*Wink, wink*

I’ve started winking. I’m not sure why, or exactly how it started, but I’m blaming Selena Gomez.

It’s probably not her fault entirely, but I was singing one of her songs the first time I caught myself doing it, so she’s getting the blame. 

It seems to be subconscious, I don’t purposefully wink. Hopefully if I’m caught doing it people will just think I have Tourette’s or that I’m in the middle of a stroke, not that I’m some creepy weirdo that goes around winking at people. 

I assume that’s what will happen though…

“You’ll never believe the creeper I saw at Target today! She winked at me.”

Either that or I’ll be drawn into some sort of espionage. I won’t know the code after the wink though, so I’ll have to be discretely “taken care of.” I can’t imagine I’d make a good spy. I’d need a Morocco Mole to my Secret Squirrel.

I should figure out how to stop…

I mean I could, but why would I want to. 

Don’t drink and get tattooed…

There are so many reasons as to why you shouldn’t get a tattoo while under the influence. There are probably hundreds of horror stories from other people on the internet about the terrible things they had happen to them, or requested, and of course regretted. Goodness knows how many Buzzfeed and other lists of terrible tattoo photos there are. Do we really need to hear about more? Probably not, but here is my story anyway!

First, let me preface, I do not have any tattoos (relax mom.) This story is about why you shouldn’t tell someone what you want tattooed on you when you’re drunk!

Scene: Bear and I are at a wedding reception in 2011. Despite being at the furthest distance available from the DJ, the music was still so loud we had to yell to the person next to us to be heard. (It was super obnoxious.) Bear and his friend Rich were both fairly inebriated, and Bear tends to stumble on his words a bit when he’s drinking. Having to yell didn’t help.

Bear had just gotten his first tattoos: our twins’ footprints, names, and the date of their birth on his back. He was talking about his tattoos to Rich, was telling him that he’d eventually like to get full sleeves, that he’d never get a woman’s name on him regardless of how long he’d been with her, and what he was planning on getting next.

I still wasn’t sold on the idea of the tattoos, so what I heard him say he wanted next really threw me for a loop…

Rich: SO WHAT DO YOU WANT TO GET NEXT?
Bear: PRAYING MANTIS WITH A COWBOY HAT, FOR MY GRANDPARENTS.*
Me (horrified): WHAT?!?!
Bear: A PAIR OF PRAYING HANDS WITH A ROSARY AND A COWBOY HAT, FOR MY GRANDPARENTS.
Me (relieved beyond belief): OH! HAHAHAHAHA, THAT MAKES WAY MORE SENSE!
Bear: WHAT DID YOU THINK I SAID?
Me: A PRAYING MANTIS WITH A COWBOY HAT.
*Everyone that can hear laughs uncomfortably while looking at me, judging me as a lunatic, I’m certain.*
Bear: WHAT? THAT DOESN’T EVEN MAKE ANY SENSE! WHO WOULD EVEN THINK OF THAT? WHY WOULD I GET THAT FOR MY GRANDPARENTS???
Me: I DON’T KNOW! THAT’S WHY I WAS SO CONFUSED!

Who would even think of that? No one. My weird brain. If Bear had misspoke that to an unethical tattoo artist, he could have ended up with a very terrible tattoo! He could have been on an internet list or a Milkyway commercial…

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We have laughed about it for years.

I’ve been thinking about Father’s Day approaching, and thought he’d be happy with a tattoo as a gift. Bear still hasn’t gotten his praying hands, and is still adamant that he would never get my name tattooed on him anywhere. I’m good with that, even telling him that I didn’t want him to get a wedding band tattoo either. But I did decide that if he wants to get full sleeves he should have to get something to represent me, even if it was something that only we would understand. He agreed, and told me that I could pick the start of his sleeve, he was even willing to get it before he got the praying hands.

Naturally, there could be only one choice…

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Toilet Seats and Excitement

What on earth is going on with that title??? Let’s find out!

As you become an adult you find yourself getting excited over things that would not excite you as a younger person. New pots and pans make you want to audition for the next Food Network Star. A new pair of pruners and suddenly every branch within reach is in danger of being “evened out.” When you purchase a new vacuum you declare it to be the suckiest vacuum in all of existence and you keep your floors spotless for a week straight.

You realize your younger self would have mocked old-person you. “So this is what my life has come to…” you’ll utter more than once, “being excited over *insert mundane item here.* Clearly my life has hit a new low.” Then that feeling of euphoria returns and you exclaim,  “But look how much this new box fan blows! Woo!”

Which brings me back to our title…

When you live with a man, there are going to be some toilet misses, but you hope that he’s not such a disgusting pig beast that he’ll clean up after himself. When you give birth to a boy, it is your job to teach him not to be an aimless pig beast, and to wipe up after himself if he misses. When that boy is six years old, he will not do a good job. When he doesn’t do a good job his urine eats through the brushed nickel finish on the fixtures where the toilet seat attaches to the toilet. It also eats through the enamel coating on the underside of the seat. And we all know how much fun and easy it is to clean under the back of the toilet seat where it attaches…

I really loved my enamel coated seat with brushed nickel fixtures that matched the rest of the fixtures in the bathroom. It was beautiful, as far as toilet seats go, but due to repeated morning mishaps on my son’s part, it looked like hell, and my fingers hurt from trying to clean under the damned thing.

I was in Home Depot looking for a plastic replacement, figuring they must have one that will resist staining to make up for me not getting to have that brushed nickel until he moves out. They had one better. It’s a miracle of modern engineering. Why?

It has nothing to do with the fact that it resists staining. It has nothing to do with the fact that it slow closes to prevent him from slamming it. This mother fucker pops off for easy cleaning.

“Whaaaaat???” you say! It. Pops. Off. Look at it! LOOK!!!

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My actual hand with my actual toilet and actual magical toilet seat!

Oh. Em. Gee. That’s right ladies and gents. This glorious toilet seat right here made my day. You just pop up the clips and lift off the seat. No more wedging your cleaning cloth under there, or using Q-tips, or whatever you did before. This is a game changer in the toilet seat industry! And if you tell me you already new this existed, then get out. You’re an asshole for not telling me about it, and I don’t want you here.

I just installed it this afternoon, but I’m already declaring it worth the $40 dollars. The frustration it will save me is worth every single penny.

That’s right, I got excited over a toilet seat. Clearly my life has hit a new low.

But adulting is hard, and this toilet seat pops off for me to clean and make my life that much easier! Woo!

Midnight Snacks

Peanut was scolding me. She’s getting to be an old lady now (she turned twelve in September) and she wanted to go in to bed. Bear is already in sleeping, but the dogs don’t like to go in with him, they wait for me, and apparently I am up too late tonight. She walked down the hallway and waited, but when I didn’t follow her she started woofing. Not a loud bark, just annoyed little woofs to get my attention.

As soon as I stood the other three dogs scrambled to stay with me. I opened our bedroom door and in they filed to their respective beds, Pixie at the foot of mine. Bear had left the tv on, so I decided I’d find a movie to fall asleep to, but first I needed something sweet!

While I walked to the kitchen I lamented the fact that I’d bought candy for everyone but myself for Christmas, and no one had bought any for me. “When did I give up my secret candy stash?” I wondered… Probably when I realized I have zero self-control.

I opened the cupboards hoping to find chocolate, willing there to be cookies, but to no avail. Just when I’d resigned myself to popcorn I spotted the Frito’s. Seeing them reminded me that we had Mong’s French Onion Dip’n Chip from our trip back to western PA!

If you haven’t had this, I’m sorry for you, because it’s the best ever. Ever!

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I assume it says "Party Size" because there's going to be a party in your mouth, not because they expect you to share it with other people.

Anywho, I just can’t figure out why I’m not losing weight. (Kidding.) Maybe I should consider some lifestyle changes for the new year…

Update: I still want chocolate. Going to bed filled with disappointment and regret… and the most delicious of chip dips.

It’s all the same to me…

Remember how my brain goes on tangents? It’s good times, or weird… whatever.

The other day I heard a Linkin Park song on the radio and was trying to remember if it was the one used in the Michael Bay Transformer movies (They may have used more than one Linkin Park song for the movies, I don’t know.) Then I imagined a scenario of Michael Bay pitching ideas to his assistant.

Michael Bay: So we’re going to open it up, give a little background story, then some ‘splosions!

Assistant: Are you sure? I’m not sure that…

Michael Bay: Of course I’m sure, and throw in a Linkin Park song!

Assistant: Well, I don’t, uh, which one sir?

Michael Bay: The one with the synthesized beat with singing, then he does the spoken rap/poetry thing, then there’s some angry guitar as he screams.

Assistant:  Uh…

Michael Bay: Then more ‘splosions!

Assistant: Sir, we’re doing My Little Pony*, do you really think there should be that many explosions?

Michael Bay: Of course! People love it when I blow shit up!

*I don’t know that Michael Bay is rebooting the My Little Pony franchise, but I wouldn’t put it past him. This is what it will look like: Whoa. Only with people playing the ponies, like the “bronies.” (Google that for nightmare fuel. You’re welcome.)

I’m sorry I’m not sorry to anyone offended by anything I’ve written. It’s all true, and if it makes you uncomfortable, maybe it’s time to start judging yourself more harshly. (I don’t really mean that, not entirely. You do you, just find happiness, unless it hurts someone else, then stop it. Dick.)

 

His Lordship.

From the first time I saw him I was struck by how beautiful he was, this tiny ginger kitten. Oh, how he hated me though, hissing and spitting at me the first couple days after I trapped them from behind a local pet store. Even as his brothers became more comfortable with me handling them, he would try to avoid me.

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Once he discovered I held the bottle though, it was a different story. He was frantic to see me, crawling all over me when I had the litter out for playtime, snuggling and purring on my lap when he was tired. My kids helped me name the kittens and he was saddled with Lord Broccoli.

Once all the kittens were weaned and healthy I made up flyers to find them homes. I decided to not include his picture, we didn’t need to keep another cat, but I was so in love with him. His brothers were adopted into loving homes, but he and the singleton kitten I had found near them never left.

I thought I should change his name, Lord Broccoli was fine when I thought I’d adopt him out and it’d be changed, but it was silly, even by my standards. My friends and especially my brother were vehemently against a name change, and through them I made his name even more ludicrous: Lord Broccoli Brockington III, Esq. of Finland. (I don’t know why Finland, that’s just what my brother decided!)

As Broccoli grew my brother sent me a video of a cat doing agility and tricks and told me to “get on this.” So Broccoli, who always begged for treats when I prepared them for dog training started his journey with clicker training.

View some of his tricks here.

He learned to come when called, sit, sit up pretty, touch a target, do jumps, and play dead. He was such a smart kitty and so eager to offer behaviors.

When he wasn’t on my lap snuggling he was doing obnoxious things to get my attention. He and my first bottle fed kitty, Cheese, were constantly trying to get prime lap space, even lying on top of one another. Brockies let me tease him, and rub his tummy, he didn’t care, as long as he had my attention.

Last night we found Broccoli had passed away unexpectedly. My heart is empty, utter devastation. I’ve cried hysterically, my eyes are beyond swollen from it and I feel hungover. He was just 2 years old in July, he was seemingly healthy, I just can’t understand what happened. I’m feeling guilty for every time I pushed him off my lap, for not cuddling every time he wanted, for not noticing that something must have been wrong.

I’ve asked my vet to examine him so that maybe I can get some answers as to what happened. I know he was probably a genetic nightmare from inbreeding in the cat colony, but I just can’t wrap my head around such a young cat dying like this.

He was my baby, he’d just learned to give a high-five, and I’m going to miss his angora-soft fur, the way he smashed his head into me, the way he rolled over on his back and grabbed my hand, the way he meowed at me. He was so gorgeous and loving, and I’m so lost without him.

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Technologically Challenged

I’m terrible at computers, phones, etc. I barely muddle through, it’s awful. My brother got all the computer smarts as far as that goes. I figured out Facebook to some degree after everyone jumped ship from Myspace. (I still wish I could get my blogs back from Myspace, they were technically my baby books for my children. Le sigh, I am a terrible mother.)

Then everyone is all, “Go to the Twitter! It’s exciting and new, and you can only post a limited amount of information!” I resisted. I thought, “Forget that noise, it’s going the way of the 8-track!” But much to my dismay, it is still here and very popular. Also, I’m addicted to hashtags. I would use them in everyday conversation if I didn’t think people would punch me in the face for it (as they should!) So I’m giving it a go outside of my business.

I created a Twitter thinking it would help me either gain followers for my non-existent career as a writer, or prove to my friends and family that I am not that funny if you don’t know and care for me and crush their dreams of me ever becoming a published author. I thought that I could just post the majority of the random crap that pops into my head there and link it to Facebook so I didn’t have to post it there as well (I managed to do it for my business pages, so I know it CAN be done), but do you know how long it took me to re-figure it out? Of course not, because I haven’t told you yet. It took me 10 minutes. And I couldn’t do it, because my business page is already linked to that Facebook account, even though it only posts to my business page. I don’t want to un-link my business page like it told me to because it’s more important at this juncture in my life. I’ll just have to “share” my tweets from my new account if I deem them funny enough to share with my friends and family.

Thank God we all have low standards.

What the fudge is a widget? I don’t know; I don’t know what they are, I don’t know how to use them, and I’m hoping it’s not that important. You could explain it to me and I probably still wouldn’t know. (But I would appreciate your efforts. It seems there is context to what they are when I Googled. I wasn’t concerned enough to investigate further, I assume I’ll be alright having survived this long without understanding…)

Goodness only knows the features that I don’t know how to use here on WordPress; there are a lot of them! I think I’m using tags properly? I may not be, but since I started using them I seem to get more hits, so unless someone tells me otherwise, I’m going to keep using them like I am. Should I be categorizing my blogs? I have no idea how to even categorize the garbage my brain spews out. Before the internet this would have ended up in a journal I burned to save my children from the embarrassment of realizing their mother was more insane than previously thought. I’ll leave that one alone for now.

They should teach more computer-y things in school, not just typing. I don’t remember anything from how to draw with Wordpad or Microsoft works or whatever that was. Dumb and useless is what it seems now. Maybe they did try to teach me html stuff and I just didn’t get it… Crap.

I’m going to be one of those crazy old people taking classes on how to internet at the community college.