Deep thoughts while running : Spiders.

F*$k Spiders.

I started thinking about what I hate most about them.  I started with the ones with fat bodies and scratchy pin like sharp short legs.    And then I went onto small body spiders that have crab like jointed long legs and huge "fangs" you can see.    Then there's ones that jump, spiders that grow to the size of Atlantic King Crabs, spiders that can walk on water, spiders that crawl out from under your couch and at the corner of your eye you catch it scampering across the floor as you wonder how long the two of you had been sharing a quiet evening on the couch watching Expendables 2 together.  Too fucking long.

I hate the way spiders move, I hate the way they look.  I hate that they live inside and outside and that all they do is kill flies and some insects.  Well you know what spiders?  Someone new is on the block for that job and they're already much better at it than you.  Black Flag called and they said to pack your bags we're going to kill insects through harmful carcinogens.  Your week long building web thing,  catching two flies, eating one slowly work ethic, just isn't going to cut it anymore. Spiders, you suck at your job, you're slow, ugly to look at and your webs aren't in the same place they were the day before and it freaks me out to walk through them.

Yes, I like to eat crab and they are called the spiders of the sea, sometimes.  Crabs are DELICIOUS.  I can see them, control them, boil them and dip them in delicious BUTTER.  Spiders are sneaky little bastards, they get in through the plumbing, my door cracks, windows and well, other ways I don't want to think about right now, I'd actually like to sleep well tonight.

Spiders can make not only webs, but NESTS.  Just Google Spider Nests.  Yeah.  No sleep tonight either?  Cool, see you on Facebook at 3am.    I'm not going to post any photos of spiders I hate on this blog post because I hate ALL OF THEM.  Just Google images of "spiders" and that's what I mean.


Ok, so I hear the hippies talking.   There's a place for all animals on this planet.

This place for spiders is on the bottom of Mr. Price's shoe.

Why Mr. Price's shoe?  I don't want spider guts on my shoe, I don't want them anywhere near my shoe, I want spider guts spread about the wall as a warning to the rest of them.  I'd like to make a Mexican drug cartel joke here but that shit is getting serious and my spider joke is just a horrible example in bad taste.  But you see where I wanted to go with that.

Did I mention I'm from Australia?  Yeah, grew up with the most deadly snakes and spiders in the world.  Maybe that had something to do with it.  I'm even more of a wuss now knowing what danger I was in growing up in the land Down Under.  

While running and in deep thought I thought about how all children should watch Arachnophobia and THEN watch/read Charlotte's Web.  I took the liberty of realizing a future where all children approached spiders in this new educational format and I re-wrote Charlotte's Web for the kids.  Here  it goes.

This is a cute story about Charlotte.  She's a spider.  So I took off my shoe and I smashed her spider brains in and killed her and sent her to spider hell.  Just because all dogs go to heaven, doesn't mean that spiders go anywhere other than hell.  That's where they come from and where they go back to when they meet my shoe.  The End.  PS.  The pig won first place.  For best organically grain fed BACON.

So how does this tie into running?

I'm back at it again.  So I'm back to deep random thoughts because that's what I do when The Offspring is blaring in my ears as I pound the pavement.  I actually don't see many spiders when I go running.   This could be a good thing for me but maybe I'd run faster if I thought I accidentally ran through a spider's nest?  Nope.  I'd just freak out and 1 mile down the road my heart would explode from my adrenaline attack and the spiders would find me and eat me.  First they'd start with my eyeballs.

Spiders are fucking awful.  Now that I've written this hate blog against them, I expect for all the spiders around my house and property to march together in a massive frightening organized fashion and wake me in my sleep by crawling all over my body and just being creepily disgusting.  I shall be expecting this.  I will be sleeping with MANY shoes under my pillows.  Bring it.

This is my Pizza. My Pizza is amazing.

Yes, yes, the dough from scratch and FRESH ingredients.  I DID go laz-o-mode on the sauce and pre sliced mushrooms, but, if you had tasted my pizza, these minor details would have been sun-blinded by your adoring gaze upon my pizza as your mouth devoured it, one delicious nom after another.

Also, if you think I'm lazy by using pre-made sauce and not slicing my own mushrooms, then piss off anyway.

Here it is.  This is my Pizza.  My Pizza is amazing.  And I'm going to tell you how to make it as well.

If you have spent hours and hours on Pinterest looking at a ton of Pizzas for ideas like I did, save yourself the forehead slap and just go with mine it's so simple stupid.  I can't BELIEVE making pizza and my own dough was this simple.  Forehead slap, again.

Another version of people who'd rather be drinking, than cooking.

Ingredients for the dough:

• 1 packet of yeast (they come in a three pack at my local Kroger for 89cents) - don't stress out about the measurement here.  Literally one of those small three packets.
• 1/2 teaspoon sugar
• 1 teaspoon salt
• 2.5 cups of flour (regular all purpose)
• 2 tablespoons of olive oil
• 1 and 1/2 cups of warm water
• You will need a mix master.  Kitchenaid thing.  Bloody heavy and well worth the $200 + price tag.

So, here I am, Tuesday.  I'm nursing a powerfully painful combination of limited at home tough mudder workout with Mr. Price along with a night filled with the bottom of two wine bottles.  A hangover and a hurt body.  My mind is twitching like Macauly Culkin looks (Seriously, have you seen him lately? Check out a photo of him here and even in photos he looks like he's twitching.  ugh.  Yet another "child star" gone down the child star path.  Twitchy McTwitch.)

I have to think of carbs.  Not just greasy salty carbs, but delicious nom carbs, I must think about them, set a goal towards them and achieve that goal.  I drink 3 liters of water today and I pee once.  My liver and kidneys have staged a mutiny and I must give them a peace offering before they team up with my colon and I can't afford an at-work organ failure-to-comply with neurological rules.  Homemade pizza it is.  Pinterest, here I come.

Looking for a vegetarian pizza as we have a friend who, for some reason, WON'T give in to Mr. Price's relentless tirade of "Just try a steak, you'll love it." onslaughts and insists she STAY vegetarian.  She's nice for putting up with that, so I make vegetarian stuff, which really, is just stuff I like, without the meat part.  So it's a win for the friendship all around.

I decide the vegetarian will consist of fresh sliced tomatoes, red onions a SHIT TON of garlic, fresh spinach and all the mushrooms on planet earth that I can find (pre-sliced of course) with a healthy Roald Dahl BFG fist full of mozzarella.   Whole mushrooms and mess with a cutting board and large knife AND I'm already MAKING MY OWN DOUGH?!!  Ain't nobody got time for that.  (Only regret here is that I didn't use FRESH MOZZ, but it was spastic delicious anyway, forget your food snobbery, so yes, that was pre-sliced too.)

So, even though I am making this pizza, I'd rather be drinking, but I can't because my left kidney will file the paperwork necessary with my intestinal tract to go into renal failure as payback, so I don't drink, but I made delicious food as a substitute/organ peace offering. 

Instructions:

• Start at 5pm and dinner will be ready by 7.  Hang out, play cards against humanity during the down times and watch everyone else enjoy social drinks while you silently barf.
• In your mixer put the warm water and yeast together, stir for a bit then let sit for 10 so the yeast can "activate".  I don't know what that really means so here I'd take a drink, (can't - barf) but instead think about how yeast is actually a bacteria and it's alive, and that starts to freak me out but still, occupies me for a solid ten minutes until I complete the next step.
• Yeast looks weird with the water now, cool.  Assume this is "activated".
• Put in your sugar, and salt and put your mixer on low for a while.  Starts to smell like yummy bread. (that's yeast doofus) and add olive oil and keep mixer on low.  Totally mix it through.
• Add your flour and beat on low/medium until the dough is sticking mainly to your paddle of the mixer and not the mixing bowl.  Like, 3 seconds.  It's quick.
• Spray a big silver bowl with PAM ready for the dough.
• Pull the dough out of the mixer and it's sticky, so coat your hands in flour first, actually, have a bowl of about 1/2 cup flour handy, just for your hands to handle the dough.
• Toss it about a bit, roll it into a ball and dump it in the big silver bowl coated with PAM.  Roll it around in the PAM in the bowl.
• Cover it with a tea towel (Americans call this a hand towel or kitchen towel) and put it in the sun for ONE HOUR.

Play a few rounds of cards against humanity, check on the dough once or twice as the yeast makes it rise and one hour later, punch the middle of it with your fist.  That's pretty fun.  But coat your fist in flour first so it's not sticky.

I took the dough out of the bowl, attempted to roll it around (on wax paper) to make a ball, I cut it in half, placed one half on top of the other, rolled it out and realized I didn't have a pizza pan.  BUT I DID have a Candy Corn teflon pan I bought at Target on Halloween clearance.  So Candy Corn shaped pizza it is.

OK - Pizza Toppings:

• One jar of Simple Truth Organic Tomato and basil PASTA SAUCE.  I used half a jar on the pizza.
• Almost an entire packet of shredded mozz cheese.
• Half a packet of sliced mushrooms (should have used more, but the pizza was SO HUGE already)
• An entire medium sized tomato, sliced then halved.
• Half a medium red onion, sliced.
• Fist full of fresh spinach.
• 5-20 cloves of fresh garlic.  Ok here, I'm being obnoxious. But I love garlic and used like 5 or 6 big cloves.  Roughly chopped.
• Or just whatever the hell you want.  It's homemade.  Nobody is going to call your customer service line and complain about the cheese adhering to the top of the pizza box that it was delivered in.  Go crazy.

Your pizza dough is on the candy corn pan - yes?  Pour out the sauce on the dough, SPREAD IT ON!  Trickle over top the sauce, the garlic.  Add half your mozz cheese, put in the oven at 450 for 10-12 minutes.  Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you to preheat your oven. 

You're going to need to use your oven at 450.  Yeah, do that sooner than here.

10 minutes later, add mushies, onion, tomatoes, spinach and the rest of your cheese.  Continue baking for another 10-12 minutes or until you think it's done.

Slice it up, devour it and thank my mother for birthing you a homemade pizza genius.

Here it is again for you to admire:

League Dad, S.W.A.T. Dad and P90x Dad

You know those people, that show up every day in your life, that you don't know very well, but you are happy to draw massive, likely inaccurate judgements about them as you only peer from afar, never engage in conversation, but since you see them every day you wonder what the hell is their story and what they are about so you just make up one for yourself?

I do.

Another tale from the drop off/pick up line.  Sounds like Car Talk's personal limo driver, the Russian one....  (if you listen to car talk on NPR you will get that.)

So, every morning, when I drop off #1 at the school car pool line, there's these guys, I assume DADs that are hanging out in the cross walk, likely talking about last night's game or I dunno, not talking, cuz guys don't communicate...
 
But there they are. 
Every day. 

I have seen them every day and I draw lots of conclusions about who they are and what they do, based on their physical appearance and the fact that my brain has nothing else more constructive to do with it's time as I sit and wait for just the right moment to creep through the crossing before the banshee crossing guard deems my act insufferable and goes all bat shit crazy on my hood again.  I think she's given me PTCGSD (post traumatic crossing guard stress disorder)  Bitch.

S.W.A.T. Dad, League Dad and P90X Dad.  Here are their stories.  As made up and told, by me.

SO there's S.W.A.T. Dad.  He's always got a silver travel coffe mug, even when it was warmer, he wore a beanie over what I can assume is only a slickly shaved bald head, and has a dark goatee.  He's also about 6'4" and 250 and wears only dark clothing.  The bald head, the beanie, the tough travel mug, he looks like he just got off LPD S.W.A.T. Duty the night before. 

Dallas S.W.A.T.

I really like S.W.A.T. Dad.  He's big, tough looking and would scare any shit head kid as well as be able to stop a rogue school bus with his fist.   He's just come off the graveyard shift, kicking dirt bag ass all night and probably forgot to take off his kevlar vest before he hit the car pool crossing.  He's tired of scumbags but is ready to take them on should any approach his kid's school.   Take that mother-fucker.  He also says things like, when arresting said dirt bags, "How'd you like THEM apples, bitch."  and "How about I punch-a-size your face for FREE?" and "That's not a knife, THIS is a knife." and "Get to the chopper!!!."  Well, I dunno about that last one, but he could have an Austrian accent.


P90X Dad.  Slightly balding, but still a lot of hair, always wearing tightly or slim fitting clothing.  He's NOT buff, he's very trim, but you can tell, also very muscular, and he knows it.  Always the last one to join the group.  He also drives a very SMALL, SHORT and FAST sports car.  For, him, I think that's what she said if you get my drift...  Looks like what a dude at his age would be if they went through P90X, and completed it, and stayed on top of it, and it became his ENTIRE FOCUS.  He looks really into it.  The car, the conscious clothing choices, yeah, he's not beating up low life's like S.W.A.T. dad, he's beating up punching bags, so he can stay fit. 

Yesh, this is pretty accurate of P90X dad, though I don't know who the hell this guy is.

He's already counting down the minutes until when he can go home and complete a re-run of P90X in his basement that went from a man cave to a vain cave over the last 90 days.  He's uploaded FIFTEEN you tube videos of his work outs and his before and after shots and P90X STILL hasn't used one of them for their commercials.  But he still DVR's shows at 3am each day, just to make sure he doesn't miss his footage being picked up.  Just in case.

Then, there's League Dad.  He looks like a guy from The League.  Dead on.  I swear.

He's hanging out with S.W.A.T. Dad, about 500 below sea level compared to him, and is the most animated of them all.  He's likely the only one who is talking, and then talking about his league win or trade and how Shiva is finally going to be his this season.  S.W.A.T. Dad and P90X dad always seem unamused, but yet entertain his lively talks. 

League Dad is business dressed everyday, ready to continue his league talks in the cubicles surrouding his little cube at work.  He's all jazzed up, had his coffee, got his "man talk on with his dudes" that morning at the car pool line and is ready to hit the paperwork, hard, man, totally hard dude, paperwork sucks, man.  "These TPS reports are so inefficient."  He asks S.W.A.T. Dad and P90X dad if they ever want to grab a "java" outside of school drop off line, S.W.A.T. Dad asks what the "fucking hell is java?" and P90X dad, says, "No, I've got to re-do day 35 of day 90 because my lunge-squat-press ups weren't up to par on my glueteus maximus this morning."

That doesn't deter League dad, he's just as eager to continue talking to his peeps about whatever they are going to cut him off mid sentence about.


Ok, so none of this is actually really harsh judgement, what I do want to mention is how I really appreciate that there are dads that take the time out of their morning that can, to supervise my tiny #1 kindergarten baby bear as he gets from my car and walks 1/4 mile to his school.  They stand there and make me feel a little better about letting my little one go every morning.  SO I really appreciate them.  Even if P90X dad thinks he's the coolest.

Cooking for People who'd rather be DRINKING.

So I can cook now.  All it took was a $20 Williams Sonoma Apron, a sudden emphatic bi-polar type mood upswing and the energy to go shopping at the grocery store with two kids and promise myself "cook dinner or BUST", and I cooked dinner.  And it was edible.  AND it was delicious.  AND I am going to do it again. AND it wasn't just spaghetti.

Always wait 24 hours before saying cooking was a success, I say.  That's how long it can potentially take for salmonella or other bad cooking to show up on/in your guests.  (=The level of faith I have in my cooking, yes.)  But today, today I feast on the glorys of a meal well done, well prepared, well cooked, and totally gone. 

Today, I am cooking GODDESS.

Today, I am running on a delicious hand made meal post-high.  Did I mention this meal was hand-made?  BY ME? 

Oh yeah.
What?
OK. 
YE-AH!
(Yes, Dave Chappelle Rick James reference).

I'm going to start a label in my blog called "Cooking for People who'd rather be DRINKING."  This section of the blog will include my kitchen experiments that end in disaster or perfection, that always includes a bottle of alcohol, and the fact that I would, absolutely, most surely, rather be drinking, than slaving over a hot stove/watching water boil - but I'm going to do it anyway.  I'm going to be cooking, though I'd rather just be drinking.

I'm going to be a the woman who has it all dammit, clean, well-behaved children, hopelessly romantic husband, old dog that doesn't pee on the floor - yes, I'm going to have it ALL! 
I am going to:  COOK DINNER OR BUST.  Most nights, or just when I can, or just when I have one of those bi-polar type mood upswings again. 

I can't promise that this area won't include dinner that involves garlic pretzels and Nutella.  Head's up on that one.  I also don't promise that my five year old and 18 month old will love these meals, they are EDIBLE and tasty, but I'm not a short order cook, so the children have to suffer through eating adult meals and can pull as many faces as they'd like while doing it.

You can expect photos of REAL food, none of that "Barbara Walters" filter that makes food look totally appetizing and unachiev-able.  Real, creative displays of presentation, even if it SUCKS and actual techniques that include following a recipe, drinking, forgetting a step, trying to undo what you've done by adding too much garlic powder, drinking more and total exhasperation/and/or/success bliss.

Most importantly it will be fully representative of my minor skillset with cooking and food that you can replicate if it's deemed edible.  Ingredients, shit you'll need that might be in your house and has cobwebs on it and, hilarity.  I promise food, sarcasm and hilarity, afterall, it's only funny until someone get's hurt, then, it's HILARIOUS.

So if you need to cook dinner, but you'd rather be drinking, this might be the area of my blog that's just ice ice baby for you.

Up First:  Chipotle Cilantro Shrimp over a bed of Avocado and Lime Orzo.  Or as the lady who'd rather be drinking than cooking shall call it: Avocado Orzo and Grilled Shrimp.  I'll have to start a whole new post for this one, you've already skipped to the end here expecting a recipe.  So just come back next time you jerk, and take the time to scroll up and read my sarcastic self depricating cooking references above.

Merry Christmas Ya Filthy Animal.

Frustrating a Five year old with Fiction Inaccuracies

Ahhhhh, one of the many perks of parenting.

I mean, there has to be some.  Sleepless nights, constant worry, bumped heads with eagle like attention for unusual behavior patterns indicating worrysome mental activity....  So there are some evening out points - right?  Yup.

My five year old, Number One, was desperately explaining the complicated storyline TWIST as Lauren, Jayden's older sister (the red power ranger, his older sister inexplicaly appears mid season) appears and begins to lead the other power rangers to never ending tease of vistory, that never actually presents itself at the end of ANY episode, at the sudden and shocking exit of Jayden, the red power ranger.

Here's how the conversation between the all knowledgeable five year old who is the living encyclopeadia of Power Ranger expertise and his unassuming, gullible, purposely ignorant parents, engage in a conversation about the exodus of Jayden (the red power ranger and previous leader of the power ranger saumrai team) and his sudden entrance and replacement by his older sister, Lauren (who assumes the role of the new red power ranger and the new leader) rocks his and the Samurai Power Ranger's world.

Joseph: "Jayden left because he didn't have the sealing power."
Us: "He hit the ceiling?  That sucks, I bet his head hurt a lot."
Joseph: "NOOO, he didn't have the SEALING power so he left and Lauren took over."
Me: "Ooooh, there's a lot of glass ceilings in the corporate world, I'm happy to see that Lauren broke through one of them and is now the leader as a female, of the power rangers, although I bet her pay wasn't as much as her younger brother's, because she is a girl."
Joseph:  "NOOOOOOO, Lauren has sealing power, but Jayden doesn't so now he is gone away."
Us: "For how long?"
Joseph:  "I dunno, he's just gone and now Lauren is here."
Paul: "Because she has sealant power?  Like, she can fix all the leaks within the power ranger crew or because she can be handy around the house?"
Joseph: "NOOOOOOOOO, seriously guys, Lauren is taking over, Jayden doesn't have SEALING power, and the other rangers are like, whatever, ok with it, I guess."
Me: "So now that Lauren broke through the glass ceiling, is she going to pursue equal pay and benefits along with acceptable maternity leave with her new leadership role?"
Joseph: "Wha?  "  Think raised eyebrows and big WTF Face...
Paul: "So, with the sealing that Lauren can do as the red power ranger, does she think she can just take over and walk into her role without any prior training and expertise?  I mean, the other rangers are going to take a while to accept her as their new leader and require some re-training."
Joseph: "Guys, I'm serious, I dunno, Jayden's gone and Lauren is the new red ranger."

Here's where we continue the conversation well beyond my five year olds tolderance level for ignorant adults who perpetually fill his life with beyond-acceptable-levels of annoyance on a daily basis.

We chuckle, pour more red wine and Number One, crosses his arms, rolls his eyes, stomps his foot and declares "You guys don't know anything, I'm getting out of here."

We agree at this preposterous display of ignorance and adult level nonsense, enjoy dinner as our Five Year old expands his infinite availble brain space, not with Stephen Hawkins approved data, but with more, Power Rangers Samurai.

We drink more red wine.

FIN.

Drinking in the shower.

Yeah, I just did that.  I just George Castanza-ed my evening, to the max.  I just You tube-esqued my evening into the most awesome Mash Up ever known.  Better than my most favorite mash up ever known to man.

I enjoyed 1/4 of a bottle of red wine whilst simultaneously enjoying a piping hot shower.

Yes I did.

And it was magical.

How have I not ever thought of this before?  Going along with the premise that there are no more new ideas, like there are no more new movie ideas, I mean, why the hell would be be seeing a Judge Dredd remake already or a freaking Spiderman re-do for the fifth time in 3 years?  Surely someone else, just as brilliant, dare I say, just a tad more brilliant than me, has already thought of this.

I then ponder that there are day spas that offer the very service that I am talking about.  Drinking during your spa day, but are you enjoying your adult beverage, whilst receiving that massage?  Are you taking sips while in the fountain of youth?

I am.

I just ADDED seven years to my life, (which pretty much evens out if you divide by the many times I've had to hold in a fart, carry the three and try to act like a lady) by reveling in the experience of drinking, and showering in hot steam and massaging water sprays.

This sounds like a dirty movie. Oh, and it is, if your fantasy is just like mine.  Solo piping hot shower, 20 minutes, large glass of red wine, thoughts and music to yourself.

I combined my two (well, pretty much) favorite things in this world.  A piping hot shower, and drinking.  George Castanza would be proud.  Quite possibly not to the level such as eating and enjoying sexual escapades, but definitely, a lot less messier and just as exhilarating.  My activity is actually a lot more practical than eating and sex.  If I were to truly enjoy eating and sex, I'm not sure how viable a chocolate fondue set on our tempurpedic would fare.  I'm not sure how the dipping would succeed in that scenario.  That's what she said.

The moral of the story is this.  If you haven't tried drinking in the shower, I suggest you do.  It's just as efficient as brushing your teeth in the shower, and much more satisfying, the Today Show would know nothing about this.  Live your life like a real person, I'm not saying you need to actually wash yourself, that's what mornings are for, but come home, on a cold evening, start up a piping hot shower, crack open that bottle of wine, pour, and enjoy.

You're welcome.

Tales from the School Drop Off Line

Part I.

Let's start with my very first crossing guard experience, BEFORE I had children.  Stop sign was out, I was coming up to the guard at 25 MPH, consciously reducing my speed as I am approaching the line, which is still at least 10 feet away from the guard.  Apparently I wasn't stopped farther back enough, or I didn't slow down enough, or quick enough and that, my friends, brought on my first, and not last, experience with the..


WRATH OF THE CROSSING GUARD.


<**insert extra space here for emphasis*>

I thought she was going to jump my hood and punch my face through my windshield.   Wayne Brady was going to choke a bitch, and that bitch, was me.

No shit, she was THAT mad.  If you live in the U.S., you know what Willis is talkin' 'bout here.

Not only did she make me feel like a complete arse for, apparently, doing absolutely everything wrong that a person could possibly do while, carefully, approaching a school crossing.  BUT, I was ALSO publicly humiliated as this episode was witnessed by clusters of elementary school children, their parents and other motorists on this road.


Don't be fooled by this nice looking granny guard, they will ALL, kick your ass, if they have to.
Courtesy Asylum.com

Apparently I should have ESP'd my way down to that crossing, two blocks before even being there and radioed in to her that I was aware of her sign and that I would be sure to stop, many blocks away.  I should have stopped my car at the end of the street, got out and walked a slow casual walk up to the stop sign, whilst holding out my hands in the submissive pose, fingers stretch out into face down palms while my knees crouch as I walk, getting ready to approach, still 20 feet away, sniff and immediately roll on my back and ask for a belly rub.

Let's remember that I'm a foreigner, so let's also remember that when I SAW, in person, on the street, my street, my first yellow school bus at the ripe age of TWENTY, and NOT on Sesame Street, I "eep-ep" like a little girl, like, excited to see a real Planet Hollywood in real life and the REAL Wax figure of Bruce Willis, not the Australian exported knock off version.

EEP it's a real Wax figure of Bruce Willis, in a real Planet Hollywood and a real school bus in real life!  Eep again!

I know nothing of your practices and culture, only what I have gathered from watching re-runs of "I Love the 80s and 90s" on VH1.

Soooo, I was not aware that you had to stop for school busses. 

Things they DON'T teach you when applying for an American Driver's License. 

I knew you had to stop behind them, but not on the other side of the road.  I still feel bad for that, but not because anyone was in danger, but because I now know better and I'm sure that bus driver would have gone ALL CROSSING GUARD APE SHIT MAD AT ME, if he wasn't restrained by a seat belt.  I now know what could have happened with the bus driver, because crossing guards ARE NOT restrained by seat belts, and possibly should be.  Just sayin'.

SO anyway, let's do the obligatory, blah blah, crossing guards are looking out for our kids, which they are, which I appreciate, blah blah, just doing their job, blah blah.  Ok - are you done?  Thanks.  I want to get back to my story now.

I felt like shit all day long after that.  Talk about a total buzz kill for the rest of your day, and if you're like me where shit just eats you up no matter how many vodka tonics you have, you're still upset, but now upset and perpetually hung over for a week, at least, and probably out of vodka. 

Out of vodka.  Upset.  Embarrassed.  Possibly hungover.

That one crossing guard, who quantum leaped her way onto the set of "Are you my baby's daddy?" 10th episode of Maury, and paraded her best over-the-top Jerry Springer fake fist fight advances all in front of me, in front of other people, distressed me.  I also got a lesson in other culture language, words I'm still not yet sure about, not sure if they were swear words or just heated words, but, another language words, I knew that. 

Yup, throw on a safety jacket and she was gonna MAKE me her baby daddy. <**shudder**>

I was embarrassed and upset. 
I'd done nothing wrong. 

I wasn't going to mow down those kids - I hardly knew them.  I mean, I'm sure one or three of them are total shit heads, but that's no reason for me to iron out the whole group on a street crossing.  That's not my bag, baby.

Now I see a crossing guard, two of them, every Monday to Friday morning.  Some of the first human (aside from my five year old) interaction I get, before I get to work, before I've caught up of what everyone else did starting at 9pm the night before, that I am now aware of thanks to Facebook, while I sit in my yoga pants yawning, eating my fourth nutella sandwich, not regretting the choices I've made to sit in a warm house with kids and a husband and not going out starting at 9pm and dragging my arse the next day.

I had an even worse wrath of the crossing guard experience, recently, dropping my kid off to school, because now, I have to see her, see them, every day, post trauma.  Every Morning......   Part DEUX, up next.  Stay tuned to "Tales from the School Drop Off Line - WRATH OF THE CROSSING GUARD."  Ahem.


In one final editor's note, why is it that if you google "Crazy crossing guard" or "crossing going going ape shit mad" or "angry crossing guard" Images of Sean Penn show up and images with him and Josh Brolin together?  That's fuckin' weird.

What's wrong with this image?

So much. 

So many, much things.

It's bothered me so much, that it's gotten me off my blogging hiatus, to rant about it, here.

Image introduction:

Courtesy, Verabradley.com

Ok, so firstly you are all like "What the hell is she doing on VeraBradley.com, and spending enough time to disect ridiculous stock images?".  You are spot on.  I've had a Vera Bradley (so not like me) addiction lately and have been monitoring sales so I can get their ridiculous old lady quilted bags at a better price, so, when I finally give up the goat and live like I complain, as an old lady, my look will be complete with a VB "go-around-tote".

2. Ridiculous woven tote for apple hauling, bad for your back, who hauls apples this way?

3. Too many apples in this ridiculous tote.  Making apple pies for the homeless, sweetheart?

4. Too many smiles, hauling ridiculous load of apples, in said, ridiculous tote.

5. Crossbody bag, on the WRONG side of your body, to be hauling ridiculous amount of apples, in ridiculous tote, totally would get in the way of your strong arm side carrying ridiculous tote with ridiculous amount of apples.

6. Ridiculous amount of apples from.....their backyard?!?  What apple oprchard has a perfectly sculpted walkway as you bring your riduclous amount of apples to your car?

7. Bringing apples to your car in this ridiculous tote, can only mean one thing.  Applesauce on your way home.  These are going to be projectiles in your car, if you drive like me, or drive faster than Miss Daisy for that matter. 

8. Matching red his and hers gingham button down shirts.  What?  Did you guys, like, walk into your matching closets and pull from the "happily married matching - matchy" section of your ridiculous ensembles?

9. Dude smiling hauling apples, this does NOT happen.  If this was a ridiculous tote filled with cans of BEER, this would be accurate.  This photo is in kin with elfin land, fairies and wishes like, more seasons of Firefly, that do no come true.

And there you have it, that's what really grinds my gears about this picture.  
That's what's wrong, in perfect, sarcastic, accurate detail, with this image.  
Also, I just "space jumped" the number of times "ridiculous" has been used in a blog post.  And I just made up a new way to reference the epic Baumgartner space jump, in a way that only partially makes sense.

The Mutt named Rabit, two patties short of a Big Mac.

That's not a typo, that's his name.  We named Rabit after we had previously called him "Bailey" and decided that name was, well, to be completely honest (and you know I know nothing otherwise) too "smart" for him.  He was, one wiener, short of a hot dog, and the entire box of french fries, short of a meal.  He had two brain cells and they weren't ever arguing, they were just too distracted to get organized.  If you've ever seen UP, think "SQUIRREL".  All.  The.  Time.  That was our Rabby.

Adopted from the Woodford Humane Society, before children, before the second cat and definitely AFTER the lizard (if you didn't know, Suzy, Leopard Gecko - she's dead too, though), Vaughn, as the shelter dubbed him, was a beagle blue-tick mix and at least, already, 9 months old.  His "creative" description from the shelter was misleading at the best, but I'd consider it downright false advertising.  He was going to be a total shit from the get go, regardless of positive or negative reinforcement. 

His tag should have read:
"Adopt Vaughn today and be amazed at the everyday household items he will consume before your very eyes and crap them out, without a shred of intestinal damage.  The first dog with NINE lives, a stomach of steel and a colon like the north-south pipeline.  He will love you like he loves whatever he just ate, with total unabashed blindness and will dive right in to be your forever pet like he will do on a daily basis to any unprotected trash can or litter box and lap up every "kitty treat" and baby diaper, as well as your love.  He will protect your house from all threatening intruders, especially if they look like 9 year old girls, and, even though you will try to remove this dog stereotype with much haste, he will continue to be prejudiced towards black people and also, anyone on a motorcycle.  Take Vaughn home today, you won't need the puppy food, he'll eat, whatever you've got!  Enjoy the ride.  No take-sies - back-sies."

I mistakenly thought our current dog, Dingo, needed a day time pal for when Mr. Price and I were earning enough money during the day to spend on carpet cleaning and destroyed packages for light bulbs and toilet paper.  I told Mr. Price that I had gone to the shelter and brought home this dog on a "trial", a total lie.  He was bought and paid for and, the forgiving Mr. Price, pretended to buy my false statement.  Rabit, was here to stay.

One day, we dealt with him nearly killing himself to get out of his cage, blood on the walls, lacerations, mud marks, clawed dry wall, and you wouldn't have known it to see his smiling, dumb, absent look, tongue hanging out of mouth-to the side, happy face.  Tito (our cat) was FURIOUS, Dingo was unsure as to why he needed an impossibly incompetent playmate and Mr. Price always accused me of why MY dog, that I picked out, was SUCH TROUBLE, ALL THE TIME.  Ahh Rabit.  I smile when I think of this.

He lived through eating everything and lived through peeing on our stereo and destroying multiple carpets, bed linens and everything in between.  He was shitting SHARDS of broken light bulbs when he ate an entire pack of light bulbs one day, and lived through it.  We wouldn't have known that he ate an ENTIRE RACK of RIBS, bone and all, except for the barbeque breath and the mystery aluminum foil appearing in the Rabit yard piles.

He did weird shit, like, eyeball a fly with ninja-like stealth and strike when the moment was right, eating said fly.  We never needed fly spray.  He would freak out our guests when he'd lock eyes for a stare down, he'd always win and would still be staring, hours later.  He'd turn too fast, in a doorway and whack his noggin on the arch, but think nothing of it and would always find the strangest way to sit, on top of Dingo and act like it was comfortable.  How Rabit got to be the Alpha dog, we will never know, that award wasn't given to the sharpest tool in the shed, unless it came from a cornflakes box.  He would clean Dingo's ears though, and they'd lie curled up together on the ottoman for hours.  A forever puppy with an attitude like an absent minded old fart.

Rabit's large floppy auburn beagle ears flopped in the air like the flying nun, whenever he ran.   He always jumped before he looked, and ran twenty feet ahead of his brain.  He let our babies jump on him, pull his ears and drag him around by his tail (before we caught them), he put up with my bad attitude when work pissed me off and tolerated, with his dumb fun loving smile, the addition of the children that overshadowed both our dogs existence.  He was a sweet, sweet dog, with always, nothing to lose.

Rabit was and will always be our fun loving family friend who will be missed.  He always ran out when the  door was open if we weren't quick enough to stop him and yesterday, he was hit by a car.  Thanks, Rabit  for being around and being our friend, have fun eating endless racks of ribs and all the light bulbs you want, without regret or repercussion.

Bye Bye Malibu Rum.... Hello White Russians

Fall is here.  It happened about 4 days ago, I distinctly remember getting up, headlights on and my hands instantly frozen solid.  It's cold outside, colder than my cold, cruel heart.  I also sent my son to school sans jacket and got dirty looks from, well, basically all the adults.  Even a few of the kids were like, "Joseph looks cold.."  Shut up.  He had breakfast that morning and I even sent him to school with matching shoes and socks on, I'm almost there.

It's the bitter end to tiny umbrellas and my favorite stolen titled Summer drink the "skinny-girl Pina Colada."  For those of you who don't remember, it's pineapple juice and Malibu coconut rum.  Best served at a 1:3 ratio and at least one tiny umbrella plus one straw.

What's a girl gonna do if your only fall option right now is light beer?  The White Russian.  It's getting bleak and cold and when in Russia, do as the Russians do, drink vodka.  "In Soviet Russia, vodka drinks YOU..."  Don't get this Russian Reversal joke?  Click here.

The Dude.

Vodka, Kahlua, plus milk.  You get at least 2% of your daily calcium allowance and also remind your liver what waking up is like.

Ohh no.. still cold?  Take some Goldschlager shots.  You'll warm right up.   

Chillaxin' with a White Russian, Dude Style.