Open Letter 13

Dear Kids:
I am whipped. Between the house, you three, your swimming lessons, and just trying to stay upright and busy during daylight hours, I'm worn the hell out. I'm sorry you've had to watch me trudge through my days in an apparent zombie-like state. This motherhood thing has finally caught up with me and I'm not sure how to get back to my old jaunty self.

I'll get there. Promise. Just be patient.

Love,
Mama


Dear Crackbook Friends/Family:
Wow. In the last three months, I have been witness to some serious TMI in my news feed. Stuff for which I don't need to be privy. I don't need to know how much you've vomited today (Gross!) or how much you physically miss your loved one (Awkward!) or how much you hate your loved one (Awkward!). Seriously. Keep that shit in private e-mails. Don't put it on the Crackbook. I don't air my sick/dirty laundry out there and neither should you.

Sincerely,
Not the same Heather you used to know


Dear Bonaire:
I miss you.

Fishy Kisses,
Divemaster Heather


Dear Political and D.C. Lobby Organizations:
Quit. Calling. Us.

We are putting three toddlers through a private pre-school. We are paying a mortgage. We are paying for utilities, car payments, insurance, and my monthly chocolate ration. When you call constantly, asking for money? You only serve to piss us off.

When I answer the phone and scream LEAVE US ALONE! into the receiver? It means quit calling. It doesn't mean you call back the next day on the hunch I may have changed my mind. Because I haven't.

Regards,
Do something decent in our government and quit being douchebags and maybe I'll give you two cents


Dear Twitter:
To me, you're a micro-blogging tool. A tool which allows me to briefly spout out 140 characters of funny nonsense (funny to me, at least) to make people laugh or think, and then leave. Stealth miniature blogging, baby. I can't use you for conversations. I just can't. That's what chat/email/my phone is for. So, I will continue to be irrelevant to the topics/conversations at hand and participate in no conversation save my own. Just FYI.

Thanks,
@coalminersgd

@PantyCans!

It started out innocently enough. I posted the following on Crackbook yesterday:

And thus begins PANTRY CLEAN-UP 2010! Wish me luck, people. I may get buried under ravioli and soup cans.

To which Brad Finn (a.k.a. Mr. Fabulous) replies:

Why do you keep canned goods in your panties?

And:

From now on I am calling her Panty Cans.

To which I stupidly replied in a new status update:

According to @BEFinn, my new nickname is "Panty Cans." That is all.

After that? My fellow ghost hunter J-walk took off. Next think I know, he's got a Twitter account set up with a horrendous picture of me in my watermelon hat. And yep, you guessed it, the Twitter account is @PantyCans.

It was a lark. Or was it?

Cleaning out a pantry is all about getting rid of the old, expired canned goods, Hickory Farms gift packs (four-year-old beef sticks, people, somewhat resemble 80-year-old... never mind), and dried up brown sugar from a baking frenzy three Christmases ago, and getting organized. Let's face it, my pantry is a place I shove the green beans, diced tomatoes, and vanilla extract bottles willy-nilly, with no thought to organization at all. So, let's use @PantyCans to clean out our Twitter accounts. Send me your favorite tweets! Or send me an anonymous tweet you want to get off your chest and I'll post them all, no questions asked. Let's clean out our proverbial pantries and have some fun with it!

And yeah, that's J-walk in the profile picture. So, follow us or he'll swipe you with his super-special Anakin lightsaber.

Gad, we're such GOOBS!

Twitterdiculous

I tweeted:

HOA bully and husband of the HOA pres just got into an altercation at the local Wolf Camera. Moving to Bora Bora. Don't try to find me.

And Ritz Camera followed me.

I tweeted:

Excitement! Heading off to investigate an historic Roswell home. Later!

And Spiced Right BBQ followed me.

I tweeted:

My husband is MAKING me watch "Corvette Summer." Go ahead. IMDB that shit. I dare you. I may be fetal before it's all over.

And Corvette Recycling followed me.

I tweeted:

I may or may not have humped my Bissell Spot Bot just now.

And Bissell followed me.

Boy, I'll bet they're pissed.

Rockin' Robin

Last night was another HOA meeting. Which means another brain dump. Which means you're getting a blog post that didn't take much thought.

I've been Tweeting Twatting Twittering for almost a year now. It's all Avitable's fault. Ass. When I went back and read through all of my Twitter updates over the last eleven months? A few actually made me snicker. These are my faves and I hope you enjoy.

Too...much...Little...Bear...must...gouge...eyes!

Will child welfare take my kids if I feed them off the floor? I mean, since the food ends up there anyway, just take out the middleman.

I just chatted with my husband on Google Chat. Is that dirty?

Is it weird that my daughter hugs and kisses her Mr. Spock doll? Won't that make him uncomfortable? He is, after all, Vulcan. Poor guy.

Uh, oh. @Santa_Claus_ just dropped me. Should I be worried?

OMG! OMG! Miss-Miss just pooped in the potty! All by herself! With no urging from me! OMG! Can't believe I just twittered about poop!

G-Damned Twitter! Just ate my twat! Wait, that didn't come out the way I meant it. Twitter ate my... just forget it.

I don't have a 15-month-old son. I have a drool machine. Yuck.

And on the eighth day the Lord said, "And let the green snot floweth. And it flowed, and it was good."

Wondering if I can turn mayonnaise into a viable treatment for hardwood floors because I'm too damned lazy to clean up the mayo on my floor.

Tom Brokaw is gonna come out of his fucking chair.

No longer a car-battery jumping virgin. Did that sound dirty?

Honestly? I think his colon is as big as he is tall. That's like... 3 feet of poo! He was in there for 15 minutes!

So, when I'm watching Dr. No, why can't I have Sean-Connery-in-skimpy-swim-trunks-shaped graham crackers?

But at least his newest friend isn't invisible and calls me "That nasty old butt-scratching hag!" That would be depressing.

Made the kids jingle bell necklaces. Not so much because they're Christmas-y but because I want to hear them coming.

Hillshire Farm! Go Meat!

Too. Many. Toys! Must. Kick. Santa. In. Nuts! AARRRRGGGGHHHHH!

Oh, wonderful and great Maximum Strength Orajel, in your great name do we pray, Amen.

Riding the wave of a Godiva chocolate-induced insulin spike.

Baking. Which loosely translates to "trashing the kitchen and burning shit."

Might slip a little of the hard stuff into my coffee. "Hard" meaning "whole milk."

I wanna sniff Sean Connery's seat belt!