Flower Child Wanna-Be

Okay, so a little something about me....I always wanted to be a hippy girl, but I never got into smoking weed or sucking on acid.

I had this boyfriend once that loved huffing gas and would randomly pass out over gas cans, but that was as close as I got to the whole hippy movement.

Oh, yeah, and I once wore flowers in my hair, but I somehow don't think that really counts.



The idea of free love, platform shoes, make love not war sounds so awesome, doesn't it?

But when I really break it down, here's how it goes:

1. Free love = having sex with random strangers and oopsy daisy! I'm knocked up and don't know which pot head to blame.

2. Platform shoes = Really bad corns, balance issues and me towering at six foot two.

3. Make love, not war = smiling peacefully when what I really want to do is knock a biotch out, which in turn leads to repressed emotion, ulcers and many trips to gastroenterologists, psychologists and pharmacists, which then in turn means I'm strung out on pills, everything from anti-anxiety meds and pain pills which leaves me constipated and sends me back to another kind of doctor that ends in "ist".....Or I could go the organic route and self medicate...

So, really, I don't think I'm meant to be a hippy. I enjoy getting my hair "did" too much and I definitely eat meat, which most hippies don't, do they? And any type of clothing made with hemp would probably make my skin break out.

I got to thinking about the hippies because something I read made me think of my childhood summers. Most were spent in this little ghost town in Colorado, by the name of St. Elmo.

In this particular part of the state, there seems to be a lot of older people that have migrated from California and very much seem to be of the seventies era. Lots of long hair, flannel shirts, kerchiefs around their foreheads, flowing skirts and home made beads worn around necks and ankles. They are really pretty awesome.




Anyway, my dad is friends with a guy that owns The General Store (above), among several of the other remaining buildings in the town. But The General Store is definitely at the center of all the action, which is where he rents out ATV's, Jeeps and sells various antiques and touristy post cards, t-shirts and the like.



It's a busy place in the summer...

My first time there, I think I was around five years old and there was no running water on the mountain. Therefore, we used an outhouse and brushed out teeth in the river behind the cabin we always stayed in. We had to travel down the mountain for showers. I remember I once got a bug bite on my ass while in the process of going to the bathroom, so from that time on I would wave my ass in the air while swatting the air around it to keep from getting bitten. I'm sure it was a sight to behold.

By the time I was twelve, we had water! Yay! Then, I really began to enjoy the place. I'm not what you would call an outdoorsy kinda girl (although I love to fish and any water sport, I'm so there), so I really, really, really want to shower at night and flush when I use the little girls room.

I think I enjoyed the history of the place more than anything. The old saloon, the one room school house, and when I was little the mines weren't closed to the public, so we were able to explore and look for gold.



It was the one and only place I ever heard my mom fart. We were walking down Main Street, I might've been six, when she let out a little fart, which I still pick on her for to this day. My mom isn't the "let me let one rip" type, so I just get a kick out of the fact that she will still blush over a little gas she had twenty years ago.

But anyway, I haven't been back since I was twenty four, so I'm definitely due for a trip. I might go this summer and help out in the store.

A picture of my best friend and I my last trip there (she's the one with the big boobs, I'm the one with all the hair):



If you ever make it that way, make sure you swing in and tell Chris and Nora that Laurie says hi. They are two of the eight year-round residents in St. Elmo and nicer people couldn't be found.

T.M.I - I don't think Sharon Stone would be proud

In honor of the fact that I'm not going to do too much more work today (anything), I thought that I would post a "t.m.i." story, as this seems to be the thing to do in some circles on Thursdays.

And as everyone else seems to be obsessed with "Aunt Flo", "Crimson Tide" and sitting on a nice "Merlot", I figured I would contribute my own full stop (period) story.

So, I was on about day five, which means I was at the very ass end and my auto drip was almost tapering off, hence, I wore a skirt.

Yes, I know....I know...I should've known better, especially as I was wearing some of my monthly undies and not any especially cute ones at that.

My only excuse for what comes next is I forgot. Like a poor Alzheimer's patient, my brain cells were not firing at full capacity and it just SLIPPED-MY-MIND.

I'm sitting on the patio with my husband. My poor, poor husband.

"Let me see."

"See what?"

"Well, you're wearing that little skirt. Let me see."

So, I showed him. I thought he was going to fall outta his chair, he jerked away so fast.

"Shit, Laurie! That's not funny!"

And I still didn't remember, so I bent over to see what the hell he was talking about and realized that I'm wearing some of my very much lived in undies.

Yes, they were stained.

Okay, so maybe I'm gross and the only girl that has a pair of stained up undies, but for you guys out there, blood REALLY doesn't come out. Unless you catch it right away and soak them. Which my husband doesn't enjoy either. And frankly, neither do I. You go to brush your teeth and see some funky panties marinating in the bathroom sink. Not cute.

Anyway, I don't wear my pretty panties while the crimson wave is riding the waves out of my uterus. And, to give myself a little credit, that morning in particular, I had gotten dressed in minimal light, as I was trying to be sensitive to the hubby that was still sleeping. So I just didn't realize that I had grabbed probably the ugliest, most stained panties in the drawer. All I knew, they had an ass attached and that was good enough for me.

So, I might've scarred him. That's been about a year ago, and he has yet to ask for a peek up my skirt since.

I don't think Sharon Stone would be proud, but that's just a wild guess.

Retro Act

So, I have just over a week left at my job, which means I don't have a whole lot of time to get my stuff in order, so instead of taking the time to write one of my insightful, witty and intelligent posts, I figured I would post something from an older blog, which will reveal a little bit more of my evil self......We know each other well enough now, so I'm hoping you won't judge too harshly.


Ugly Kids


Okay, so the way I see it, I may be horrible, but I just say what everyone else is thinking.......

The other day, I'm standing with a couple of people I know (acquaintances, really....), when this really ugly kid, maybe twelve, goes walking by....

He was a big kid, which if you know me, isn't why I thought he was ugly....(I always thought the chunky kids in school were the cutest).....He had puffy red hair, extremely curly, which hadn't been combed in God knows how long, freckles everywhere, and man, the total package together really made me feel for him. I mean, Lord have mercy, fat, curly red hair, bad teeth and absolutely no fashion sense (shaking my head).




But it gets worse....

Next thing I know, there's ANOTHER ONE.



His identical twin, and I'm like holy crap! Their poor mother, to have not one, but two of those suckers running around!!! And of course, me being me, I couldn't let it just slide by. Oh, no.

"Jesus Christ, look at those ugly kids..... Holy shit!"

Everyone just kind of looked at me for a second, but then they couldn't help but laugh because, for real, those have got to be the ugliest twins on the planet....

I know. I'm going to hell.

At the very least, I'm going to have grand kids that look like they've hit every branch on the way down the ugly tree.

Squealed Like I Was Watching the Jonas Brothers

Okay, so I heard something that is so totally awesome, I almost squealed like a thirteen year old girl at a Jonas Brothers concert this morning.

For real.

Okay, for those of you that don't know, I'm kind of in love with the show True Blood. Yeah, yeah, keep your wise ass remarks to yourself. All I've got to say is, HBO and naked vampires. That's the best defense I have.

Especially when you might be a little in love with one of them.....

May I present Alexander Skarsgard:



6'4" of finely sculpted flesh and blood....

(no, I have not cyber stalked him or anything crazy like that....pshhh......but, for the record, I don't know what the hell he sees in that old hag Kate Bosworth - eat a cheeseburger already!)



(Is it bad that I searched the web for a really bad pic and this is one of the worst that I found?)

Anywayz....as I was saying. My news.

In season three of True Blood, which doesn't start until June (the lazy assholes), Alexander Skarsgard is supposed to be naked a lot more often! Isn't this awesome news? Did it make you squeal? I'll have you know that he was voted Sweden's sexiest man for five straight years, so it's not just me that finds him unbelievable sexy, but an entire country of people.

And if that doesn't do it for you, do not forget the hot Aussie Ryan Kwanten:



There is plenty of hot eye candy, both of the male and female variety, so I highly recommend you catch up, that way come June, you know what the hell is going on.

Oh, and besides all the chiseled, tanned and gorgeous flesh on display, it is surprisingly funny. And there is usually a plot. Two thumbs up.

Two Weeks Notice

I just gave notice. My two week notice, that is.

I'm relieved, a little sad and a lot hopeful. My boss was awesome about the whole thing. Now I wonder why I dreaded it all weekend......

So, I'm stirring up my life. I've decided that I'm not going to be one of those people that sit around waiting for things to happen to them, or coasting through some of the best days of my life, my prime, when my intelligence is equal to my physical health and I might be able to make a real difference. If not world wide, at least in my little section of it.

I don't want to tell my grandchildren one day that I sat behind a desk for my entire working career. Wouldn't you rather know things about your grandmother that interest you? Things that matter?

My mom's mother passed away when I was eight, so all I really remember about her was playing penny poker with some of her "friends" . She would dice up a tomato and salt and pepper it for a snack. There was also a little box that I ran across while visiting once that contained some terribly life-like dog shit. And this is what I really remember about her. Sad, right?

We lost my dad's mom, whom I called "Granny" two years ago this summer. My dad still has a hard time with it and can't speak of her without tears sneaking up on him.

My Granny was a real firecracker. One of the last times I saw her, she lectured me on how important it was to have sex with my husband on a regular basis. She said "Never forget the importance of sex!" At my blush, she continued on, "I mean it! I'm an old woman, but I wasn't always!"

I remember much more about her. She kept one of those old fashioned douche bags hanging on the back of her bathroom door. I was about twelve before I realized what it was, and she gave me another piece of advice. "Laurie, you must always keep you tootie clean!" Yes, she said this to me and I wanted to die.

Granny was married three different times, but it all happened before I was born. She came from a really good family, but married unwisely. All three times. She ended up divorcing all of them, and while I don't know a whole lot about the first and last, the second one was a real son of a bitch, by all accounts. He is my Grandpa, although I never laid eyes on him and he died when I was sixteen, so it seems it worked out well in the end. I remember my Granny telling me that there wasn't a man alive worth putting up with after all she had been through. She meant it, as any time some older gentleman would ask her on a date, she would tell him to "Go to hell". Seriously.

She had ten children and while most of them are dumb asses in one fashion or another, they all loved their momma. She was their champion, no matter how badly any of them screwed up, Granny could find some reason to excuse them. Got caught drinking and driving? Well, that stupid bartender shouldn't have served him as much as he did. Spazzed out on prescription drugs? Well, you know she has issues, it's not her fault. I could go on and on, as I've got a ton of stories a ton more scandalous, but you get the picture.

As one of her many, many grandchildren, I was subject to her unconditional love and her unsolicited advice.

She always smelled of Jergen's lotion and applied it subconsciously to her legs. Her face was a myriad of lines and wrinkles, but she had the most beautiful legs I've ever seen on an old woman. They were always smooth and shiny, right up until the day she died. She once told me to not forget about my face when applying lotion. I religiously apply lotion to my entire body several times a day in her memory.

My mom and her were really close, even though it was my dad's mom. I once went to go see her and told her my mom couldn't make it, as she wasn't feeling well and looked awful. She said, "When she was young and a fox, she didn't know it, but now that she's old and a hound, she's well aware of it." She probably had it liberally sprinkled with lots of g-d's and the eff word, as that was her way. (I can't say either of those words while discussing my grandma. It just doesn't seem right, even if she cursed worse than a sailor.)

Anyway, the point to this post... When my future grandchildren think of me, I want it to be with a sense of adventure, as well as the little details that make up who I am as a person.

I remember my Granny as being not very active. I think she was really old long before her age crept up. She was tired and didn't have the energy to do more than play bingo and watch Felicity on television (she thought I looked JUST LIKE Keri Russell....I heard this over and over and over).

The definition of blind love:

Keri Russell:



Me:




While I thought she was a remarkable person, brave enough to tell not one, not two, but three piece of shit husbands to kiss her ass and proceed to raise ten children on her own, I also think that when they were grown, she just...stopped. Stopped everything.

I want to have a purpose that doesn't involve my children. Do I love them? More than my soul can hold. But I want...more.....I want to be their mother, and my husbands wife, and my parent's daughter, but I also just want to be me. Laurie, the one that looks like Laurie, the one that makes her choices based on what Laurie wants, the one that doesn't plan every vacation around when and where everyone else wants to go. Me. That's all.

I know it sounds selfish, but looking at the big picture, I think I'm going to be better in all categories if I save a little piece of me, something that will thrive for decades after my children are raised and my grandkids are born. When my grandkids sit and write a blog about the influence my presence had in their life, I want it to be more.

So, I change career's in two weeks. To something meaningful, if not exactly lucrative. I hope this will be the start of me branching out more, in all areas of my life.

I Should've Been A Band Geek......

One of my great pleasures in life is music.

Do I believe that rock 'n roll can save your soul? Hell, yeah I do.

I don't have a musically talented bone in my body. I can't sing (although I'm certainly not shy about doing a little kareoke), I don't play any instruments (although I do have an entire drum set and several guitars in my house...don't ask), and writing music holds zero interest for me (Taylor Swift can keep it). But there is something about it...

When you enter my car, you never know if you're going to be blasted with a little Free Bird, or Dolly Parton's rendition of I Will Always Love You. I enjoy Elton John, occasionally a little Eminem (I find him humorous), know every song on Metallica's Black album by heart, and I truly do not believe George Strait has recorded a song that I don't enjoy.

There are radios located all over my house, along with televisions, which are usually tuned to some type of music station. I'm a complete idiot when it comes to network television. I have no idea what comes on when and I frankly don't care. There are a handful of shows that I've seen every episode of, mostly on dvd when the next season is being aired. I'm not what you would call a patient person, so I can't stand to be left hanging, wondering for a full week if someone is going to die or have sex. I'll wait for the season to go on sale, thank you very much. But music....there's instant gratification to be found it that.

We have a radio system in the garage and sometimes, late at night, I'll go out and lay in the basketball court and watch the stars while some station plays oldies. My husband would probably think I'm on something if he ever caught me doing this, but there is something about the sounds of that music from long ago that reverberate through my head and chest and takes me somewhere else.

Maybe the sound of Ella Fitzgerald singing so beautifully in her emotion laced voice, and Louis Armstrong....or the sincerity to be heard in some of country music's legends...Johnny Cash, Conway Twitty, Lorretta Lynn...

One thing that I hope to leave my children with is the love of music.

Music can take you places, just as books will. Sometimes, a certain song will come on and it will bring me back to a moment that I had long forgotten, sometimes a song will come on and I'll envision myself somewhere far from where my physical form sits. Or maybe, the perfect words have been put to music and it will give me a feeling of love for my husband, or a sad song will come on and a tear will come from somewhere that I forgot existed. Music is powerful and it's one of my great loves.

Child Please

I am superficial, flighty, and an all around pain in the ass. My dad thanks my husband on a regular basis for taking me off of his hands.

You know what their problem with me is? I've finally figured it out.

I'm too smart for them. When it comes to arguing, I am the QUEEN. Even if I'm wrong, I will some how make it sound like I'm right. It's my very own super power.

So, they sit together when my dad is visiting (which he currently is), and will mumble under their breaths when I've made my point.

Sometimes, I will argue a point for so long and so vehemently, that I honestly forget what the original argument was about. But it's okay. I have generally talked/reasoned (argued/bullied, but whatever) them into submission by this point that they don't even catch the puzzled look that I know must cross my face when I try to figure out what the conversation was actually about.

Case in point:

Me: Can you believe that Chad Johnson legally changed his name to Ochocinco?

Hubby: He did not. That was just a publicity stunt a while back.

Me: Yes, he did. I saw it on Hard Knocks and thats the name he has on the back of his jersey.

Hubby: Then it must've been a practice jersey.

Me: Honey, you're such an idiot. I'll show you.

So, I then head to the computer room, look him up on Wiki, which we all know is the same as being written in stone, show hubby and prove him wrong. (I then checked the Bengal's website to see what his name was listed as on the roster and I really was right....which I knew all along, of course.)

Anyway, you'd think he would learn not to argue with me.

And to stray away from the subject (my flightiness showing through), I think my new favorite saying is "Child, please", which according to none other than the guy formerly known as Chad Johnson means "fuck you" without actually saying it.

Hard Knocks S05E01 - Chad Ochocinco: "Child Please"
Uploaded by thegame91. - Sitcom, sketch, and standup comedy videos.

This could come in handy, donchu think?

Bad Boys vs. Good Guys?

This is a long running debate among women. Which do you prefer? And what makes both?

In Victorian romance novels, reformed rakes supposedly make the best husbands. But hello?? This is reality, not some prose penned by a middle aged woman with fantasies of some dashing ladies man sweeping them off their feet. Of said man being captivated by their shining eyes and dewy skin. Where only their lovemaking can satisfy the hunger of a swarthy, handsome and striking beast. GIVE ME A BREAK.

Are there men with the beauty to make the hearts of the masses skip a beat? Yes. Romance covers are not always paintings of imagined beauty, but sometimes based on fact.

Exhibit A: Nathan Kamp



However, just because there are these rare freaks of nature, does not necessarily mean you should hold out for a pretty face. Just think of all the potential baggage that comes along with someone such as this:

1. Crazy exes that may pull a Glenn Close and boil any future offsprings bunny rabbit.

2. The possibility of offspring showing up willy nilly from them spreading it around during their "sowing their wild oats" decade.

3. Bathroom time.

4. Shopping budget.

5. Closet space.

I have a theory. I don't know for sure, as I'm very happily married to a very attractive man, but here it goes.

Ladies, if you're single, and out looking for a good time, the bad boy is the way to go. But keep your expectations where they belong. Low. They should not exceed the level of more than a good time in bed. And for God's sake, cover it up. Do not expect a call from this person any time soon, if ever. Do not fantasize about how beautiful your future children will be. Forget where they live, if they actually brought you home with them. You should never do a drive-by on a man like this, as you are setting yourself up for heartbreak. (Yes, men. Women are truly crazy enough to do this kind of crap.) Do not stalk their facebook page, or frequent their hang outs, hoping against hope that your va-jay-jay captivated them into submission.

I don't care how pretty you think you are. You are one of many pretty faces, beautiful bodies, that have seen the interior of his pants. Trust me on this. I know people.

Now, the good guy. Ladies, think more Matt Damon rather than Colin Farrell.



Is he as debonair, suave and sexy as the bad boy?




No. Good guys out there, don't fool yourselves. The sex appeal that you have is not where your treasure center is housed. Huh, uh. It is in the very things you probably think are boring. Your dependability, your intelligence, opening a door for a lady, sending flowers, calling her when you're going to be late, those are the things that make husband material.

(Plus, Matt Damon is still hot.)

Sure, the bad boys out there might think it is because you're whipped, when in reality, you have the situation whipped.

You can go out with your friends without your phone ringing off the hook from your super jealous, overly suspicious gal pal harassing you until you're tempted to bust your phone against the wall. And, unlike your buddy, the one with the hair gel and two seater sports car, you don't have to bust your ass trying to get a piece of ass, when your girl is snuggled up in bed, warm and smelling of your favorite scent, just waiting for you to get home, where there is no need to cover it up for fear of contracting something that will make your genitals fall off.

If your buddy scores, he might as well look at it as a box of chocolates, without the expected sweetness, unless it's her overly strong cheap perfume. He never knows what he is going to get. As he goes to unwrap her, he might need to pull off a few girdles that are holding a lot of her in and out of sight in her street clothes and while making love, close his eyes and pretend she is his high school sweetheart that is now married and hasn't given him a second thought in the last decade.

Good guys, don't fool yourselves into thinking it would be better if you were an asshole. Yes, some women have an idiotic view on what is romantic. Some feed off of being treated like shit, disappointed and heart broken, never knowing if every bump in her nether regions is the latest "gift" her bad boy has brought to her. But is this the type of woman you want to carry your children in her womb? Wouldn't you rather have a woman that has a very high expectation on how she should be treated?

One of my high school friends put up with this guy year after year, catching him fooling around time after time. He was good looking, drove a nice car and loved the ladies. One day, about three months after giving birth, my friend noticed an odor. Yes, an odor. Turns out she had three s.t.d.'s. Thankfully, all were treatable, but she let him convince her that she must've been carrying those little gems around for more than a year, as he hadn't been unfaithful since before she was pregnant. I couldn't believe it when she told me this. Did she really think she could've went through pregnancy, all of those examinations, and this not be discovered? She buried her head in the sand, had a few more children, and is now going through a divorce.

Don't wait for an odor to show up, ladies.



Have a little more self worth and marry the good guy.

Eighties Ladies

Were women better in the eighties? Families in general?

My mom's generation of women were something else. I remember them flipping their hair and wearing shorty shorts and tight tank tops to P.T.A. meetings, exercising while wearing their leg warmers and laying out in the sun in their string bikinis...

I think I was four years old when I first entered the girlscouts organization, meeting all these little girls, most of whom I still keep in touch with today. All of our mom's were involved and attended every single meeting, show, cookie sale that was arranged. Therefore, my mom knew their mom's, which made sleepovers a lot more likely than in today's times.

We would giggle over Michael Jackson videos, knew all of Debbie Gibson's songs and New Kids on the Block made 99% of our little hearts beat faster.

I was raised in a small town. By small, I mean, one caution light, located in front of the only school and across the street was a pizza parlor, next to the grocery and feed store. We also had a video store, where we would head after eating pizza on a Friday night and rent Lean On Me, The Goonies or if we were feeling really wild, Risky Business or Nightmare on Elm Street. We had our bikes with the pink tassels, our pony tails held with scrunchies and our whole lives ahead of us.

This was before the days when we were labeled the slut, the tom boy, the princess or the smart one. We loved one another and our moms made sure that our Keds were clean before we went to school. It was a wonderful time to be a child.

If we were playing in the street, we had to be in before the second street light came on, or we knew our asses were grass and our moms the lawnmower.

There was a little tiny bait shop before the edge of town where we would go and buy Dorito's and try to make a nickel into a little cup inside of a water jug to win a Yoo Hoo. We knew who had the best pools, a Nintendo or Sega with the best games and getting a game of kickball on a Saturday in the field across from K's house was a regular occurrence.

And at the center of all this were our moms. K's mom once saved me from drowning when I thought I had mastered the doggie paddle when I was five and had ran around the block to show her.

My mom was the cool mom. She drove a Trans Am and wasn't afraid of doing burn outs down the street. Once, she brought us to a neighboring town, a much larger town, and we went egging. Yes, egging. We missed more than we hit, as it was mostly road signs we were aiming at, but it was so FUN.

P.T.A. meetings were not dreaded events. It was almost like a town meeting, where all of our parents went to socialize, drink punch and we didn't have issues about prayer in school. If you went to church, a synagogue or temple, or chose to refrain completely, no one cared. At all. Once, my dad showed up in a shirt that said "Party Naked" on it. It was accidental, but it really livened things up.

I wish my kids could have experienced it. Now, I'm on the P.T.A committee and there are a handful, literally, of other parents involved. Everyone else is faculty. My boys play baseball and every year, they might have two other kids that have been on their teams in the past on the rosters. If they want to ride their bikes, I'm on the front porch, watching with an eagle eye, as we have multiple sexual offenders that live in a neighborhood not even a mile away.

Anyway, for your amusement factor, here is my Kindergarten class picture. I'm in the middle row, second from the right:

Everyone is a Critic

I'm not what you would expect. I know, I know, some people completely rely on their first impressions, but I've got to say that they are usually false. And that also makes me a hypocrite. Let me explain.

You know when you're out with your friends (this may only apply to the ladies), say you have a group of three or more and drinks have been flowing and you're having a great time and in walks THAT group....The group of girls that just make you want to roll your eyes...

Usually, all of them are wearing mini dresses, too high high heels, all of them carrying fake Prada, Coach or Dolce & Gabbana bags. And I make a snap judgement....

Daddy issues, desperately seeking attention and praying for acceptance from older men, preferably with money and handsome in a Richard Gere, Pretty Woman sort of way.

Or when you're at the beach and someone in a ghastly speedo walks by and I automatically think they must be from Europe (no offense to my European friends out there, you know who you are).

Or when a big truck with a rebel flag displayed across the hood pulls up at the gas station, out steps this guy with a John Deere ball cap, wranglers, Justin boots and a big wad of chew and I automatically think his name is "Bubba".

Harsh, huh?

But to be fair, I'm judged just as harshly. I know, as I've been told on multiple occasions what many of my friend's first impressions of me usually are (after they get to know me, of course, and their original ideas are smashed to smithereens). They think....wait for it...here it comes...

That I'm a stuck up bitch.

Yes, it's true.....not that I'm a stuck up bitch...but...you know what I mean.

And I can see where many would think that, what with my great beauty and completely flawless fashion sense....Kidding, kidding....

I tend to be quiet, and I dress conservatively (as in, if my pants are tight, I'm wearing a turtle neck, if my shirt is tight, I've got on loose boyfriend pants, blazers are wonderful and if my heel is over 3", I'm swaying around at about six one, so I avoid excessively tall heels and stick to low heeled boots (unless I'm really dressing up, then the taller the better). I know. I sound boring. But something about me makes people think that I think I'm too good to socialize with them. I don't get it, and it couldn't be further from the truth.

So, my advice is this:

Exercise caution when passing out snap judgements about people. Some of my really good friends wouldn't be my friends if they would've stuck to their first impressions. It took a little charm (and a lot of tequila) but I eventually wormed my way into their hearts.

So I am determined to work on my tendency to judge others right off the bat. I wouldn't call it a New Year's resolution, as I don't believe in them, and think that if you set them, you're pretty much setting yourself up for failure, but it's definitely a goal I have. I want to be nicer. I'm not sure if that's possible, but I'm willing to try. However, I definitely don't want to be known as the perky cheerleader type, either. It's a balancing act....and in case you guys didn't read before, I'm not exactly coordinated.

On that note, here is a video about not judging too quickly.

Ennui and The O.C.

Okay, so I'm one day away from the weekend and the anticipation is building. I'm so excited I could do the Ren and Stimpy dance.

Big plans, you ask? Why, no. Well, then what are you so excited about?

Other than a banquet that I have to attend on Saturday night (which I'm dreading, but I do get to dress up for) I plan on doing nothing but watching Season 3 of The OC allllll weekend long.

Exciting, huh?

Lying around, killing brain cells by immersing myself in bad dialogue, but hot bodied men, while eating buttery popcorn in my comfy pajamas and my fluffy socks, only breaking to pee, sounds completely awesome as I sit at my desk, where I have a mountain of work and no drive to see it done. It's gonna be bliss.

Can you have a midlife crisis at twenty nine? Or is there another word for it? I feel too young to be so settled and too old to pretend I have no sense or sense of consequences. It's a really horrible feeling.

What am I working towards? A house? I have that. A husband that loves me? Check. Procreating? Twice. Both of which are more than half grown and on their way to the exciting times in their lives (and I'm not one of those freakish parents that wants to live vicariously through their offspring). So.....what now?

I'm seriously considering a change in career. Its a radical change, going into a position that pays considerably less than I'm making now, more aggravation in certain factors but A LOT more challenging and hopefully, fulfilling. If everything works out, within the next couple of months I'll be somewhat entertained at work, even if I'm the new low man (woman) on the totem pole.

I wonder if this is some kind of early midlife..... Most people my age are getting married, maybe have a toddler or two and are struggling to pay their mortgage. I've been married since I was eighteen and have two boys that are sprouting body hair.

My life is wonderful. I have awesome friends, an even better family and I'm pretty much set. But now, I wonder if I'm just supposed to coast my way through the rest of my life. What do you do when you have met what you thought were your life's goals? Do you just sit back and enjoy it? That's boring...and it gets to the point where you want to stir shit up just to see where it all falls. Not healthy, I'm thinking.

Look at me bitch because I'm not starving, I'm employed, have a wonderful husband and two healthy kids that keep me on my toes. How petty can a person get? If this ennui and tedium drags on, I'm sure we'll see me sink to a new level.

Holy Mimosa!

Okay, so despite what some of you might think, I did attend prom (and I wasn't pregnant or anything) and I danced and gossiped and maybe even had a little to drink (I don't really remember).

I remember wearing this red satin dress, something like this:



except my hair and boobs were smaller, and there were faux diamonds on the spagetti straps. And my dress might've been a tad shorter on me than this one.

Anyway, I saw a picture online of this horrific dress and it made me wonder what in the hell people are thinking when choosing their outfits.

So I've compiled a list of some of the worst prom outfits that I could find. Just a few of them below:

This "dress" (thing, contraption, etc.)stands up all by itself!



This has been drescribed as a "ghetto" prom dress...all I can say is, "Girl, donchu know you supposed to get knocked up ON prom night?"


Like this girl. She is definitely on schedule:


This honestly hurts my eyes..even if you're a "pink" kind of girl, this is a little toooooo much:


And here's a few people that have friends with the same bad taste as themselves:

Wow, and God bless their little hearts....you know not a one of these girls had a date TO knock them up:


And these next two at least have a theme, right?


Holy mimosa...damn rednecks:


Robert E. Lee would be so proud......

Moral of the story here.....hell, there is no moral, other than I enjoy pointing at people and making fun of them.

Happy Friday everyone!

Time Marches On

Don't you just love looking back at old photos? Here's a few of mine.





I was maybe 23 in that one.

This one, I was more like 25 and even though the color has been messed with, my hair was red....yes, red...




And finally, one that looks like me now....This one was taken in Vegas and I was sick, which is convenient, as I am even now getting over a sinus infection.






I think I'm just going to pull a Britney next and shave it all off. It'll probably beat the perky pony tail I was rocking in the first picture, hmmmm?

There's Poo In My Diet Coke

I need to stop listening to the radio on my way to work....

My morning.....

I wake up at five fifteen, work out for an hour, shower, apply make up, flat iron my hair and head out the door ten minutes early so that I can stop and get me a horribly unhealthy breakfast at a fast food joint.

No sooner am I pulling out of the drive-thru, take a big swig of my diet coke, the lady on the station I'm listening to says that a group of microbiologists did a study on soft drinks from various restaurants. Their findings: 48% of the drinks tested contained fecal material.....Yes, fecal material, which is poo. Poo.

So, I put the drink in my cup holder and change the station. Yes, I am a great believer in what I don't know, won't hurt me, so I don't want to hear anymore about their "studies". And the thought crosses my mind that it would suck to be a microbiologist.

The station that I tuned into were discussing the things that go on in schools in our area, with kids calling in anonymously and disclosing all kinds of disturbing incidents.

One caller, a twelve year old girl, said that in one day in class, they kept hearing shouts and the wall getting hit, so the teacher sent a student to go investigate. Why she didn't get off her lazy ass and do it herself, I'm not sure. Apparently the class abuts up to the girls restroom and she went in and saw two students banging (her words, not mine), then headed back to class and told the teacher it was someone in the hallways, but not a big deal. She then went on to say that the fourteen year old girl that was participating is now pregnant.

There were multiple disturbing stories, many about drug use, some about weapons in school, but this one just blew me away.

A guy that graduated last year called in and said that one morning, before home room class (first period) a group of students were selling tickets to an event, which was to occur in between fifth and sixth periods somewhere on campus (I can't remember where, probably a bathroom). The event: Tickets to watch a girl lose her virginity. Yes, you read that right. The girl, apparently willing, was going to make one of the most memorable milestones in a woman's life a spectacle that could be viewed for five bucks. Unbelievable. After the young man called in, the dj's said that they were receiving multiple texts from their listening audience confirming that this had really happened. The school names were not being announced, but the caller said that this was at an upscale boarding school, and I'll just go a head and tell you, I live near Orlando, Florida, so if they say "upscale", I'm inclined to believe them.

Oh my God. Right?

For those of you not in the know, I was a real hillbilly (not really) by giving birth at sixteen. Yes, sixteen. But at least my child was not conceived on a school campus or in front of a crowd. We did it in the front seat of my boyfriends truck in an orange grove. Tons classier, right?

Now, looking back, I wonder what in the world I was thinking. I was an honor student, taking senior classes my first year of high school, so I was intelligent enough to know what happens when you have unprotected sex. But I was invincible. Me? Pregnant? No way. Until.....Yes way...And it was terrifying. But I was lucky. M was one hell of a kid, and he has turned into one hell of a man. We made it work, even though it was hard and we didn't have a lot of help, as both our families were determined we raise our own child. Radical idea, huh? He worked two jobs and I eventually finished school, went to college and M was promoted to vice president of his family business. It was okay. Fairy tale? No. Ideal? Hell no.

I wonder sometimes what it is that makes kids believe that their world is protected. Go to a party and get so drunk you can barely walk, then proceed to get behind the wheel and drive balls to the wall as though there is no tomorrow? Have indiscriminate sex in a bathroom stall at school, get pregnant and at fourteen be unsure who your baby's father is? Or have an HIV test come up positive? Snort that first line in your prep school and get addicted? These things would never happen...Right? Right?

Most of these things have been around for a long time, at least through my adolescent and teenage years, so even though I was bright, intelligent and had my future mapped out like an old time explorer, sometimes plans are derailed by the very quality that makes being a teenager so exhilarating.

It is ignorance. Ignorance is bliss. Until you know better, everything that seems enjoyable IS enjoyable. For example, that diet coke I was sipping on this morning. Until I realized that there was a nearly fifty/fifty chance there was shit in my drink, it tasted pretty damn good.

Like I said, tomorrow I'm plugging in my ipod.

Blacklisted Journalist and Their Stupid Headlines

I wonder who was responsible for hiring, not just the writers, but their editors, too? Some of these could be fake, as I pulled them from the internet, but most looked pretty legitimate, which is pretty scary, as these are the people we rely on to bring us news from around the world....well, them and Fox news, of course. Lord knows, they also tell nothing but the truth........

Math book used in local classroom.

Santa Claus suspended for ho comment.

Utah Poison Control Center reminds everyone not to take poison.

County to pay $250,000.00 to advertise lack of funds.

Condom truck tips, Spills load.

Federal Agents Raid Gunshop, Find Weapons.

Meeting on Open Meetings is Closed.

Hippo eats dwarf.

Police Find Crack in UK

Cops arrest white woman on warrant for black man.

Local child wins gun from fundraiser.

Caskets found as workers demolish mausoleum.

Alton attorney accidentally sues himself.

Tiger Woods plays with own balls, Nike says.

One armed man applauds the kindness of strangers.

City unsure why sewer smells.

A-Rod goes deep - Wang hurt.

Scott wants head job.

Diana was still alive hours before she died.

Man eats underwear to beat Breathalyzer.

Deer with big rack female, it turns out.

Sewage spill kills fish but water safe to drink.

Students cook and serve grandparents.

17 remain dead in morgue shooting spree.

Tight end returns after colon surgery.

Accused of tossing taco, teen jailed.

Fish need water, feds say.

Man sues software company for making computer too fast.

Ruler can't measure Johnson's impact.

Nudist fight erection of towers near Wreck Beach.

And something that is completely inappropriate (in the opinion of someone that matters not a whit):

Caution! Bad Facial Hair.....

Is it just me, or does bad facial hair drive you crazy? I mean seriously. You wake up in the morning, hopefully brush your teeth, and what? You never glance in the mirror? You don't see that it looks like a slightly overly bushy cooter patch is growing on your chin?

It should be illegal.

The fact that men can walk down the street with these disturbing curly cues hanging from their chin, cheeks and upper lips and feel completely confident about it is also another reason men and women are glaringly different from one another. If I ever find a stray hair, or I know that my eyebrows are looking a little unkempt, it bothers me until I can get to the spa to be waxed or pluck them out in my own bathroom. Yes, pluck. I know it's so 2000 late, but my hair is blond and they will not guarantee laser hair removal on light colored hair. Assholes.

Anyhow......

There are certain man types that can pull off a beard.

Example: Dr. McSteamy aka Eric Dane




He is one fine specimen to show as an example of what a sexy beard should look like. I know, I know...He's into menage a trios' and coke (allegedly), but his wife doesn't seem to mind.....

A really bad example of inappropriate facial hair: Jonathan Rhys Meyers



Someone referred to this as the "Dirty Sanchez", which curious little me didn't know what it was, so I looked it up in the urban dictionary. Stomach contents beware.

Just to show you how awesome he is capable of looking, here you go:




Men! Grow your facial hair cautiously! Even if you think you're hot, sometimes it just doesn't matter....

Cold Day In The South

I'm here. At work. Again.

Last years resolution went to shit. I was supposed to win the lottery, that way I could stay in bed on mornings when the temperature was literally FREEZING. Yes, freezing. I live in Florida. It's supposed to be tropical here, right? Aren't we called "The Sunshine State"? Sure, the sun IS technically shining, but it was 32 F degrees on my temperature gauge when I pulled into work this morning. My blood is not made to withstand this crap.

You know what I find funny? The newscasters are constantly recycling stories on slow news days, and it never seems to get old to them to go out to the local beaches and videotape the poor tourists that have only packed shorts this time of year.

I wonder if, just because they live in the arctic North (or anywhere above Florida's state line) they think it never gets cold here? It's truly amazing how unprepared these people are. You see them standing there with the reporter (who is wearing a scarf, gloves and furry hat as though we are in Antarctica) in their shorts, knee high socks and fag packs, the end of their noses turning scarlet and laughing because the fools back home are dealing with temps that are hovering around zero. Do they not see the irony? In their ugly shorts, Florida sweatshirt that they spent too much money on and crocs, there will be no intelligence prizes handed out. Dumb asses.

A Pissing Christmas Tree

You know you're getting old when you attend several parties on New Years, you're home by one without the slightest buzz and wake up and rearrange your living room.

I took my Christmas tree down this morning all by myself. I should've waited for my husband to roll his ass out of bed to help, as this joker was nearly ten foot tall and shedding all over the damn place. I climbed up on a chair and grabbed it by the top and tilted it over, then proceeded to drag it towards the sliding glass door, which opens up to our back patio. There must've been a million pine needles (is that what they're called?) all over the damn place and the tree was so big I could barely get it to squeeze out of the door. I'm knocking over patio furniture to get it into the back yard, but finally, there it lay. Our ginormous effing Christmas tree, that if I'm honest, was probably the ugliest damn tree we've had since our first Charlie Brown Christmas together. That year we bought a ten dollar tree from the Dollar Store and a more pathetic "tree" you've never seen. And then...

I walk back inside to get the vacuum, knowing it's going to take me about an hour to get the shit up, and even then I'll probably still be finding them in the living room until August, when I realize my mistake...

There was still water in the tree stand...so my Christmas tree has pissed all over my living room. A trail of water is leading all the way through my living room, across my back patio and into the yard. I'm a dumb ass.

And in case you don't remember, I'm sick, so I'm sneezing and snotting throughout this entire process.

I was going to make a New Year's resolution to bitch less, but in this post, it might be a little redundant. And a big, fat, unadulterated lie.

Happy New Year, everyone! Please be safe out there and dodge all the idiots.