Somebody, Gouge Out My Eyes, Please!

OK, Andrea over at Mom to the Fey started this. It's her fault! Woman! Get thee down here to gouge out my eyes with a hot poker!

See, after my post about Vulva fragrance, we mentioned other female bodily secretions and ways to collect money from them. I joked that I had thought about reviving the whole wet nurse occupation but then found out that there are such things as donor milk banks. These places allow you, after a medical work-up and background check, to become a human milk donor to feed those children who are so lactose/everything intolerant, all they can consume is human milk. For some reason or other, though, their mamas can't breastfeed. Well, crap. Can't make money off a good deed like that.

Then, Andrea mentioned that there are fetishists out there who get off on watching lactating women... well, lactate. Or, fetishists who actually want to nurse themselves from lactating women. Holy jebus. So, of course, me being the inquisitive, messed-up gal that I am, I HAD to investigate.

I won't put the Web sites here. Firstly, they're too numerous to name. All I'll say is type "erotic lactation" in your Google search box and just have a good old time. You'll find all manner of Web sites that satisfy the lactating fetishist as well as those sites that specialize in the sexual intercourse proclivities of pregnant ladies. Well, ladies is too nice a term.

I'm just... speechless. I don't have the words. I mean, I know this type of thing is out there. I had to have known, like the back of my head/consciousness kind of known. But, I was denying it and in doing so, I was oh so innocent. Now, I'm damaged.

I need a piece of chocolate cake.

Friday Memes

Yeah. I'm brain-dead. It's official. J-man is teething and that means no sleep for Mama! So, since I have no brain cells to come up with an original post, I'm going to follow through with two memes that I was tagged with and never did do. Bad Heather! Bad! (But, oh so good!)

From Ms. Not Afraid To Use It (forever and a day ago), here's a directional meme:

The farthest north I have traveled: That would have to be New York City
Farthest South: Bonaire, Netherland Antilles
Farthest East: Egypt
Farthest West: Seattle, Washington

And there you have it!

Now, for my second meme. Military Mom tagged me with my five favorite things. Here you go!

1. Starbucks Anniversary blend is the bomb. When I can't purchase these particular beans, Sulawesi or Sumatra will do. Unless I schlep a bag of Lake Tahoe blend from Not Afraid!
   
   
2. I love, love, love, lurv my MacBook Pro. Despite yesterday's post regarding a crappy customer support phone experience, my new battery is in, functioning like it should, and my baby is happy!
   
   
3. Damn. I watch entirely too much friggin' TV. Supernatural, Reaper, NCIS, Ghost Hunters, Boston Legal, and on and on. Thank GOD for my TiVo.
   
   
4. Kids are watching Little Bear? Do a sudoku puzzle. Roadtrip? Out comes the sudoku book. Brain working in overtime and can't fall asleep? Again, sudoku. Love it!
   
   
5. This isn't our Jacuzzi tub, but it's pretty damned close. Came with the house when we moved here seven years ago. Oh, man. I don't have the words. This tub ROCKS!

OK, now I have to tag a couple of people with these here memes. So, Mom to the Fey, gimme five faves and Vonda, gimme your directions. Go to it, people!

So Friggin' Ridiculous

OK, just gotta put this out there. My MacBook has been having battery problems. Now, I know, I know, there was a MacBook battery recall. Not my MacBook, though. Different serial number. My battery gets to 75% power and the computer dies, no warning, no nothing. Complete shut down and loss of anything you've been working on that wasn't saved.

So, I called Apple yesterday. Of course, like every other computer company in the US, they have outsourced to India. An Indian man, with an obvious Hindi accent, answers the phone and says, "Hello. My name is Steve. May I have your name?" OK, whatever. Unless they can teach these people working in the call center how to speak English with no flipping accent whatsoever, then don't give me a fake American name so that I can feel "at home" or "trusting" of you. Just tell me your name is Deepak or Madhu and I'm cool. So, "Steve" takes down my information, assigns me a case number, tells me he's transferring me. I hear the cheesy background music and for the next 15 minutes bee-bop to some stupid live concert music with "Apple-man" breaking in every 2 minutes to tell me that "all technicians are currently on the phone yadda yadda blab blab." Finally, after 15 minutes... I get hung up on. OooooooKay. Call back.

This time, the Indian man's name was "Boris" (Where do they come up with this stuff? I know no one named Boris). Again, with the information, again on hold, again after 15 minutes I get hung up on. This happens four times. By the fifth time, young "Mike" was going to get his head yanked through the phone and his nose ripped off his face. I let him know that I was a very irate woman who had a shitty battery and wanted service not AN F-ING DIAL TONE!

Finally, I got through. Andrea (and, either she had perfected her accent or she truly was American - so I didn't have to think of her as a Kala or a Rama) assisted me beautifully, told me I was still under warranty and would get a new battery free of charge.... but their system was down and I would have to call back tomorrow (today) to give them shipping info.

AAAAAAAARRRRRRRRGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH! (Can you tell I was frustrated?)

So, I call back today. Today's outsourcing selection came in the form of "Mark" and (after getting hung up on) "Tom" (a.k.a. Haresh and Kavi). Finally, another young woman (this time after calling Apple just twice!) assisted me, took my address, and promised my new battery would be sent posthaste.

So, I have now decided that, just like two days ago, outsourcing doesn't bother me. You know, if you can hire workers more cheaply in foreign countries, go for it. We are, after all, a capitalist society. It's all about making money, so make your money. Just don't train the young men and women sitting in their cubicles in Mumbai or Kolkata at 12:30 AM to give us made-up American aliases. It's 12:30 AM their time. They're tired, bored stiff, irritated talking to all us American whack jobs who think we're better than the rest of the world ('cause, you know, we are!). All they want to do is go home, curl up to the latest Bollywood movie, and go to bed. Just be honest and tell me your name is Chandra. I'll be a lot happier for it. You'll be happier for it. Oh, and? QUIT F-ING HANGING UP ON ME! Whew!

(I know no one from India. I had to go here to find Indian/Hindi names. I'm so lame...)

You Want Some of This?

Not posting here today, people! You want a piece of me, click on Burt there to the left. He'll take you on over to Burt Reynolds' Mustache where you can check out my first-ever post on said blog. I'll be there the 28th of every month. Get moving! Go! Now!

You Can't Make This Stuff Up!

Dear God. Where do I start? I'm laughing with incredulity as I type this. I'm smacking my forehead in disbelief. I'm chanting ohmygodohmygodohmygod over and over again. I'm... completely and utterly speechless.

I guess you could call this post a public service announcement for my male readers - a bit of comedy for the ladies. Here goes.

There's a perfume out on the market called Vulva. (Whoops! There goes my blog rating again.) Seriously, something you smell called Vulva. Wait, just re-checked the site. It's not a perfume, it's a precious, vaginal odour. Allow me to quote directly, 'cause they do a better job of describing this stuff than I ever could:

The erotic, intimate scent of an irresistible woman... The precious, vaginal odour filled into a small glass phial. The phial is shaken gently, only a tiny amount of the precious, organic substance is applied onto the back of the hand... and the irresistible smell that exudes from a sensuous vagina immediately intensifies your erotic fantasies and starts the film rolling in your head...

Vulva Original is not a perfume. It is a beguiling vaginal scent which is purely a substance for your own smelling pleasure. Breathe in and enjoy, anytime, the odour of a beautiful woman.

OK. First (oh, this is going to be a long post) precious, organic substance? Does this mean that contained in these phials is actual vaginal secretions? Is there a mysterious, underground lab somewhere in Europe with a large group of European women, all sitting around watching porn and masturbating over beakers? That's the image I get when I think of the collection of this stuff.

Second, odour of a beautiful woman? How can we be sure that the essence in said phials is that of beautiful women? Personally, I think that squatting over these phials are some fugly-ass, nasty women, eating Cheetos and calling their kids about getting to soccer practice on time and not playing video games when they get home. Now, that would be justice.

When you go the site, you have the option of watching a video, a sort of how-to instructional video. There's a really creepy Euro-trash, male-model wanna be, watching two beautiful, naked women prance around. He's really creepy. He puts a drop of Vulva on his hand and takes a whiff. Then, his fantasy begins. Two chicks together, a chick wearing a Vulva t-shirt (which can be had off the site for the bargain price of 20,90 euros), and finally he begins watching the two chicks just off to his left. Finally, the how-to vid ends with a close-up of creepy boy, sniffing the odour, with the girls on either side of him. All I can do is laugh and shake my head.

Finally, the best parts of the site. You guys will say it's the Playboy-ish photo gallery. For me it's the t-shirt and panties you can purchase in addition to the odour. Now, the t-shirts and panties are for girls and I'm assuming that if a guy is buying Vulva, he doesn't have a significant other. This loser is buying a phial of vaginal essence to sit at home, in front of his video games, to sniff the back of his hand and to use the other hand to entertain himself because he has no female significant other. Why would he need to buy t-shirt and panties for a girl? There isn't one!

And it is here I finally impart to you, dear readers, the address of this Web site. It's emblazoned all over the t-shirts. Ready for it? Remember, I can't make this stuff up (and it's sooooo not work safe....



www.smellmeand.com



Go forth and enjoy!

If any of you are keeping track, my nasty, NC-17 rated, dirty word count is now:

penis - 9
hell - 13
orifice - 9
whore - 6
vulva - 12!!!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Oh, and? Time for my shameless plug. I'm participating in The Great Quill Driving Competition #4. The great Cindra puts this on twice a month (or whenever the heck she feels like it). She'll write a post, highlight 18 words in the post, then the entrants have a week to come up with a short story, poem, haikus, whatever, that includes those 18 words and more. I have entered. Head on over here and vote for your fave. Not telling you which one is mine. It's totally anonymous and telling you wouldn't be fair. Go and vote!

I'm Such a Geek

Now, I know we've already established that I'm a big geek. Super geek-like, even. At times I'm proud of my geekness. I wear it on my sleeve for all to see. At other times, though, I want to hide my geek, stuff it in a closet underneath the dry cleaning. Sometimes, it's just not a pretty sight.

See, I'm sure we all have a back-up Christmas item. You know what I mean. The thing you always want, but will probably never get, but when you can't think of what to tell people to give you, or you're reaching, really stretching, you rattle off this item to whomever has asked. They snort in return and get you a can of cocktail nuts.

For most of us ladies it's probably a diamond ring, or a house in some tropical locale, or maybe even lunch with Mr. Insert-Name-of-Famous-Good-Looking-Movie-Star-Here (or, dear God, for some of you, Fabio - yeesh). Nope. Nada. For me, it would be a first edition copy of Dune by Frank Herbert.

See, I'm a big science fiction nut and my favorite book of all time is Dune. I don't know why, just love it. The more I read it (I've lost count how many times I've read the damned thing), the more I like it and get out of it. Herbert was an f-ing genius. Tolkien hated him which is probably why I can't stand Tolkien (ducking as Rings fans chuck Gollum action figures at me). My friend Reed purchased a 1st edition copy of Dune several years ago. He would periodically bring it in to work, let me fondle it, and endlessly taunt me. Bastard. (Side note: Reed also has a letter written by Tolkien to the publisher telling them he read Dune and hated it. Ass. Hope he enjoys being surrounded by orcs in Hell!) Then there's Ty-man's Uncle Bob. He, too, has a 1st edition copy purchased back in 1965 when the book came out. Whenever I visit his humble abode, Bob usually finds me in the back closet, sniffing the pages, contemplating theft. I think he's finally locked the damned thing up.

But, unless I purchase the domain name www.buyheathera1steditioncopyofdune.com, and ask every visitor to send me one dollar through PayPal, it ain't gonna happen because a half-way decent copy of this 1st edition book goes for... are you ready? Take a deeeeep breath.

$6,650.00

Holy.
Shit.
Balls.

Yeah. The unattainable. I could probably front a house in Bonaire easier and more cheaply than a 1st edition copy of Dune.

Alas. Looks like Uncle Bob's copy is due for another sniff. Reed! I'm comin' for ya, baby! Get out your Dune and the Clorox wipes! It's gonna be a long visit!

Friend Torture Is Fun!

What do I do when I feel a little under the weather? Or when I'm bored? Ah, I torture my friend, Teri, needlessly.

You see, I discovered last week that the twins love music from High School Musical 2. Well, I think they do. We were listening to the XM Kids station and the above song was playing, and they were just be-bopping along to the music. So, I downloaded the soundtracks from both movies.

Now, I must say, I'm probably the only person on the planet, who doesn't have teenagers, who can tell you what High School Musicals 1 and 2 were about. This is because of Ty-man's cousin, Jennifer. See, after her visit this past summer, I wanted to feel more in-touch with her generation. So, I TiVo'ed both movies, watched them (it took me two weeks to get through them without gagging, pausing, and going back to a re-run of Supernatural), and promptly gouged out my eyes. Cute, but so not my generation. I will say this, though, the tunes are catchy and Disney knows it's kids.

So, when I'm not entertaining the twins, I'm randomly calling Teri at home or at work, cranking this song up on the computer, and torturing her needlessly. Surprisingly enough, the house hasn't been firebombed. Love you, man!

Now, ready to stick hot pokers in your ears, yet? Come on, pussy, push that play button and be a man/woman! Listen already!

I Am Thankful

OK, went to the doctor this morning and, two hours later (EVERYBODY in this town must be sick), I left with a definite diagnosis of strep throat. I am now at home with my amoxicillin and after attempting an extremely painful lunch of Chick-fil-A (what was I thinking?), I thought I would finally post my list of things for which I'm truly thankful.

• I am thankful for doctors who open their practices the day after Thanksgiving.
• I am thankful for antibiotics and Motrin.

OK, on to the real stuff...

• I'm extremely thankful for my husband. He pats me on the head when I'm feeling down or acting like a murderous sociopath. He takes care of the kids when I'm sick, so that I can get better, and when I told him to divorce me when I found out I was infertile and might not have children, he said, "Never."
• I'm thankful for my beautiful, sweet, healthy children. Bubba, Miss-Miss, and J-man are three of the sweetest little kids I've ever had the privilege of knowing and considering they have half of my chromosomes, it's a wonder they're not all Hell on three sets of wheels.
• I'm thankful for my family. They are all loving and supportive and help me in more ways than I can count.
• I'm thankful for my friends. They make me laugh, stick by me even when my humor gets sick and twisted, and understand me best of all.
• I'm thankful for you, dear readers and lurkers, for making this blog worthwhile.
  
• I'm thankful for the roof over my head keeping me dry, the food in my fridge keeping my hunger at bay, and clothes in my closet keeping me warm.
• I'm thankful that I'm an American and, no matter the political leaning of the administration or congress, or the scandals rocking D.C., or the wars we fight, that I live free in the greatest country in the world.

Thanks for reading and I hope to lick this sore throat and be back in my game soon (see second bullet point)!

Maybe I'll Just Leave Murphy Alone

Yeah, Murphy has the worst sense of humor. See, I made fun of him in yesterday's post and he decided to teach me a lesson.

A fine lesson indeed.

A lesson in which I have a house full of family for Thanksgiving.

And I'm upstairs in bed, with a fever and sore throat, sick as a dog.

Murphy, what I meant to say yesterday is that you're a fine man, full of wit and wisdom.

Now, please, can I be well for Christmas?

Murphy Can Just Kiss My Ass

I swear, it will be a miracle if these kids aren't in foster care by the end of the year.

I was feeling under the weather this morning. Scratchy throat, throbbing headache. Blech.

After the breakfast-shower-coffee, I sprawled on the couch. Twins were watching Little Bear, J-man was fast asleep. The next thing I know, I'm in dream land. Me and Sean Connery, fishing with Little Bear and Emily. Don't ask.

Suddenly, Sean is playing with a piece of plastic. Wait, Sean? I slowly wake up to the sight of Bubba running around the kitchen with a PLASTIC BAG OVER HIS HEAD! Holy crap! Half asleep, I stumble over, rip it off his head, and throw it away. He had dug it out of a box that once contained a radio. A room full of toys...

Murphy says that whatever can go wrong, will go wrong. That and if there's plastic in the house, your kids will try to suffocate themselves.

That Murphy. Such a smart-ass.

Geek Date Night

Not just a date night, ladies and gentlemen, but a geek date night. Last Thursday, Ty-man and I took off for the local movie theater to see what, you ask?

Beowulf? Nope. Not interested in Angelina Jolie's nekid CGI titties.

30 Days of Night? Nah, Ty-man's not a horror buff like moi.

Lions for Lambs? Definitely not. No preachy anti-war flick for us.

No, we went to see The Menagerie.

(I can sense you opening a new window, calling up IMDb.com, trying to remember if you've seen a trailer for a movie called The Menagerie. Don't bother.)

The Menagerie isn't a movie, it was a classic episode of Star Trek. As in Captain Kirk, Spock, and McCoy.

See, CBS/Paramount (Star Trek's sugar daddy) has authorized the digital re-mastering of all classic Star Trek episodes. The special effects shots and opening theme music were re-done. The film negatives were cleaned up and pictures made amazingly clear. Here in the Atlanta area, they are shown at 2AM, Saturday mornings. We (and by we I mean us and the kids) watch them in our PJs a few hours later, sprawled on the couch, twins munching on Cheerios, me and Ty doing the coffee gig.

Well, someone at Paramount got the bright idea of showing The Menagerie on the big screen. For two nights only (last Tuesday and Thursday), you could see a classic episode the way Gene Roddenberry (a.k.a. Great Bird of the Galaxy) envisioned it. I'm talkin' realistic planets, cool Enterprise, some serious green-skinned Orion slave-girl action, and every pore on Shatner's face, visible to the nekid eye. Whew. It was hard-core geek. I was spent.

Anyhoo, the theater had about 20 other geeks in it. We all laughed at the parts the general public might scratch their heads over (Scotty muttering under his breath upon hearing that the Enterprise wasn't responding to navigation changes. Ha!) and oohed and aahed over the brightening of colors. Jeffrey Hunter (a.k.a. ill-fated Captain Christopher Pike) looked especially handsome and Spock's eyebrows were ever so slightly on the bushy side.

I'm tellin' ya, ever get a chance to see Star Trek TOS (the original series for you non-geeks) on the big screen? Do it.

Geek out, my friends.

You Know? This Whole Motherhood Thing Has Been Fun...

... but I'd like my body back, now! Seriously. This is an open letter to the Universe. I know, I know, it's a real hoot, a scream actually, to watch all us gals get knocked-up, make us puke for three or more months, swell up our bellies, stretch our skin, make our ankles and feet swell up like sausages, make our bewbies (thanks, Teri) huge and appealing, yet filled with milk, cause our backs to ache, and take away our peaceful slumbers. Then, just when we think everything is going to burst at the critical mass stage, we have the kid(s). Woo hoo! Forty long weeks later and I've got my body back, baby! Snort. Whateva.

If you breastfeed, you still don't have the twins back. Sometimes your feet stay bigger than their original size. Your abdominal skin has stretched and refuses to return to its original state. Sometimes those extra pounds like their new home and stick around. Hormones? Heh. Your complexion will NEVER be the same. Oh, and? Your hair is going to fall out. In GOBS! Woo hoo! Let's get this party started and pass the Liquid Plumr!

Thanks, Universe, thanks.

Really.

I don't have the words.

Wait... yes I do!

So, now that J-man is weaned, I've got my mosquito-bite sized mammary bumps back. Yipp-friggin'-ee. These small hooters go along so well with the poochy tummy, still poochy due to excess skin and a few pounds that don't want to come off. And I'd really like to get those pounds off by resuming my running, but I can't do that considering that the three gems now living in my house won't let me sleep! Yeah. That o'dark-thirty wake-up alarm to get up and pound the pavement gets permanently snoozed when the alarm clock hits the wall.

So, anyway, I guess I'd like to close this letter by asking you, Universe (or Santa, or Easter Bunny, or Great Pumpkin) to give me back my old body. I'll still be a mom and wife. That, I'll keep. But, my body?

I miss it.

Terribly.

Please?

Don't make me contact the dairy farmers' association to put my old body's pictures on milk cartons, 'cause I'll do it!

Sincerely,
Heather

I've Got Some 'Splainin To Do

I've been thinking about something deep lately and I need to get it off my small cup-sized chest. I watched a PBS special (dear God - she watched public TV!) called The Undertaking, following the family funeral home business of writer, poet, and undertaker, Thomas Lynch. See, I have this morbid fascination of all things associated with death, probably because it scares the bejeezus out of me. I have panic/anxiety attacks regarding death and I've had these panic attacks since childhood. I distinctly remember the first time I realized that I, too, would die, that it wasn't just an event reserved for my step-great-grandmother. I lay in bed, hyperventilating, knowing that I would die and there was nothing I could do to change that fact. The idea of infinity was a notion I couldn't rap my head around. I was lost, just a useless child-speck in this massive universe - a universe that had it in for me. I rushed into the living room, flung myself on my father's lap, clutched his neck, and wailed, "I don't want to die!" He and my mom must have been flabbergasted, confused, and terribly, terribly sad.

See, I hear all these people telling me about "having the sex-talk with the kids." They tell me that telling your kid about sex is so hard it's just easier to hand them a book or brochure or have them talk to their doctor. I don't believe that. Sex can be the most beautiful act given to us humans to fulfill with the ones we love. There's nothing bad in explaining sex to our children - as long as you're honest. What I fear is the moment when Bubba or Miss-Miss or J-man realize what death is and that it will someday come to them, me, and Ty-man. I fear the question, "What happens after you die?" Having to tell them that I don't know twists my gut. Having to admit to them that, as an adult, I still wake up at night, clutching my stomach and waking up Ty-man to still my panic attacks. I want to be able to tell them most definitely that the afterlife is streets paved with gold, a mansion for each of us, and face-time with God, but I can't buy into that. Why? No one has ever come back to tell us what the afterlife is like, if there even is an afterlife. Either there is a Heaven that is so wonderful that no one wants to leave, not even long enough to tell us that it's there, or death causes your soul, your essence, to be winked out of existence, gone forever, never to exist again. I can't tell my children that there is a possibility that their sweet, wonderful selves, all of their dreams, desires, their souls, may not exist in any form or fashion once they are gone. I don't even want to think that. I want to believe that we will all be reunited once we are gone. I can't stand not knowing and realizing that, someday, one or all of my children will hit me in the chest with the same panic attack I gave my parents. To think that one day, one of my children may have to sign the paper that gives the funeral home permission to send my remains to a crematorium, that one or all of them will have to scatter me across the sea, that they will shed tears and miss me, that doesn't comfort me at all, but makes me incredibly sad for them. Sad that I will finally have my answer and will be unable to give it to them.

I don't know if we're going to a better place or no place at all. I don't know what this so-called "transition" will be like for any of us, whether it will be peaceful or violent. What I do know is that I will be there to hug my children when a loved one passes, when the anxiety hits, when the panic swells. I will be there with late-night television, a funny movie, a bowl of ice cream, and support. We may each die alone, but we don't have to face it alone.

Dialog

Ty-man: "I lied to you."

Me: "You did? About what?"

Ty-man: "We do have Colby cheese. It's in the vegetable drawer."

Me: "Oh, OK. I thought you were going to tell me you were actually a woman trapped in a man's body."

That's what Ty-man gets for marrying a pessimist.

While You're At It, Could You Also Pray For Calorie-Free Chocolate?

As all of you know (unless you've been living in a cave without access to CNN, Fox News, or Ms. Katie Couric) Georgia is under an exceptional drought. I think I heard that if our lack-of-rain levels continue, our main reservoir, Lake Lanier, will go dry within nine months. Hell, I don't know if that's true or just a bunch of fear-mongering. What I do know is that we are, in fact, in the middle of a pretty nasty drought. What I also know is that our governor, Sonny Perdue, stood today on the steps of the Georgia state Capitol, along with other Georgia lawmakers, and prayed for rain. Let the public outcry begin!

I once vowed, when I began this blog, that it would not be a political/religious/hot-button topic type of blog. This is a place for me to be the neurotic mommy that I am; this is a place for me just to purge my twisted thoughts and mommy frustrations. Hey, it's cheaper than therapy. But this, I need to vent about.

This country has become so damned touchy and I'm over it! Gee, like an idiot, I put my hot coffee from McDonald's in between my legs, while driving my car, and it burned me! Poor me, I deserve millions! We aren't allowing our schools or government buildings to display Christmas trees because they are symbols of a religious holiday. What-the-F-ever. Joe Doughnut broke into a home to steal a TV and jewelry, was shot by the owner, and is suing the owner for damages. Puleeze! It's too bad you didn't bleed to death! I'M OVER IT, PEOPLE! So friggin' over it that I can't even speak and it makes me stutter and spit in frustration.

The Atlanta Freethought Society protested at the governor's public prayer, with the organizer (Ed Buckner) stating, "The governor can pray when he wants to. What he can't do is lead prayers in the name of the people of Georgia." You know what Ed? Fuck off. There, I used the F word on my blog. Whew! I feel better already.

I'm a deist. Don't know what that is? Click here to find out. Simply put, I don't go to church. I believe in God and I believe that it (that's right, I feel that such an omnipotent/omniscient being such as God wouldn't be associated with a gender) is responsible for our universe's creation, but I don't believe in the dogma of any faith or church. In my opinion (and, as we all know, opinions are like a-holes - everybody has one and everyone thinks that everyone else's stinks), dogma and religious beliefs bog us down when what we should do is simply be thankful for our lives and our existences. Now, this is not an invitation for all you readers to try to convert me. Not going to happen. I've had the Catholic, Jehovah's Witness, Mormon, Protestant talks. I'm over it. I may not be a believer in religion or religious beliefs, but I am a red, white, and blue all over American. I firmly believe in our Constitution and in the spirit of the American people. What I'm trying to tell you is that even though I don't pray, that doesn't mean that others shouldn't and if others feel the need to pray on my behalf, I'm not going to complain about it. They aren't causing me any harm and they believe they are helping me, with the best of intentions. So, OK, pray away.

If Gov. Perdue wishes to pray to God on behalf of all Georgians for rain, go for it big guy! The last time I checked, our Constitution protects Gov. Perdue and his actions. I quote:

Amendment I - Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press, or the right of the people to peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.

The First Amendment says it all. Gov. Perdue and the Georgia lawmakers who attended him this morning had the right to exercise their religious beliefs and had the right to peaceable assembly. The last time I checked, Gov. Perdue and said lawmakers pay Georgia taxes, a portion of which pay for our Capitol building. Therefore, they have a right to peaceably assemble on the Capitol steps and practice their religious right to pray. I could have done the same thing and not received any press, because I'm not a public figure. There are probably hundreds, if not thousands of fellow Georgians praying for rain on our behalf who aren't being reported about in the news because they are average, ordinary people.

Now, I know, I know, the Atlanta Freethought Society also has the right to peaceably assemble and protest Gov. Perdue's public prayer. That's what is so great about this country. What pisses me off is that everyone in this country seems to be so damned sensitive about religion, about not offending anyone, that there has been a negative backlash against the very faith upon which this country was founded. As much as some people hate to admit it, our Founding Fathers were predominantly Protestant Christians and invoked God during their creation of this fine country. Because of our ridiculous "PC" sensitivity, to be a Christian in this country is to have to be apologetic and secretive of your faith for fear that someone is going to take away your faith's symbols and mock your beliefs. That is just crazy and, dare I say it, prejudiced. It's OK to mock Christianity but holy crap, look out for the backlash if you smirk at a follower of Islam or if you look at an atheist the wrong way.

You know what? I don't believe that the prayer helped. I believe that it will rain when the natural order of this planet Earth, when the wind currents, and pressure systems, finally align in the proper way to allow the rain to fall. I don't believe there will be divine intervention. I believe that, weather being the chaotic, mathematically unpredictable system that it is, we will get the much-needed rain when it damn-well "feels" like getting here. But, I certainly won't begrudge my governor for praying on my behalf for the rain. What if I'm wrong? What if God is responsible for the rain? Since I won't pray for it, someone has to. So, go for it. And everybody, quit being so damned touchy and get back to what really matters in this country, what our Forefathers wanted for us... Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness.

That and the Pursuit of Calorie-Free Chocolate.

3 Prescription Motrins, 1 Oxycodone, and 1 Bag of Frozen Peas Later...

I'm ready to kill. Seriously. Physical pain can be a cause of serial murder. Especially extreme pain in the female mammary glands. I wonder how many women have killed while having their period or while weaning a baby off the you-know-whats. Why not just use the "b" word? Because then some sicko performing a pornographic Google search of some sort will find my site and click on the link thinking he's in for some great nudity and instead find an entry regarding a murderous, engorged mommy blogger.

See, J-man nursed for the last time on Saturday morning. Yesterday (Sunday) dawned and I felt fine. But, as the day progressed, the twins (and I'm not talkin' about Bubba and Miss-Miss) began to itch. Literally. You know how a cut that is healing will itch. Same concept. The udders are filling up with milk that's not being used, causing my non-nursing A-cups, nursing solid B- somewhat C-cups, to become very large, painful D-cups. Lots of uncomfortable skin-stretching going on. Yeah, today has dawned and I'm breaking out the 6-month-old postpartum prescription pain killers.

Today was J-man's second attempt at eating watery rice cereal. Of course, he's not sitting up all that well, so I lounge him in his baby papa-san on top of the kitchen table. Where does this put his piston-like legs and feet? That's right, in perfect position to kick the bejeezus out of my horribly engorged ta-tas. Joy. After getting the snot kicked out of me, Ty-man arrived in the kitchen to say good-morning. My response? "I HATE TEACHING BABIES HOW TO EAT SOLID FOOD!" Then, I promptly stomped upstairs to finish off J-man with a bottle.

Later, when I had calmed down, I explained to Ty-man what had happened and told him it was the equivalent of putting the papa-san at groin level and seeing how long he could feed J-man in that position. Understanding dawned on his face.

Later, after lunch, I herded Miss-Miss and Bubba upstairs to begin their naps. As I lifted Miss-Miss to put her in her crib, she inadvertently kneed me in the left hooter and the wind was promptly knocked out of me. I couldn't even move. I somehow managed to get her in her bed (without chucking her out the window), mumbled a "Have a good nap!" and backed out the door, into the hall where I promptly fell to the floor and whimpered.

When this 800mg Motrin wears off, I'm takin' an oxycodone... and a Cosmo. Wake me up when it's 2023 and they start college!

Lazy Saturday Meme

It's a lazy Saturday and I couldn't come up with an original post if somebody was threatening Sean Connery's life. So, here's a meme I ripped off from Nothing To Show But This Brand New Tattoo. Here goes!

* I am given money and sent to the grocery store to pick up 5 items. I can only pick up one thing from the following departments. What did I get?
1) Produce - Bananas (every morning, baby)
2) Bakery - Croissants
3) Meat - Boneless Chicken Breasts (bland but versatile)
4) Frozen - Breyers Low Carb Rocky Road Ice Cream
4) Dry Goods - Uncle Ben's brown rice

* Let's say I'm heading out for a weekend getaway (woo hoo!). I'm only allowed to bring 3 articles of clothing with me. So, what's in my bag?
1) Underwear
2) Underwear (Hey, clean underwear is a necessity.)
3) Sean Connery's underwear with him in it! (OK, not that much of a necessity.)

* If you were to listen in on one of my conversations throughout the day, what 5 phrases or words would you be most likely to hear?
1) Jesus Tap-Dancing Christ (Yeah, yeah, goin' to Hell. Heard it already.)
2) Scheiße (German for sh*t)
3) Get down off the firetruck/train/plane!
4) Stop playing with the oven/light switch/pantry door!
5) Dry up!

* So, what 3 things do I find myself doing every single day and if I didn't get to do, I'd probably be in a pretty irritable/bad mood?
1) Drink my morning coffee.
2) Blog.
3) Hug and kiss Ty-man and the kids.

* What are 3 things that I have in my home that have been with me for the longest amount of time?
1) My teddy bear, Ben (I'm 35, he's 30).
2) My drum major trophies (the oldest is 22 years old).
3) A plaque my high school best friend gave me as a graduation gift, that still hangs in my office (17 years old).

* If I was only allowed to listen to 5 of my CDs for the rest of my life, never adding anything else, which 5 would I choose?
1) Community Service by The Crystal Method
2) The Long Road by Nickelback
3) Throwing Copper by Live
4) Bat Out of Hell by Meatloaf
5) Slippery When Wet by Bon Jovi

* Sweet! I just scored a whole afternoon to myself. I'm talking a 3-hour block with nobody around. What 5 activities might you find me doing?
1) Stop off at Starbucks for coffee and a wi-fi connection for some remote blogging.
2) Detour to Barnes & Noble to feed my book addiction.
3) Off to the local spa to finally use up my gift certificates on a massage and facial.
4) Lunch with my tech writing buddies.
5) Finally, off to the local movie theater for the currently-playing horror/sci-fi movie.

* I'm going to the zoo, but it looks like a storm is coming, so it'll have to be a quick visit. What 3 exhibits do I have to get to?
1) Gorillas (a.k.a. the family)
2) Red pandas (too cute not to pass up)
3) Reptile house

* I just scored tickets to the taping of any show of my choice. I can pick between 5, so what am I deciding between?
1) Supernatural (Hm, hm, hm. Two words for you. Jensen Ackles.)
2) Reaper
3) Medium
4) Dog the Bounty Hunter
5) Dallas (This, of course, would require a bit of time-travel, but would be worth it to lick Patrick Duffy. Where, you ask? Well, that's none of your business and is between me and Mr. Duffy!)

* I'm hungry for ice cream and I'm going to get a triple dipper cone. What 3 flavors will I get?
1) Chocolate
2) Chocolate
3) Peach

* Somebody stole my purse... in order to get it back, I have to name 5 things I know are inside to claim it. So, what's in there?
1) iPhone
2) Ziploc bag of Splenda packets
3) pink Delta Zeta pen
4) tube of Chapstick
5) light brown leather wallet

* I'm at a job fair and am asked what areas I'm interested in pursuing as a career. Let's pretend I have every talent and ability to be whatever I wanted (Pretend? I don't have to pretend! Snort!). So, what 3 careers would I choose?
1) Egyptologist
2) Astronaut
3) National Geographic photographer

* If I could go back and talk to the old high school me and inform myself of 6 things, what would I say?
1) They're all going to be fat and bald in 10 years.
2) You aren't going to be friends with any of them anyway (once out of college), so screw 'em!
3) Crack the books a little bit more, and you'll be valedictorian.
4) Go to the homecoming bonfire.
5) Ask Doug Bryant out on a date.
6) Listen to your parents. They actually do know what they're talking about... sometimes.

Oh, What a Night!

Last night was all about the hook-up! Michelle, a.k.a. Ms. Not Afraid To Use It, has been in town visiting the 'rents and we got together at the Perimeter Mall Cheesecake Factory. Woo hoo! We hit it off immediately, talking religion, politics, love of Gene Roddenberry, kids, coffee, endometriosis, Dr. Nezhat, husbands, parents, and everything else! The two different parties seated next to us must have had a fun time de-constructing our conversations in their respective cars going home! We ate, ate, and ate some more, downing some good food, great cheesecake (mmmmmm, pumpkin pecan), and awesome coffee! Then, we shut the place down. They were turning on lights, mopping floors, and we were still gabbing. Can't wait to get together again, Michelle! I had a great time and it's too bad we don't live closer.

In honor of last night's introduction, I have for you, dear readers, pictures from my morning. See, Michelle was kind enough to bring me a bag of Starbucks' special Lake Tahoe blend. Yummy! So, my morning coffee ritual was made even more special and I just had to document it! Here, on the right, is the extra-special bag 'o Lake Tahoe Blend. On the back is a sticker, signed by Susan (the girl who bagged up the beans), stating that one dollar of the purchase of said bag goes to the League to Save Lake Tahoe. Wow! Gettin' my coffee on AND doing good at the same time. This, ladies and gentlemen, is one step away from Heaven. It would totally be Heaven if a young Sean Connery were serving me this coffee in a silver coffee service while wearing his swim trunks from Dr. No. But, I digress.

Once the beans are released from bag-bondage, they must be sniffed in the hopes that some caffeine will be absorbed through my nasal cavity. That, and it makes me feel like a true coffee-connoisseur.

Now, we grind up those babies, stick 'em in the good 'ole Hamilton Beach Brew Station, and wait for the coffee smell to permeate the house. Meanwhile, I go up to shower, and when I return, it's coffee time!






I'd say that's one satisfied coffee-drinker. Thanks again, Michelle!

Leave the Kid, Take the Cannolis

So, we're at Ippolito's last night, celebrating the FIL's (a.k.a. Chuck) birthday. By the way, he turned 35 yesterday. Seriously! :-) Of course, we took the kids, who charmed the pants off everyone. Anyhoo, after our delectable meal of pasta and garlic rolls (garlic rolls that I would sell my soul for!), three of us received Ipp's special chocolate chip cannolis. Yum! Good and extremely sweet. As we packed up to leave, I noticed the couple behind us had also ordered the cannolis.

"You know, " I joked, "those are horrible! We'll take them off your hands so you don't have to deal with that nastiness."

They chuckled, replied "Suuuurrrreeee, right, whateva!" and it was a pleasant laugh. I figured I should joke with them because getting three kids ready to leave a restaurant can be traumatic, with much bumping of chairs, and I wanted to warm them up to us before we inadvertently caused bodily harm with flailing arms and car seats.

As we were walking out, the lady commented, pointing toward J-man, "If I had known about that little cutie when you offered to take our cannolis, I would have said sure and offered a trade!"

Now, I have no prejudice against those who are obese. I have family and friends who are or have been obese. To me, it's just a physical state of being and whether you choose to be that way or can't help it, whatever. That doesn't define who you are. But, when this woman said that, a woman who was definitely morbidly obese, the only reply my brain could dredge up was, "Trade the cannoli for the kid?!? Are you kidding?!? He's a baby, NOT FOOD!"

Thankfully my smart-ass filter kicked in before I uttered the above. I instead said, "He is a cutie at that!" and walked on. Whew!

Yes, the evil, twisted part of me is just below the surface. Fear it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Hooking up with Not Afraid To Use It tonight at the Cheesecake Factory. Yum! Incriminating pictures to follow upon the 'morrow!

Kid Secretion

My sunroom windows are filthy. They are covered in some sort of kid secretion. It looks like I have a friggin' Great Dane living in my house. The slime on these windows is so revolting, it's impressive. Why do two-year-olds feel the need to kiss and lick windows? Why can't they be normal kids, licking flag poles?

Ish.

It's just... nasty. When I ran the Windex-soaked paper towel over the window, the dried scum was, in a word, chunky.

Double-ish.

Garden snails leaving their slimy trails on leaves, male cats spraying on anything in their territory, and my two-year-old twins, slobbering and snotting on everything in sight.

Somebody hand me the Lysol and a Haz-Mat suit. This is going to take a while.

First, I Would Like to Thank the Academy...

I have received my very first blog bling! Woo hoo! I'm so very excited to have received an award for my blog.

Ms. Not Afraid To Use It graced me with this wonderful award after we found out that not only are we sufferers of the dread endometriosis, but that we also have the same friggin' surgeon who removed our endo and helped us have kids. Talk about your seren-you're-kidding-me-dipity. Not only is this world small, it throws you for the coolest loops sometimes! NATUI is in the Atlanta area, visiting family, this week, and we'll be hooking up this coming Thursday evening. I will be sure to take pictures of this momentous occasion and post them here on Friday (as long as I'm conscious - she said something about sippable chocolate, hmmmmm).

All the women in my family have endometriosis (in fact, my aunt was unable to have children because of it) and I have been cursed with it as well. In addition, I have PCOS (polycystic ovarian syndrome) which caused infertility. I went to see Dr. Ceana Nezhat (at the recommendation of a friend) and he not only diagnosed my PCOS, he performed the surgery that got me on the right track to removing my ovarian cysts, the endometriosis, and reversing my infertility. It's because of his work that I have my three beautiful children. So, that's my story and I'm stickin' to it!

Again, thanks hon, for my very first blog award, and I'm so very proud to graciously accept it! If you would like to see more about the award and my story, click on the award graphic above. And, by accepting it, it is now my job to pass it along to another worthy woman who has gone under the knife but cannot be kept down by her endometriosis. Here you go, Vonda! I love ya, doll and that sweet little Ella Rose is an absolute miracle!

Spit-Up, Poop, Handymen, a Smart-Ass Uncle, and Dallas

I have another addiction. One I don't readily speak of. Ty-man knows about it, my mother fears it, and my friends simply shake their heads in pity because of it. I. Love. Dallas. Damn, that Bobby Ewing was one sexy man.

See, almost four years ago, the Soap channel began showing re-runs of Dallas. I happened to catch the first episode and realized what was going on. Wow. They're going to show every single episode of Dallas, beginning to end, every weekday at 5PM. My TiVo was rocking. I had watched the whole "Who Shot J.R.?" debacle back in 1980 when I was the tender age of eight. I didn't know what was going on, just that my mother was obsessed over finding out who was the shooter. Watching the reruns on Soap gave me the opportunity to see what all the fuss was about. I went on the web and found Ultimate Dallas, a site whose name speaks for itself. There, I found out there were 13 (dear God, 13) seasons of Dallas as well as three TV movies. Eighteen months after I began, I finally finished all 13 seasons and three movies. I knew more about Dallas than I had ever wanted to know. Ty-man couldn't believe I had stuck with it (even through the "dream" season when Pam dreamed Bobby was dead).

Now, Dallas is like an old friend. When the kids are asleep and house is quiet, I turn on Dallas in the background. I'll still record it on my TiVo and play it while surfing through my favorite blogs or paying bills. I listen to it while I fold laundry or wash dishes. I can listen to a few minutes of an episode and tell you the storyline and what's going on, and can probably tell you in which season the episode belongs.

I mention Dallas today because I will now and forever remember the sixth season episode "Hush, Hush, Sweet Jesse" as the episode when Miss-Miss had a 101 degree fever, when J-man spit up more milk than he drank, pooped all over the Boppy pillow after not pooping for 48 hours, and sat up for the first time, when my Uncle Jeff called and I hung up on him because I thought he was a telemarketer, and that it was the episode that our handyman brought his sick wife to help him clean out our gutters. She used our telephone, after which we found out she was the carrier of some unknown viral crud, and it had to be sprayed down with Lysol. Yes, "Hush, Hush, Sweet Jesse," the episode when Clayton's loony sister Jessica kidnaps Miss Ellie in order to stop Ellie's marriage to Clayton, the episode when Pam finds out that it was her sister Katherine who broke up her marriage to Bobby, and episode when Peter gets arrested for cocaine possession, cocaine planted in his car by J.R., this will be the episode of poop, spit-up, a fever, my smart-ass uncle, and a virus-infested telephone.

Ah, memories....

My Friday

Sorry about not posting yesterday. Post-Halloween recovery as well as partaking of the Roswell Ghost Tour. Gettin' my paranormal on!

Friday began like any other day. Breakfast, shower, kissing Ty-man 'bye as he heads off to work, playtime, lunches, naps, laundry, washing dishes, more playtime, time for Ty-man to return in time for dinner. It was a rather calm, uneventful day.

All was quiet. Bubba and Miss-Miss were playing in the kitchen with the bread drawer (hey, bread gets squished, but they're happy, so let 'em at it!), J-man is chilling in his gymini, handyman Keith is repairing our gutters. Excellent! I can make a phone call to Not Afraid To Use It who is flying to Georgia for a family visit and wants to hook up later in the week. Cue release of "chaos-producing kid hormone."

While I'm on the phone (this, by the way, is the first time we've spoken to one another outside of e-mails; first impressions are important), J-man begins to fuss. So, I pick him up and jiggle him while talking. We're getting to the end of our conversation and the doorbell rings. Handyman needs information. I ask him to wait because I'm on a long-distance call. About this time, Bubba slams his finger in the bread drawer, causing a screaming freak-out in the ear not being occupied by the phone. Joy. I quickly cut off from my blogging buddy with promises to talk when she gets into town. I calm Bubba down (all while still holding J-man) and realize I need to go to the bathroom, yesterday, numbers 1 and 2. So, off I go, with J-man, into the 1/2 bath. This bath has no carpet, so I can't set him down. I somehow manage to get the pants pulled down with one hand, do my business with J-man on my lap, and get the pants back up, and hands washed. Talent, I tell you. While doing all of this the doorbell rings again and the phone rings. I run outside to talk to the handyman, letting the phone go to voice mail (friggin' telemarketers) and I see Ty-man pull up. I turn the handyman over to him. Upon returning inside, J-man has had it and the twins are starving.

And people wonder why animals in the wild eat their young. Well, and their handymen, too.

I'm Spent

Six hours. Six friggin' long-sufferin' hours. I've just finished watching the six-hour marathon session of Ghost Hunters Live, broadcast on the Sci-Fi channel, Halloween night, from 9PM to 3AM. Holy. Crap.

I'm a Ghost Hunters fan. No, actually, I'm a Ghost Hunters freak. Freak-a-zoid. If I lived anywhere near Rhode Island, I'd be whoring myself out to Jason Hawes and Grant Wilson (the leaders of TAPS, the Ghost Hunters organization) to get a spot on their team. Oh, yeah. I believe in ghosts, the paranormal, demonic possessions, electronic voice phenomena, EMF spikes when there's a ghost around, cold spots, and poltergeist activity. I'm all about it. I eagerly await each new season of Ghost Hunters, slobbering on my TiVo remote, sitting on my couch, eyes hungrily searching the black around the ghost researchers for any sign of a black mass or orb. I'm there, on the edge of my seat. I've been known to pick up true ghost stories books from the local Barnes & Noble and scare myself so silly that I won't make midnight treks to the bathroom. I'd rather hold it than have some spook jump out at me from my darkened closet. Check on the crying kids at 3AM? Not if I turn on every light in the house. Ty-man rolls his eyes whenever a new ghost book makes it into the casa because he know's I'll be paranoid for the next two weeks.

When I found out that the Ghost Hunters would be broadcasting live from the Waverly Hills Sanatorium on Halloween night, I set the TiVo to record. I would love to watch it live, but with trick-or-treat going on and a very tired Heather returning home, post costume-wrangling, tired-twins, giving-J-man-a-late-bottle, my rear was not hanging out on the couch until 3AM. The kids would have had evil Mama to deal with the next day and they could have performed their own paranormal investigation of the evil witch living in their home. So, I recorded the event instead. Since yesterday, I have watched snippets, 15 minutes here while eating lunch, 20 minutes there while folding laundry. Well, I just now, at approximately 12:45PM EDT, finished watching all six hours.

That's right. Six. Hours. Of. Boring. Ghost. Hunting.

Nothing happened that I could see.

No sounds. No lights. No shapes or shadows in the distance.

Nada.

Wait, there was one thing. Elijah Burke (a pro-wrestler with ECW) was a guest ghost hunter. All 6 feet, 1 inch, 230 lbs of pro-wrestler, screamed like a little girl and ran away when his cell phone fell off his pants. No. Lie. Dude. I could do better than that.

The Ghost Hunters heard, felt, and saw plenty. But me, nothing.

Ghost hunting via the boob-tube sucks. Now, my eyes are red, I'm exhausted, and disappointed.

I've got to move to Rhode Island and join TAPS. I'm leaving Ty-man a "Dear John" letter today. He'll find it when he gets home from work.

Dear Ty-man,

This whole motherhood thing has been fun, but I think it's time to put down the formula bottle and pick up an EMF gauge. J-man is a week away from being weaned. You can handle it. I'll take a six-month sabbatical and become a member of TAPS. Yeah. Cool. I'm not going to get paid for my stint as a ghost hunter, and you'll still have to work in order to fund my travels (food, gas, flights, etc). Hope you don't mind. You'll be working 8-hour days and taking care of kids, too. I know you understand. You and the kids will be just fine. I'll return from my ghost hunting a changed, enlightened person. You'll be frazzled, but we'll all be the better for it.

Love, Me

But, of course, if I do that, Ty-man will probably dispatch me out of disgust and anger, post-death I'll start haunting our humble abode, and TAPS will come here for an investigation. I'll get to meet Jason and Grant, just not how I imagined.

Dang it. Can't win.

Oh, It's a Proud, Proud Day!

For quite some time now (well, since the day the twins were born, it seems) Ty-man and I have been trying to teach the kids to ask for help rather than to cry and wail. Each time a toy is stolen, every time a door needs to be opened, whenever a frustrated meltdown occurs, we tell the kids, "Don't cry! Just come over to Mama/Papa/Nana/Grandmama/Grandpapa/etc. and ask for our help. Just say, 'Mama! Help!' and I'll help you!" Slowly, but surely, the message has been getting through. In the last six months, they've finally caught on. Bubba steals a toy from Miss-Miss, she runs over, "Mama, hep!" If Bubba wants something from the kitchen counter, over he comes, "Mama! Hep!" and leads me by the hand to the kitchen. This is great. But, they were still waking up in the middle of the night/morning, screaming and crying. Finally, this morning, a break-through!

J-man cried out at 7AM and I was not ready to feed him. So, I picked him up and brought him in bed with me, knowing I could buy an extra hour of sleep (Ty-man out of town for three nights and a rockin' Halloween have left me, well, exhausted, people!). About 30 minutes later, I hear on the twins' monitor, a plaintive Miss-Miss cry, "Papa! Papa! Hep! Hep!"

I elbowed the Ty-man, and stated in a volume loud enough to carry over his CPAP machine, "Ty. It's Miss-Miss. She's calling out for you. Take care of it!"

Yes, the payoff is sweet! This, as much as hearing her say, "I love you, too, Mama!" just made my year!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Oh, and? Ms. Not Afraid To Use It has meme'd me again! This is a simple one, though. I simply have to post a screen capture of my desktop. So, here 'tis!


Yes, I got a kick out of this summer's blockbuster movie Transformers and the above air freshener hanging from Bumblebee's rear view mirror. So, this is the personality of my MacBook. She. Is. Bee-otch. Don't cross her or she'll lose all your stuff!