Saturday, January 28, 2012

I'll never own anything Burberry.

I don't know, really, what Burberry is or why it's a big deal.  I don't know enough about that world to even list a selection of others in the same category to tell you that I don't know why those brands are able to command multi-thousand dollar price tags on their bags and clutches and wristlets.  That's not my world.  It never will be.

I feel fancy when I spend $25 on a new purse at Target.  I haven't spent $25 on a new purse from Target in years, though, because at Christmas each year, my Momma buys me a new purse.  I did buy a white purse at Pay-Less to match my white shoes when we went to Caitlin's wedding last summer.  I think it cost $12.  I carried it with me for weeks after the wedding - all my stuff was in it already, why switch back?

I get my hair cut as necessary.  I define necessary as approximately every eighteen months.  Before my last cut, I sat aside an entire 45 seconds for styling each morning - that's how long it would take if there was a lump in my first ponytail and I had to re-do it.  With the shorter cut, I have to save at least five minutes for applying volumizer and blow drying.  I would skip the product, but if I do, I look like a drowned rat at the end of the day.

You can tell if I'm dressed up, because then I wear make-up.  If there's no lipstick or eyeshadow or mascara, it's just another day.  (When I'm REALLY dressed up, there's eye liner, too, but that's usually reserved for super special occasions, like the annual work Christmas dinner.)

I'm most comfortable in yoga pants and no bra, but that's not acceptable work attire, so most days you'll find me dressed in dark boot-cut jeans and tank tops paired with long sweaters.  (my favorite sweater has a hood on it.)  My favorite shoes right now are the brown Keen boots Jimi gave me at Christmas, so I wear them almost daily.

I have accepted these facts about myself, and have come to love the freedom they give me.

When I was in middle school, I remember begging my parents for a Dooney and Bourke purse - a seventy-five dollar purse for an eleven year old, can you even imagine!? - not because I loved the style and design of the bag, but because all the cool girls had them, and I wanted to be a part of their world more than just about anything else.  Even as I opened the gift on Christmas morning and gave all the expect squeals of delight, I was, in my heart of hearts, sad that I'd made my parents spend all that money on such a stupid little thing that I only wanted so I could fit in.  The bag, of course, didn't improve my popularity one iota.  Neither did the teased bangs or the short shorts or the K-Swiss shoes.  The "I'm not really the smartest kid in class, here I'll show you buy not doing any work at all" approach I took when my nick-name became know-it-all...all that got me was bad grades and no phone for 6 weeks; not the best way to grow your friends base.

I've tried a thousand ways to remake myself into some other version that's more acceptable or pleasing to others.  Miserable business, the act of changing oneself.  And then one day I woke up and said, "Fuck it."  That's it.  Fuck it.  This is me and I am I and that is all there is.  She lived happily ever after...

Except it's really hard to not compare yourself to other people.

Bossman and I took a trip to Chicago over the summer; just a day trip, up and back.  I put on make-up.  I wore dress pants (some stretchy blend, with an elastic waistband) and a nice top (5 years old, from Lane Bryant and slightly too big, in a loud print) and my knee-high boots (4-inch heels. Stupid).  I thought I looked great...until I got to the gate and saw the other business travelers; men with their crisp suits and and polished shoes, women with skirts and hose and heels.  They all carried professional cases or bags or folios of some sort - I adjusted the strap on the purse I carried, the purse Momma gave me last Christmas, and wished I'd included foundation in my dressing-up makeup routine; all of these women obviously did.  In Chicago, my frumpy, out-of-date clothes made me feel as if I were waving a big red "look at me, I shouldn't be allowed to dress myself" flag - everyone was sharp and stylish and fancy.  I wished for the millionth time I'd done something other than let my hair fall loose on my shoulders, and so dug a scrunchy out of my purse and pulled my tresses back into a loop, which I hoped looked fancier than a simply ponytail.  I watched the ground as we ate breakfast and waited for our appointment time - how do they walk so fast in those heels?  I'd break an ankle!

I worry bossman is looking for a Burberry girl.  I worry that he sees me in my day-to-day and thinks "She could never do this."  When I made my proposal, he said to me, as if to discourage, "You'd have to get a new car, a new wardrobe..."  In my head, I keep hearing him say he's looking for an experienced hotshot or a good looking woman in a short skirt, and I feel my opportunity slipping away because I've spent the last five years taking full advantage of our slack office dress code.

Thursday, January 26, 2012


I felt bad most of the day Monday, with no real specific complaints - a little achy, kinda chilled, a bit of nausea.  I took a long nap at lunch, then at the end of the day came home an hour early, popped some Tylenol, and slept till 6 p.m.  I felt fine when I was waiting at the hospital for Addy Rose's arrival, but once I got home and settled down, the chills came back.  I checked my temperature for the 3rd time that day, and sure enough, I was sporting a low-grade fever.  Awesome.  Today's Thursday.  I don't think I have that fever anymore, but I can't breathe through my nose and my head sorta feels like it's in a vice grip.  And I still haven't met the newest member of my family.  *insert sadface here*

I'm also walking on eggshells at work because I'm pretty sure I botched my sales pitch to bossman and that he's trying to find a way to turn me down without causing me to lose my shit and quit my job.  Fuck

I feel like I've spent most of the week just trying to hold back a flood of tears that's sure to erupt any second.  Can I get a do-over, please?  Can we just go back to last Friday and start all over again?

Monday, January 23, 2012

She's here.

Adriana Rose Medley joined us tonight at 7:57 p.m., weighing in at 6 pounds 11 ounces, measuring at 19 1/2 inches long.  Grandma Pam at first said her head measured 33 inches, and then my Momma offered that 33 inches is the size of her waist, so perhaps Pam meant centimeters?  Oh yes, of course!  :)

I've not seen the little Princess yet, so I have no pictures to offer at this time.  Immediately after birth, Stacy and Jessie were given an hour of mommy/daddy/baby time before they were going to move rooms or some such thing.  Near 9:30, I looked around and realized that there were way more immediate relations present than my humble little "first cousin of the mom" title - Jessie's parents and sisters and nieces and nephews, Stacy's Mom and Dad - and that my turn getting in to see the baby was going to be a long time coming.  Stacy was awake since before 5 a.m., spent her day laboring,  and birthed a child, all without food since 11 o'clock last night.  I imagine she's not much interested in entertaining till midnight.  I'll meet my niece-cousin tomorrow, and I promise pictures will follow.

I did get a glimpse of her, briefly.  Pam snapped a picture of the new family with her small point-and-shoot:  Stacy laughing and crying holding her newborn, her face radiant but pale; Jessie standing at the edge of the bed, looking down at his daughter with love written all over his tear-stained face; little Addy Rose with her mouth open in a scream, her little red face scrunched up, her dark wisps of hair just visible under a little pink cap.  Pam queued up the photo and passed the camera to my mom, who shared with me, then Pam passed the camera to Stacy's dad, who couldn't make out the details well.  Momma says, "Rick, zoom in on it", and he pushes the trash can button.  "Rick," I say, "you're about to delete that, careful."  He moves the cursor up and down - and deletes the picture.  "You just deleted that, Rick."  He was crestfallen.  "Why did you ever give the engineer the camera?!" he exclaimed.  And thus the first piece of folklore involving our sweet Adriana Rose was created - I assured the new grandpa that we'll be re-telling this story for the next thirty years, about how Rick deleted the first photo of his daughter holding his granddaughter.

Congratulations, Stacy and Jessie.  Welcome to the world, Miss Adriana.  I love you all so very, very much.

Friday, January 20, 2012

It's been years since I've looked for a job, but...

I'm going to spend part of my weekend updating my resume and writing a cover letter.  And I'll probably go out and buy a professional suit of some sort.  I may dye my hair blonde.

Monday morning, I'm going to walk into my boss's office in my new professional suit, complete with heels and hose and lipstick, and I'm going to hand him my resume and my cover letter and I'm going to give him all the reasons he should give me this new position that's suddenly become available - the position I've been aiming for for the last 3 years, the one that I never thought would be open so soon, the job that will put me one step closer to being able to realize the financial and career goals I've set for myself.  

Unfortunately, two weeks ago, when I suggested myself for this job, his immediate response was "No".  This resulted in a lot of anger and frustration on my part, which was partly relieved when I sat down with him the next day and explained how offended I was by his dismissal.  He told me, in so many words, that I'm a bad manager, and until I learn to delegate, he can't move me up.  Fuck.  

So I, that very day, gave our assistant a big fat pile of bullshit work that ties me up for hours every morning.  I've been terrified to turn this shit over, because like all bad managers who don't delegate, I assume no one else can do it right and so I keep doing it myself even though it eats up way too much of my time every single day.  And you know what happened?  She got it the very first day.  Go figure.  I've had to correct a few minor things, but she's got it.  And I don't have it hanging over my head anymore.  Hmm.  Maybe there's something to this delegating shit.  When it comes down to it, there's nothing remarkable about the work that I do.  There's just a lot to it, and it's a lot for one person to juggle.  I think I can find a way to make it all happen without me being in the office each day.  

I want this job.  I want it because I already have relationships with my customers.  I know them, they know me.  They trust and respect me, and they think I do a good job for them.  Why shouldn't I be the one to go to them and propose new ways our company can service their needs?  

I've never wanted to sell things.  My dad started his career as a manager for a manufacturing company, and when that company forced him to resign (so they could hire two young guns with degrees for a fraction of his salary), he decided to pursue a career he'd always imagined he'd enjoy - selling cars.  That was 1993.  He's still selling cars, and he's damned good at it.  He's a good listener, and he's honest, and he cares about his reputation and the people who are driving the vehicles he sells.  Because of that, something like 95% of his business comes from repeat customers and referrals.  

Daddy instilled in me that sense of customer service.  I've used it to my great advantage so far, but never imagined it would lead to sales.  I never wanted it to lead to sales.  I've said very clearly I DON'T WANT TO SELL THINGS.  Who wants to spend days on the road, cold-calling on potential customers, having doors slammed in their faces over and over again?  Not me.  

This isn't that, though.  This is (mostly) calling on current customers, people I know and with whom I already have relationships.  There's travel involved, sure, but a night or two a way from home every few weeks won't kill us.  Jimi and I spend every waking non-working moment together, and have only been apart for two nights in the last 5 years - I think we can handle a little time away from each other every now and then.  (Granted, we both slept like shit those two nights, and missed each other like crazy, but still...)  And there will be cold-calling, and plenty of "NO"s, but that's just business, and well, business is just business - it's not personal.  

I need to have more opportunity to grow and show how awesome I can be, and I'm never going to be able to do that in my current position.  I would be fan-fucking-tastic in this job, and I deserve it.  I want it. 

I'm going to go get it. 

Tuesday, January 17, 2012

Boot camp and me, we're friends.

I'm diggin' this boot camp shiz, yo.  It's hard as hell, and tonight, when we did box jumps for two minutes after rowing 500 meters in 2 minutes, I wanted to quit so bad, but I didn't, and I busted out 5 more and then the timer went off and we stopped and my brain felt like it was going to blow up.  But it didn't.  And so I went and did the next round of torture.

One of the trainers said, "The best feeling is when you're finished and you walk out that door and you know you've pushed yourself."  Lots of murmurs of agreement and head nods between swigs from water bottles.  "I don't know," I piped up, because I can't help but try to be the center of attention, "drinkin' that beer while soaking in that tub after I get home feels pretty damn good."  And then he told my partner to give me extra resistance on the next round of exercises.  He was just mad that I was right.

How many times has your man just not come home?

A friend asked me that the other day, while telling me about her new break-up.  Six, was her answer.  Zero was mine.  I'd kill him.  To not come home, to just disappear for an entire night, with no phone call or "Hey, I'm staying at so-and-so's tonight" - cannot even imagine.

Another woman I know is in a long distance relationship - she says he's the best thing that's ever happened to her, that he's wonderful and is better to her than she ever imagined a man could be.  But every couple of weeks, he stops answering her calls or returning her texts.  For up to four days at a time.  Most recently at Christmas and New Year.  There's always some lame explanation - he was sick or busy at work.  Too sick or busy to text "I love you, but I feel like shit and can't talk because my throat hurts"?

Our administrative assistant has not been in the honeymoon phase since her wedding last July - her husband has a drinking problem and regularly becomes belligerent and mean.  Yesterday, she told me how the weekend was good, and how he's trying to turn over a new leaf and be a better husband to her.  Last night, he didn't come home.

So.  This is a normal thing?  This is common?  I wouldn't have thought so, but dang, there seems to be a lot of it going around.  How often does your husband/wife/partner not come home at night?  How many times have you stayed up till the wee hours of the morning, praying he'll pick up before the next ring, or that you'll hear his key in the door at any moment?  How many times have you wondered, "Should I call the police?  The hospitals?"

I had one boyfriend one time who did something similar.  He came home, he just came home very very late.  He'd been fucking another chick, of course, but I didn't learn that until many months later.  I was so relieved he wasn't dead, my anger was quenched by his bullshit story about playing some video game with his brother and falling asleep on the couch.

My ex-husband never did that, though.  Jimi's never done it either.  That's childish inconsiderate cruel unacceptable behavior.  Grown-ups don't do shit like that.

Sunday, January 15, 2012


I want Judge Judy to adopt me and let me live in her awesome 14-acre Connecticut chalet and cook in her gourmet kitchen and play piano in her white formal living room.  (Kim texted me last Sunday morning and said CBS's Sunday Morning was featuring the Judge and I rushed to the television - I love Sunday Morning, but I also love silence on Sunday mornings, so the television was not already on and tuned in.)  I've been a loyal Judge Judy watcher for years, and now I want to be her adopted granddaughter.  I'll bet she give great birthday gifts.

My boss keeps giving me shit about the political stuff I'm sharing or reposting or stating on Facebook.  I told him I'll try to make sure I block him from those posts going forward.

I'm trying to sync my phone to the laptop for the first time since we got it back from the computer doctor.  I'm afraid.  I hate it when things don't work the way they're supposed to - viruses, hiccups, lost data - and then I get scared that it'll do it again and I don't want to bother with it.  But we live in a digital age, and I've gotta deal with it, right?

Pictures that I meant to post in 2011 but didn't get to because the computer got sick:

Do you remember the big green building up the way from work?
It's all gone now.  


One building, three filters.


Hi pretty puppy!


A week or so before Christmas, Jimi and Steve and I had lunch and then spent part of the afternoon wandering through the Highlands, browsing in the eclectic little shops.

I've always romanticized the idea of this aimless strolling,
up and down Bardstown Road,
without a care in the world.
I haven't carved much time out to participate in this ritual,
but I always enjoy it thoroughly when I do.

 There's a store called Why Louisville.
It was my first time there, and I loved it.

I found myself wishing there were more out-of-towners on my shopping list - 
this store is perfect if you want to give someone a small taste of this awesome town.   

And then there was this:
Me too, buddy.  Me too.


When I was a child, the arrival of the Christmas season was heralded by the arrival onto Granny's dining room table of a wooden bowl full of in-the-shell mixed nuts.  For the next six weeks or so, Papaw would crack and pick through that bowl non-stop - the cracking would be the periods and commas dividing up his verbal thoughts as we played Skip Bo or Riddle Me Riddle Me Ree.  This year, I bought a set of crackers and pickers and a bag of in-the-shell mixed nuts - I felt like a grown-up, continuing on family traditions.  (I'm pretty sure I bought a set of these when I was married, but what happened to those is anyone's guess.)


We'd intended to go out of town for New Year's weekend, but of course, we were sick, so that didn't happen.  We spent most of New Year's Eve watching the Twilight Zone marathon on SciFi, but Angie sent a text asking what we were doing, so we scooped her up and headed to Cafe Mimosa for sushi.  

At one point, I looked past Angie and saw the two couples at the tables behind her.  Of course I'd noticed them come in, but I hadn't gotten the full effect of them sitting right next to each other.  

"Don't look now, but Mad Men just met Jersey Shore, right here in Louisville."  

And then Angie went on a tirade about people who dress stupid to get attention and then get mad when people stare and how if they don't want people to look at them they shouldn't dress stupid.  (I've gotta figure out how to post that shit.)


During our sickness, we sought the much-loved comfort of Vietnam Kitchen.
Their magical healing spicy noodle soup is exactly what Jimi needed.
(And they have an asparagus crap soup that is out of this world!)
(Really, everything there is awesome. I just can't eat most of it because I'm picky.)
Anyhow, so we went in search of soup, and we also found this:
It's a pomegranate tree.  Complete with pomegranates.  
The owner says someone gave it to them years ago as a gift and they didn't know what it was
until it started growing fruit.
I want a pomegranate tree.  


And now, scenes from The Drum Plant:

 I sorta want to have some of these printed.
And hang them on my office walls.
I may just do that.

The End.

Friday, January 13, 2012

How to bathe a cat.

I washed the cat last night.  No, that's not a euphemism.  We gave the cat a bath because he has fleas and fucking Frontline is a lying bullshit meany-head that doesn't work.  I don't think the bath has completely solved our problems, but it's a good start, and I didn't even get gouged or clawed.  No blood!  YAY!  Not bad, considering it was the first time Q has ever been subjected to such horrors.

We took a "he has big claws and is going to cut the fuck out of us" approach at first, which is probably always a good idea when bathing a cat that hasn't had the first knuckle of each toe surgically removed.  It went something like this:  Fill the bathtub with water.  Add one large beach towel and wet thoroughly.  Remove towel from water, and quickly drape over unsuspecting cat.  Rub well to soak all fur, on top and under the animal.  Remove towel from cat, allow cat to dart to door and paw under it frantically in search of an escape route.  Apply generous squirt of flea shampoo directly to cat's back.  Lather.  Ignore wails and yowls.  Don't think about the fact that you're standing in a quarter inch of water in the middle of your bathroom floor.  (*If you don't have tile floors, you might want to re-vamp these directions.)  Once cat is fully lathered from head to tail, stand back and watch him try to get the hell out of the bathroom.  Don't let him groom himself; licking flea shampoo can't be a good idea.  After 5 minutes, pick up cat and, with your hand firmly around the base of his head and facing his claws away from your body, immerse cat into bathtub full of water.  HOLD YOUR GRIP!!!  It's a good idea to have the water deep enough to fully submerge the cat, but if you don't have that going on, you can sorta use your forearm to hold his back down while splashing water and rubbing out the shampoo.  It helps to have a second person standing by with a cup or bowl or something to scoop and pour water - your hands are mostly busy making sure those claws don't get an opportunity to fuck you up.  Remove cat from water and wrap immediately in large towel.

Q was traumatized.  He hates being held upside down, on his back, like a baby, but I held him that way in that towel for a good five minutes, kissing his kitty neck and telling him he was a good boy.  His eyes were wide and he was looking at me with an expression that said, "What. the fuck. was that?"  And then I put him on the floor and unwrapped the towel, and beheld his little rat-like appearance - he was every meme picture of a wet cat that's ever been posted on the internet, right there in my living room.  And then he darted down the stairs to groom and sulk in private.  I found him an hour later on the club chair in the basement, licking his used-to-be-balls, one leg in the air over his head, back fur still wet and wild, tail still rat-like.  He purred when I scratched behind his ears, though, so at least he doesn't hate me.

Tuesday, January 10, 2012

Altruistic gestures.

Jimi sent me an email this afternoon:  "Want me to have an epsom salt bath waiting for you at 8 o'clock?" 

Tonight was my first full boot camp class.  He's so sweet, right?

I went to class.  I worked out really really hard.  I walked through the door at ten till 8.

He was up and at 'em right away - "What can I get you?  Want me to start a bath?  Are you hungry?"  I was a little overwhelmed with the attention.  I walked around a little bit, trying to get used to this strange feeling in my muscles - I'm not used to that post-workout jelly feeling.  It's pretty new to me.  I kinda like it. 

"Yeah, okay, I want a bath."  I started the water, he went after the epsom salts.  I got my book and a beer (ha!) and climbed in.  He sat on the toilet and rubbed my back down with a homemade tonic of his - witch hazel, tea tree oil, eucalyptus oil.  He told me to lay back, to relax.

And then he reached over my head, and from the shower caddy he withdrew my razor, and laid it on the side of the tub. 

"You know, just in case you were feeling up to it, now's a good opportunity..."

Someone just lost all their banked blowjob points.

Sunday, January 8, 2012

Here, let's try this...

On a lark, I bought a $29 Groupon for a month of unlimited Boot Camp classes.  Orientation was yesterday - we did less than a minute each of reverse lunges, pushups, ab twists, pull-ups, squats, planks...and there was something else, but I've blocked it out apparently.  I was jelly at the end.  How I'm going to make it through 45 minutes of this - or how I'll walk the next day - is beyond me.  My shoulders, my ass, my knees - oh ouch!  That means good things are happening, though, and that's the entire point.

Wednesday, January 4, 2012

pretend this is my first post of 2012


i just don't have any words, i guess.  got nothing to say.  not a thing.

i get locked up.  i have all these thoughts inside my head, but when it comes to putting them here, in words, i get stuck.  i can't say anything, and everything i try to say comes out all wrong and dumb and so i delete it or just flip back to facebook and pretend i didn't have anything i wanted to blog about anyhow.

which i don't, or i'd do it.  i think.

i'm four days late and not pregnant.  there's no way i can possibly convey how thoroughly this is fucking with my head.  i thought i might have been, for a second.  thought maybe our timing was right.  maybe i'd be huge this summer.  i had a dream, you see - there was a little fat baby boy in my living room under my love tree and in front of my fireplace at christmastime, and i was confused, because, of course, there's no baby.  but then i turned (still dreaming), and i was facing myself in the mirror, and i had a realization:  i'm pregnant, it's a boy, and his name is braden.  it seemed crazy when i woke up (i'd never name my boy braden, unless i had turned out to be knocked up, in which case it would've seemed dangerous to name him something else), but it also gave me a niggling hope in the back of my mind.  false hope, turns out, which is typical, but this four days late thing is mean and i hate it and i just want to get the fucking thing over with already.

and today my boss fired the dude who replaced the last guy who left - remember a few months ago when i was all "yay!  opportunity!"?  well, it's turned into a lot of extra work that's resulted in me feeling, again, like i suck at my job because i don't have enough time in a day to get it all done.  i had these awesome plans to take us on an awesome vacation when i get my bonus this year, but i didn't accomplish any of my goals for the year, well maybe one, so the bonus i was counting on is right out the window and so's that awesome vacation.  and what's the point anyhow, because when i'm on vacation, i still have to check emails and take phone calls and go into the office to do billing, so what's the fucking point?  may as well just go to work.  and now he's fired the guy who was taking up at least a little of the slack over there and joked "ready to do some more work?"  ha ha.  hi-fucking-larious.  i'm terrified i'm going to end up laughing my way to the poor house when i quit or the nut hatch because i stay - actually, i've got insurance that covers mental breakdowns - and if it was work-induced, that'd be a worker's comp thing, right?  hmm...

i shouldn't joke about mental illness, but i was feeling pretty good until i started writing all this shit that's been bothering me, and now i'm crying again.  i think i've got the winter blues bad.  i don't even have a real reason to be sad - boo hoo, poor me, i have this job with lots of responsibility and a steady income that i can spend however i wish because i don't have any kids that have to be diapered and put into daycare.

i am crazy, aren't i?  fuck.

may as well throw it all out there - part of my dive into the sads was in part due to the fact that there was no proposal this past holiday season.  i had that hope in the back of my head too, like the baby thing, whispering at me from the dark hidden corners of my mind where i force shit like that to go and live.  i asked for a will for christmas, one that protects my interest in our home if he dies.  i told him it was the only thing i wanted.  when i learned it wasn't going to be under the tree, i allowed my dumbass to think, for a moment, that maybe he had something better planned?  nope.  he just didn't get around to getting a will made.  fuck.  he's not the type to disappoint me, but i was disappointed, and hurt, and very deeply sad.

this is getting borderline too personal, and for me to recognize that probably means i should stop writing about it.

so yeah.  that's where my head has lived for the past week or so.  while i was sick.  at home.  on "vacation", with no computer.

mostly.  that's mostly where my head has lived.  there's been good, too.  like, i've taken finn for a walk every day this year, except monday because it was bitterly windy and cold and i just couldn't bring myself to do it.  i haven't smoked since monday, either, which is awesome and GO ME!  and i got on the scale the this morning and i'm down to 169 - that's the lowest number i've seen on a scale in, oh, i don't know, like 8 years?  GO ME!  i'm encouraged and feel like losing another 25 lbs maybe isn't impossible...i lost that much in 2011, i could do it again in 2012, right?  and i know he loves me; he shows me every single day, in a hundred little and huge ways.  and we spent new year's eve with angie at the chinese restaurant featuring a mix of mad men and jersey shore clientele and then shot off six bottle rockets in the front yard at midnight, and we spent new year's day with my momma at the flea market.  and my house is pretty clean.  and we did get the computer back.  and i've got like 6 bottles of wine from trader joe's, and i can drink it all if i want because i ain't preggo.  (but i won't, because i really do see a correlation between teh booze and teh fat.  i lose more weight when i don't drink an extra 600 calories each night.  duh.)

life is good.  it is.  it gets hard sometimes, and then i get sad, and then i come here to bitch and cry and whine and moan, and then i remember how good it is, even when it's hard.

happy new year, people who are awesome.

Monday, January 2, 2012

O Hi

On day 2 of my vacation, the computer got a virus.  It has been out of commission for days.  No facebook, no blogs, no Sims 3.  Most of the laundry is finished, I've vacuumed every floor in my house (twice), and my sink is empty of dishes.  Unfortunately, that's about all that got accomplished, because I too also got the sickies.  Then Jimi got sick.  And I've been fighting the post-Christmas winter blahs.


We'll chat soon, okay?


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