Even if it’s just “Hi. Loser. Bye.” you gotta comment. It’s like, the law or something today. ;)

Last night, I dreamed that I was on a band trip and I forgot my flute so I had to borrow somebody’s wooden piccolo. We were in a huge stable. Then there was a dance but my mouth was full of grass and I couldn’t get it all out so I was trying to find a bathroom to barf in. And a gay friend of mine and her partner were at the dance and they brought the newborn baby boy they had just adopted and named Toby. (Which isn’t really a stretch since they are fantastic foster parents to a couple older boys who could be labeled problem children and wouldn’t even have a chance in life if it wasn’t for them.) Then we were all lined up next to an olympic sized pool, not sure why. *whew* That was weird even for me. And now we can add grass to the growing list of crap I can’t get out of my mouth in my dreams.

It is impossible for me to sit down and write one blog entry and hit submit. I’m not the only one, right?! I hit ‘create post’ and that might sit in that tab in firefox percolating all day long while I check email, backup files to dvd, write, listen to a podcast, write, watch a couple episodes of tv on dvd (man, daytime tv sucks buttocks), make a pot of coffee, check job postings, write, play with my pics, let the dog out, get a cup of coffee, write, smoke, write, make a PB&J for lunch, sweep the kitchen floor, check email, write, pick up the kids from school, write, help kids with homework, check email, put a load in the washer, write, read blogs (I’m up to almost 40 that I check with google reader and not one of them can I bear to unsubscribe to), write, get kids ready for bed, write, then hit submit.

I saw a girlfriend last night that I haven’t seen in a while and she lost 72 pounds. And she worked really really hard at it. It is so unfair the way our bodies and metabolism can be so different. I’m 5’5″, 125 pounds, 32D, 27, 36, and I am ashamed to admit, I do not have to work at it. I popped two human beings out the ole escape hatch and the only crappy thing I have to show for it are some bad stretch marks on my thighs. I do not exercise. I eat crap. I smoke. The packaging on my Carman Electra Striptease Workout is unbroken and dusty. I am almost exactly the same measurements as I was on my wedding day. Hate me now, hate me hard. I deserve it. The only difference between me and dedicated, strong-willed, hard-exercisin’, calorie-countin’, daily weigh-in havin’ amazing women is Genes. I’m sorry. I really am. But I’m not trading. I guess the whole point to this… point… was that I know there are phenomenal women who work at it 24/7 and I don’t, and I do appreciate both my genes and how hard you do work at it.

That’s about all my news, if you can call it that. Further updates as events warrant.

Rip it, roll it, and punch it, dudes.

or… I Can’t Be Bothered to Conjure Up a Witty Title This Evening, Folks

I woke up with vivid dream leftovers this morning. I was in a haunted house with all the various and sundry traditional scary things chasing me up and down countless flights of stairs. Then I was studying to be a nurse at MSU and our first day in class our teachers had an unexpected VIP coming to the hospital for a medical procedure and they assigned us the task of painting their hospital room. I got partially dried latex paint in my mouth and (surprise surprise) couldn’t get it all out of my mouth and it was actually multiplying until I could barely breathe. As I was spitting the nasty crap out of my mouth into a napkin only to somehow have even more accumulate in there, I was running all over campus trying to find an open bathroom to puke in. Nice, huh? Holy Freudian Crap, Batman.

I went to a Girls Only Garage Workshop today and count it as a total success.
I won a doo-rag, a nice bike cover, and bought some kick ass boots with a special 15% off today only coupon. Most importantly, I decided that me and the stupid scooter are gonna tangle, and I am so going to win. I will not be bested by an old, cantankerous, Bingo-playin’, Lucky-Strike-smokin’, Elvis-collectin’, Mama-from-”Throw Mama from the Train” Kawasaki 440LTD. I’m gonna put on my new boots and kick some rusty corroded ass. Bitch. I oughta trade her in. Or better yet, kick her ass then trade her kicked ass in.

Rip it, roll it, and punch it, dude.

I had another nekkid dream last night… I was in the extended cab of my mom’s old pickup, fishing around in the crap underneath the seats, trying to find something, anything to cover up with because two of my band teachers were sitting up front with my mom, who was driving on the right side of the truck like we were ‘on the other side of the pond’.

Hmmmmmm….

Old Vox QotD from June… How many times have you had your heart broken?

Twice.

Freshman year in high school. Tony was my McDreamy. He was a senior, he was hot, he had a job and a car and a class ring and a letter jacket, and I craved him. At first he wouldn’t give me the time of day. For reasons I still can’t figure out, he asked me to dance at homecoming. Not much after that, he asked me out on a date, he took me to see “Wall Street.” I have absolutely no clue what this movie is about to this day, because I spent the whole movie so nervous I was literally shaking the entire time. He must have thought I was freezing or something because he put his jacket on me and squeezed me tight. He was my first real kiss, my first “park”, my first love. I let him slide into third base, but my first baseman fired one to my catcher who tagged him Out before he could make it to home. Maybe that’s why he broke up with me while we were on our band trip to Toronto a week before prom. What fantastic timing, huh? If he had waited, he probably would have seen my catcher intentionally OOPS! drop the ball and let him slide into home. After all, more virginities are lost on prom night than rent money on casino night. Anywho, I cried until I dehydrated myself.
The Hunk broke my heart once. When he told me that he had had an affair with my best friend, I rendered myself numb as long as I possibly could and bottled it up until I couldn’t stand it anymore, and woke up one morning and announced I was leaving him. We were separated for almost a year. Only by the grace of God was I able to decide to forgive him and that I was a better person with him than without him. At first I thought that a Strong Woman doesn’t put up with that shit and kicks That Rat Bastard to the curb. What I discovered was that it takes a stronger woman to stick it out and make it work than running away from the problem, plus, if you run, you just carry that extra baggage with you to the next stop on your Man Trip.
So the moral of that story, kids, is tell your man that you’re upset and then deal with it, rather than bottle it up, smile tensely, and pretend that everything’s ok. (Which by the way, is the motto on my family’s crest.) We can’t expect our men to be psychic. Please, they can’t find their own socks, let alone the crystal ball that they left in the trunk of the car with their fishing gear. Tell your man you’re not happy, why you’re not happy, and what he can do to help you feel better. Odds are he’ll consider the health of his sex life and comply with your appeal. Let’s consider the following example:

Bad: “You BLEEPING BLEEP why the BLEEP did you think it would be a fantastic BLEEPING idea to take off with your BLEEPING buddies for a drunken BLEEPING night at the BLEEPING bar on my BLEEPING birthday?!?!”

Better: “When you went to the bar with your friends on my birthday, it hurt my feelings because I was really looking forward to spending some quiet time with you. I would feel better if you would clear next Friday night for us to have some alone time.” [insert batting of the eyelashes here.]

See? That’s the way we do it, girls.

Rip it, roll it, and punch it, dude…

I tend to remember my dreams often. I’ve noticed that there’s a recurring theme in my dreams. It involves me trying to figure out a way to cover up my nekkidness. Last night I was looking for a place to change my clothes, but every time I found a good place, either the door wouldn’t shut, or the lock was broken, or I discovered windows that wouldn’t close or didn’t have curtains. I’ve had a lot of these sorts of dreams all my life. There’s a different theme that started when I was pregnant with The Rockstar. It’s much weirder… I have something gross in my mouth that I can’t get it all out. I’ve dreamed that I have all this gross stuff in my mouth at one time or another… gum, lettuce, dirt, tobacco, gummy bears… there’s many more different things but I can’t remember exactly what right off the top of my head. Anyway, I try all kinds of ways to get this crap out of my mouth but it seems like as fast as I can get it out, more appears. I’ve tried scooping it out with my finger, rinsing and spitting, and squirting a hose in my mouth, but nothing gets all of it out.

Pretty weird, huh?

Huh.

Rip it, roll it, and punch it, dude…