain was trying to keep me in a comatose state until the pain went away all, “It’s for your own good. You don’t want to do that…open that eye…Trust me.”

And the bastard was totally right. I should have just kept my ass in bed. Unmoving. Trying to sit to pee? I’d rather wear a diaper. Showering? Hell, I skipped that after almost falling off the toilet. EVERYTHING hurts.  Legs? Stupid question. Back? Lower, middle and upper. Arms? Yes. Neck? YES.

Wheelchair, please.

I made Tim a pre-training celebration meal on Friday…to remember the day before his life became running for months on end.

I even made 26.2 cookies.

The “point” is that half-melted red m&m that looks like it’s about to fall off. And I have to say…those m&m people…I’ve decided they must make some poor little old man count out green m&m’s for every single fun-size bag. There were exactly FOUR green m&m’s in every damn packet. And I opened like 10. If I were that little man, I’d totally revolt and start stuffing those fun-size bags with ALL GREEN m&m’s, no red or shitty brown or yellow. Just green. Giggling the entire time all, “Surprise!”

Anyway, I’m actually really, really proud of him. I mean, even after he ran a half marathon he declared he’d never do a full one. EVER. Hell would have to do more than freeze over. The moon would have to split in two, animals would wear little tutus and satin pants and you could lose weight by eating a diet of chocolate and pizza.

THEN he’d consider it.

The catalyst? The squirrel down the street started speaking French, which totally freaked Tim out all, “He just SAID manger mes noix, jerkface!”

And I’m all, “What did you do for him to call you a jerkface?”

Tim: Incase you missed it, he said EAT MY NUTS…I didn’t DO anything to that little shit.

Me: Wait, HE TALKS?…You know, I’ll bet it was probably just an invitation to dinner or something.

Tim: The hell? So why the jerkface? Is that supposed to be some kind of compliment in squirrel? 

Me: Probably. Or he just didn’t know how to say “sir” in French, so he improvised with jerkface….and how do you know it was a he?

Tim: Because HE was wearing silk pants.

So, obviously, the universe decided Tim is supposed to run a marathon.

It’s either that or he’s turning 40.

I’ll let you decide.

bold finds (aka the blogroll) + (i hate daylight savings) = mass confusion

I’m probably supposed to be doing something important. Like feeding the dogs or cooking something or straightening the dish towel so Tim’s brain doesn’t explode.  Or changing the clocks…but that’s Tim’s job cause he’s the only one who knows where all of the 50 clocks are…I’m not exaggerating. It’s like the house of clocks…I once counted TEN clocks that I could see from my perch on THE BED.

If the clock changing responsibility was left to me, we’d either be an hour early or two hours late…because I’d probably forget which one’s I’d already changed and change them again…during which I’d forget what time it was and then go check the nearest clock…which would be wrong…and then I’d second guess myself and make the clock I was changing an hour earlier than the one I just checked…and by the end I’d totally be fucked.

Personally, I think it’s asinine. This daylight savings crap…fall back…spring forward…why not just leave it the hell alone. Not only is it a pain in the ass…but it makes traveling confusing as hell…since PARTS of the United States (I’m talking to you, Arizona) have decided just that. Fuck you. We’re not changing. Which is all well and good…but it really pisses people off (Tim and me) when they’re trying to visit part of your state and find out they’re an HOUR EARLIER than scheduled and have to find something to do in a town that is about a MILE LONG (Now, I’m talking to you,  Page, Arizona…what the hell do you do?…other than go to one of the fifty churches crammed onto one road across the street from the high school or vandalize the Walmart?).

But, back to the clocks. When in the history of…ever have I ever been all Suzie Homemaker? Never. I’m Jessica. Home Destroyer.

So instead, let’s do an activity that will do nothing to improve my current housal situation…hell, it’d probably deteriorate it in some random, indirect way.

And without further stalling by yours truly: I have an announcement.

It’s finally here.

An actual, bona-fide blogroll. The one I promised…however many posts ago.

You thought I forgot? Thought it was some ploy to get you to add me to yours (Did you? Cause that’d be awesome)?

Hell no. I reward shameful self promotion.

Now go find yourself.

Or add your blog (which will require you to admit to said shameless self-promotion).

I mean, it can be our little secret…until your name magically appears…then, well, we’ll all know you’re just as desperate as the rest of us.

Which is awesome in a bad popularity contest kind of way (because you know, fame will not come from being listed. What you’ll get instead is way better: an overwhelming sense of relief for finally admitting that you like to see your name underlined and hyperlinked somewhere other than your own blog).

Which is definitely worth a few minutes of finger-pointing and staring and having that “kick me. I’m an asshole” sign slapped to your back.

Oh…and here’s a picture of Maddie and Lexi…greeting the Trick-or-Treaters from behind the baby gate. Lexi’s “waving” her massive godzilla paw.

It had to be this way…or else they’d pummel the tiny pumpkins and ripped apart zombies.  I mean, what parent allows their 3 year old wear an outfit that shows more blood, bones and open wounds than clothing? And then further adds to said costume with spatters of red food coloring covering the ripped, white shirt?

A+ parents.

It was FUCKING  AWESOME.

you women make everything so damn complicated (the voices told me to say that you’re on notice)

I love you.

All you award givers.

I just keep hearing my 5 year old voice screeching in my head all, “Really? REALLY? Nooo. Shut up! REALLY?”

I was given this:

by Spot at What Passes for Sane on a Crazy Day

AND this from Wendi at Bon Appetit Hon:

I don’t know about you, but nothing says fucking awesome like a leg lamp award.

So, here are the “Rules – Verbatim” for me being somehow over the top…I have yet to exactly figure out how I managed that…but I digress. And I’m not yelling at you. It’s the chick who wrote the rules. She was hell-bent on everyone using only ONE WORD. Guess I’m really going to fuck with her brain…hopefully she never reads this or else her head *might* explode.

USE ONLY ONE WORD! It’s not as easy as you might think. Copy and change the answers to suit yourself and pass it on. It’s really hard to use only one-word answers so try your best.

And, of course, the “Rules – How I Fuck It All Up”

I will use as many words as is required. Because I can. Personally, I think it’s harder to string together multiple words and still make it all nice and flowy. One word is a total cop-out. And I’m an anal-retentive perfectionist. There is no other option but to “do my best.” I don’t need your verbal garbage to motivate me. It comes from INSIDE, chica. INSIDE!

After I read the “questions,” I’ve decided to give Tim the honor of answering…first because well, without Tim this blog would be really shitty and second, the last time I answered one-word, nebulous questions, I ended up all freaked out and had to sleep with a nite-lite for weeks, totally paranoid that someone was on a roof with a scope…waiting for me to do all sorts of inappropriate things so they’d have blackmail material. My commentary will be in between these things: ( ) – because I can’t NOT say something. And incase you missed it, that was a double negative, which means I have no choice BUT to add my own opinion.

And just so you are aware at how mentally damaged I am – I still peer outside every damn day, checking for crazies. I’m not convinced that the little blob two houses down is a chimney.

1. Where is your cell phone? Which one? I have lots of phones. Cause I’m kind of awesome. (He’s just bragging…well, not really. He has a million phones. I hate all of them…except the one he calls me on)
2. Your hair? Is not with any of my phones. These questions are already in a completely illogical order. A woman definitely wrote these. (You’re being unfair. Hair after phones makes perfect sense because you have to hold the phone next to your hair)
3. Your mother? What about her? (They want to know….hell, I don’t know what they want to know)
4. Your father? Pretty sure he’s with # 3 (You probably should define “with”…you left it way too open to interpretation)
5. Your favorite food? (he’s busy pilfering through the kitchen…I’ll let you know when he figures it out)
6. Your dream last night? I forgot (That isn’t what you told me this morning…and the Question People expect complete honesty, you know…or they’ll rob us…so if we come home and all the electronics are missing – it’s totally your fault)
7. Your favorite drink? (he refuses to answer because he thinks water is stupid. I tried to tell him that water is actually an excellent answer, since we’d totally croak without it…)
8. Your dream/goal? To not answer stupid questions from a 5th grade chain letter (I think they mean like, long-term…) That WAS my long-term goal…which has now just gone to shit.
9. What room are you in? The one my wife forced me to sit in. (I didn’t FORCE you. You came willingly. Don’t give anyone the wrong idea) I came willingly because you said you had something “cool” to show me. You lied.
10. Your hobby? I got married. I don’t have hobbies anymore (You should’ve said running. Running would have been a good answer) Running is YOUR hobby that I got dragged into.
11. Your fear? My wife will blow up the house (Come on! I only left the stove on without a flame three times…and two of the three I opened ALL the windows and everything…and I called you) And you kept turning lights on and off (That was bad?)
12. Where do you want to be in 6 years? Not Georgia (Totally second that. Anyone want to put us up for like, forever? We’re completely harmless…unless you steal something. Oh, and Tim knows how to make rockin’ chocolate chip cookies – totally worth about a year of room and board)
13. Where were you last night? Upstairs. Cleaning a streak of shit off the carpet. (It’s not the cat’s fault the turd got stuck to her ass. You really should be more understanding). Not when there’s a five foot long skid mark on MY DAMN CARPET.
14. Something that you aren’t? A woman. THANK GOD. You people (we’re women) …fine, you WOMEN make everything so damn complicated. How do you keep all the voices separate in your head? HOLY HELL (Those “voices” are what tells us not to smother you with a pillow. So technically, you should be thanking them because they actually just saved your life)
15. Muffins? The hell? WHERE IS THE FUCKING LOGIC? (It’s totally logical. A muffin is obviously something you aren’t)
16. Wish list item? A hammer. (But…you already have one of those). And a big, blank wall. (Ummm…why?) If you cannot surmise why I need those items…well, you can start answering the dumbass questions and then maybe it’ll all become a little more clear (If I answer any more one-word “questions,” I might end up in a padded cell with a straitjacket, convinced that Ecuador is spying on me) The hell?
17. Where did you grow up? Far away from these questions (The voices told me to tell you that they don’t like your tone) I DON’T FUCKING CARE WHAT THE “VOICES” SAY (they said for me to tell you they didn’t appreciate that, either)
18. Last thing you did? I can’t remember. The questions have taken over my LIFE. (Your LIFE could commence if you’d stop fighting the questions. USE THE FUCKING FORCE!) Don’t get all Star Wars bullshit on me unless you come to posses a light saber. And if that ever happens, hand it over. Immediately (but, it would be MY light saber) That you would somehow manage to blow up the house with. It’s for your own safety, really.
19. What are you wearing? FUCK YOU (wow…anger management…) Not YOU. The questions (but…the questions didn’t do…anything?)
20. Your TV? I would much prefer to be with my TV. My TV doesn’t ask me questions. (But the TV makes you a zombie…and zombie’s aren’t very lovable. I mean, just sayin)
21. Your pets? Also all women. I’m fucked. (The voices just saved you. Again.)

(He’s decided his favorite food is crack. He says it’s because it lessens the effect of the questions…whatever the hell that means. I fly the drug free flag)

(Tim just threatened my life because I surmised he did drugs. He’s under the I-don’t-shoot-up flag, too…when he’s not answering questions)

(HE’S ALWAYS BEEN UNDER THE FUCKING FLAG.)

(I didn’t type that last one. I would never yell like that)

22. Friends? Are laughing at me. (Why? What’s funny? Was I left out of an inside joke? That’s not very nice…leaving your wife out like that)
23. Your life? Will be much improved once this is done…damn. DEFINITELY COMPOSED BY A WOMAN…always asking irrelevant, long-winded, pointless questions (I think that’s total bullshit. I’m getting an excellent education) That’s because you’re a WOMAN. A guy wouldn’t give two shits about this (Why two shits? Why not four? Four sounds way more believable than two) I’m not even going to let you drag me down that path.
24. Your mood? Like my life, will be vastly improved after question number….. THIRTY FIVE QUESTIONS?! YOU SAID THERE WERE ONLY A “FEW” DAMMIT! (That’s not a few? I mean, I would agree with you if there were like, 100 questions…or even 50 questions…but 35? That’s shorter than that stupid IQ test on the iPhone)
25. Missing someone? Myself. I think I got lost between deciding if I was a muffin or if I had any friends (I thought we already went over that. The answer is seven) THE HELL?
26. Vehicle? Oh, you mean my getaway car? Yes. Thanks for reminding me. It’s the first shred of sense you’ve made all damn day (You know, technically, it’s MY CAR) Possession is 9/10 of the law.
27. Something you’re not wearing? The man pants. The questions stole them from me. (No…I think you just took them off…said it was too hot in here…or something). The man pants are not REAL PANTS…dammit, woman. Stop distracting me.
28. Your favorite store? The one with a light saber. (Oh…so now you LIKE the light saber)
29. Your favorite color? Green. The red light saber is evil (Who’s going all Star Wars bullshit now?) I’m allowed to. I’ve actually SEEN ALL THE MOVIES.
30. When was the last time you laughed? You mean that diabolical one…just now? (Don’t do that again. Ever. It sounds like you’re planning to rob a bank or hijack an ice cream truck or steal some little kids shoes). Maybe I am.
31. Last time you cried? Men don’t cry. (Why? I mean, I don’t think I’ve EVER seen you cry. EVER. Except that one time you got cayenne pepper in your eye…that was kind of a shitty move by the blender)
32. Your best friend? My wife (The voices told me to say that they forgive you)
33. One place that I go to over and over? (see Question # 35. That’s all I’m allowed to say)
34. One person who emails me regularly? Lots of people email me. I’m kinda awesome. Remember? We went over that in question # 1 (Then…how come all I ever see in the inbox is my name?…I don’t think junk mail counts, you know, cause they send you like 10 emails every minute…I think they meant like, *real* emails)
35. Favorite place to eat? Fucking finally. (Umm…that’s not the name of a restaurant) I’m leaving. I have a date. (Really?! We’re going on a date?!) With my sanity. (You forgot to answer Question 33). I didn’t forget anything. And don’t even THINK about adding some random bullshit for me.

(Bon Appetit Hon /Wendi…I will move forward with your “rules” in another post)

(Tim was way too long-ass winded)

(I guess I can stop typing in these parenthesis now)

(I think I’ve given myself a complex)

i’ll be in my dungeon for 30 days

***Update*** My nanowrimo username is booshy2. Someone already stole “booshy.” Damn them. So, if you ask “booshy” to be your writing buddy, I accept zero responsibility for their actions…or rejection of your buddy request…since I already told you it wasn’t me.

The good news? The dungeon has internet access.

I know, it’s totally generous of the dungeon so I don’t fall off the face of the planet. Because that’s probably what would happen.

I’ve been toying with this whole write-some-semblance-of-a-novel-in-30-days thing. Otherwise known as NaNoWriMo. If I don’t set myself some crazy deadline, it’ll drag on for decades. And I’m not a patient person, so decades don’t exactly work within my plans for total domination. Soon, you’ll all say “I knew her when…she wasn’t living in a dungeon.”

I work well under pressure. The pressure is what makes my ideas awesome. It’s probably why this blog is totally lame…there’s no pressure. I mean, who’s gonna yell at me all, “YOU’RE LOSING MY MONEY!”

No one.

So, basically, I’m saying I need someone to yell at me.

Anyhow, I have no idea HOW I’m going to do this…I know a lot of you are participating in the self-inflicted torture…but it’s not like we get to sit down together and compare our battle wounds over chocolate. No. That would be entirely non-productive…we’d be too engrossed in trying not to get the bits of flesh and dried-out scabs mixed with the chocolate. No one likes a slightly crunchy, slightly chewy surprise (If you’ve never tried a scab, well, then you’re in denial. And you’re welcome for the trip down memory lane to that time you fell off your bike because you didn’t know how to navigate the curb, which resulted in a massive scab on your knee you gleefully peeled off a few weeks later. I actually just had an egg-burp after writing that…which is the universal precursor to emptying the contents of your stomach).

Instead, we sit in silence…locked away from the world…because you have to get into character…which typically isn’t very in-line with reality.

And this tends to create an uncomfortable tension when your husband is all, “What do you want for dinner?” And you answer, “She’s locked away in the closet. Gagged and bound. With a unicorn. And a giant cupcake.”

Exactly.

And no, I will not be writing anything relating to horror. It’s too gory for me to even think about. I’d probably barf on myself before I even finished killing off my first victim. And then it’d ruin the manuscript…or the keyboard. Either would be really unfortunate.

I’m still not completely decided on what story to write. I know – I’m sure you’re all, “Humor. That’s where this road ends.”

Maybe…but I’d like to think I’m capable of not only making someone laugh…but also cry…or get really anxious…or really pissed…or barf on their pillow.

Well, maybe not that last one.

Though that’d be a huge resume builder: My story was so awesome, I made someone ruin their pillowcase.

Damn.

If that doesn’t sell your credibility…nothing will.

if it’s swine flu…i’ll shit myself.

Update # 2: update #1 is at the end…which makes no sense unless you’re taking lots of Benadryl. And if you are, then you’ll understand how that move was totally badass. You’ll also forgive me and give me a hug because I forgot what my update was supposed to be. Because of the Benadryl.

Update #3: Tim just told me I wasn’t supposed to take Benadryl for the flu. I tried to explain that it was the logical choice, since it made me feel better the LAST time. Then he said the flu doesn’t make me swell up like a bee sting, which is when Benadryl is necessary.

Update #4: I asked him how much was too much all, “hooow much is tooo much?” while holding the phone horizontally with two hands so the speaker part was right up to my mouth. And he started freaking out all, DON’T GO TO SLEEP. Even though that’s exactly what I was planning to do…you don’t question sleep…or bags of money.

Update #5: Before crazy rumors start spreading, I don’t technically *have* swine flu. Yet.

Update #6: I still don’t remember my initial update…so this is not really an update but more of a lesson on why you should never mix medications.

I *almost* decided not to write anything today.

Because I feel like shitballs.

I don’t even know what shitballs are supposed to feel like…but I’m positive that is exactly how I’m feeling.

I’ve been bragging all, “I’ve never gotten the flu. EVER. Because my immune system is fucking awesome.

Wouldn’t that just be ironic…my first experience with the flu includes a damn swine. I don’t even EAT bacon or sausage…so take your nasty disease and leave me the hell alone. You know, it’s probably my own fault. Not only did I go to the germ-infested gym yesterday…but I also went to the grocery store where anything I touched had probably been sneezed on, coughed on, touched, tested and used as an ass wipe. AND I locked lips with the husband. Normally, that wouldn’t be anything note-worthy. However, the husband has been entertaining a group of Brits at work for the past few days…and apparently swine flu is all the rage over there.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

Tim was all, If it’s the flu, no, if it’s the SWINE FLU…you don’t mess with that shit.

So, if it’s regular flu…well, too damn bad. That’s no emergency. That’s just inconvenient.

I offered to quarantine myself, all “Just shove a few graham crackers under the door every 3 hours and leave a bottle of ginger ale by the bed.”

He didn’t think it was very funny.

Ooook…I’ve totally reached my limit…and this will go down as the shortest post in the history of booshy.

I think.

Hell if I know…but my brain keeps yelling all, LAY YOUR ASS DOWN OR I’M GOING TO FUCKING REVOLT.

And I have to listen to my brain…especially when it yells at me like that.

Really not very nice, all, FUCK YOU, ASS NUGGET…when I feel like shitballs…

LAY THE FUCK DOWN

All right…I’m going. Damn.

***UPDATE***

I totally just tricked my brain to think I was going to pee…cause I stole my iPhone off the coffee table and walked into the bathroom…because I wanted to say that if you have swine flu: I totally sympathize. And I’m going to convince my immune system that I’m not sick. It’s genius.

GET YOUR ASS IN A HORIZONTAL POSITION.

dammit!

I’m really regretting not decorating the bedroom. Boring ass walls…