Good night and have a pleasant tomorrow.

As much as I have to say about the Dimaggio family's Christmas debacle, my New Year's Eve with Kelly, and whatever other crap I need to update you all on (and believe me, there's an assload and a half to talk about), I first have to complain about my property in South Carolina again. More specifically, I need to complain about my former neighbor and the lack of what's wrong with my property.

Remember the crazy, sexist neighbor that wanted to wear Dom's uniform and always asked why I was out of the house or doing yardwork? Now remember the flooded front yard that had to be dug up for the burst pipe that was going to cost oodles of money? Now ask yourself, How could those things be related?...or even...How can Cassidy get any more pissed off about this whole situation? The answer is: he drained his Blogdamn pool into my yard and didn't tell the plumber until after he watched them dig up the whole yard. They're sending crazy neighbor the bill.

Alright, there really is a lot to fill you lovely readers in on--so let me just speed update you. I'll just skip all the nonessential, still funny details.

Christmas with the DiMaggio's went as follows:

--J.P. and Nattie were nice as usual and we met my father-in-law's girlfriend (who smells like old lady perfume)
--Retreated to Memphis to play Hero Quest with Liz, Michael busted his lip on her coffee table, I get into a dogfight trying to help separate her dog and her foster dog, my pinky skin gets grazed and Liz's hand looks like she has a skin-eating rash, we declare her home "Liz's House of Pain."
--Retreated to Tupelo to spend some time with Rosie and Bil, have Xmas via webcam with J.P., Nattie, John, and his girlfriend, my father-in-law drinks half a bottle of champagne and tells the dinner table he's too sexy for his pants, I drink the other half and tell the family that I'm too drunk for answering questions.

New Year's Eve, anyone? Again, I drank too much champagne and ended up drunk dialing Geraldine from Kelly's phone. Now that the holiday's are over, I'll seem much less alcoholic. Promise.

And now for the sum up of the 5 whole days of 2009!

Marshall got back in contact with me. Got a myspace message and a text asking how I'm doing. Then I got a facebook message from my ex-boyfriend, Jim, telling me he's still not over me and my awesomeness. Basically, 2002 got jealous and wanted to celebrate as well.

Okay, you're updated. Now I can update how and when I feel like it without any obligations. And yeah, I'm gonna elaborate on that last bit eventually. I mean, if you want. Do you want?

Flick says he saw some grizzly bears near Pulaski's candy store!

Now that I have returned from my travels, I present to you: Xmas Vol. 1, Pond Family does Karaoke.

Well thank the baby Jesus himself--Christmas is finally over! I am no longer subjected to the world's most hideous decorations or the piped in caroling sung by washed up musicians. That, my friends, truly is the best gift. But here's what I made off with from my 70 billion gift exchanges. It's what I get for marrying into a Catholic Italian family...holiday gatherings will always be loud and we'll have umpteen presents buy. But seriously, here's what I got...

Herpes. Just kidding. Or am I? Nah, that's a pretty nasty surprise in general, much less to get from your in-laws.

My family decided to draw names out of a hat this year so we only had to be responsible for a whopping total of 3 presents this year. I pulled Brian's name, Dom got Mom, and Michael got Abbie. Easy peasy. I picked up my brother-in-law a gift set of Crown Royal, my mom got Beauty and the Beast Season 2 (the t.v. show with the bestiality, not the Disney animated movie), and Abs got a kickass dress up set. On the flip side, Dom got a Civil War computer game from Dad, Michael got an Aqua Doodle from Abbie, and I got the most fabulous present in the history of Christmas. For reals, it beats the crap out of frankincise and myrrh.

I got a portable, stand up hairdryer like you use in a salon. Now, before you lose control of your bowels laughing and shit out your spleen or something--hear me out...or read me out...or what the fuck ever. It's freaking awesome! I can do my makeup AND dry my hair sans hands. Here's a list of things I can now do while drying my hair that you probably can't: blog, drink coffee, watch t.v. with no audial comprehension, act out scenes from Steel Magnolias, look like a tard...the list goes on. Plus, if I use the big curlers my hair comes out looking full and fluffy. Not Mississippi beauty queen full, but good and voluminous.

My family was also full of the Christmas spirit during the visit. And by spirit I really mean "merlot." By the end of the night we were all belting out karaoke masterpieces! My dad sang "Joy to the World," (Jeremiah was a bullfrog...). You may not understand the significance of this event.

My dad is the Silent Bob of my Jay and Silent Bob parents. Well, they don't toke up and go on adventures with angels and the like, but my dad is pretty quiet. As Dom said, "When he does finally speak, It's either the funniest thing you've heard or the most profound." So to have him hop up out of the papasan to bless us all with such a treat, was phenomenal.

I happened to wow the room with my rendition of "Ice, Ice, Baby." Mom thought my new M.C. name should be "Rapsiddy."

Did I ever blog about Journey Christmas? The year before I got married, my sisters and I decided to celebrate the holidays together in Little Rock at Cecillea's house to avoid any confrontation with my parents. We were, after all, not best buds at the time. I gave Natalie "Journey's Greatest Hits," we got drunk and all danced to "Don't Stop Believin.'" Best. Christmas. Ever. I even have an I tried to cook a pizza while intoxicated scar to prove it.

Until this one! We all voted and Drunk Karaoke Christmas kicks Journey Christmas's comparatively sober ass.

End of Xmas Vol. 1. Up next? Xmas Vol. 2, DiMaggio's are too sexy for their pants.

Excuse me. I am a sacred vessel, alright? All you've got in your stomach is Taco Bell.

So, I'm in Arkansas. I'm blogging on my mom's dinosaur of a computer waiting for my sisters to come up for Nat's birthday party. Then I can show off my extreme ability to suck worse than suck at Guitar Hero.

Dom and I got the super 3 pack that has Guitar Hero I, II, and Rocks the 80's for Christmas. Of course, that was when we had money before the property managers called to notify us of the major pipe leak in our front yard. Apparently, the new tenants moved into our house in SC just in time for the monsoon to take over our driveway. They're going to have to dig up the lawn--excuse me, canoe the swamp--to find some seal that blew up after turning on and off the water. Chances are, we won't be responsible for the bill because it's a city thing...but I'm also me and that wouldn't be nearly dramatic enough.

Every time I see the Goose Creek Property Management number come up on my phone my heart just sinks a little. That house is starting to remind me a lot of that Tom Hanks movie, The Money Pit. Nice fixer-upper? Ends up just crumbling into a big pile of wood and rusty nails. I'm not-so-secretly hoping that the renters fall asleep cooking a can of gasoline and we'll be done with it.

See, most landlords don't have to deal with a busted water main flooding the front yard before the earthquake hit. Yup, according to Yahoo news the epicenter was about 4 miles from Summerville. Which, would put it at about....oh...my FREAKING HOUSE! That was certainly more expletive but I deleted it because I'm at my parents' house. Probably shouldn't worry though since yesterday I said "fuck it" in front of my mom. She didn't even blink. I didn't think twice about it until later that night when it started playing over and over in my head as a WTF moment.

This is also the woman that came up with a code for us to tell each other to fuck off while I was in high school. There used to be a Taco Bell commercial that said "Now only 99 cents! That's almost a buck off!" Except, we wouldn't ever hear the whole commercial. So, flipping through the channels we'd just hear "fuck off." That's when we decided to just start saying "Yo quiero Taco Bell" when we were pissed at each other. Good times. My mom and I have had some blogworthy memories for sure.

Even if I'm the kinda gal who cusses out her mom and calls the sherrif's office for a pap smear, I did finally get my shopping done. Nice transition right? I'm a master. We wrapped them all, shipped them, or tucked them underneath the tree. And all without being mobbed at the mall! Although, at one point when we were out I had the who's gonna get the door faceoff. You know when your approaching the doorway at roughly the same speed as someone else and you don't want to run ahead and look like a douche? Or even worse slow down and make them get the door for you. It's probably the most awkard 3 seconds of any given 10. She got the door for me. I just stared at the floor and mumbled "thank you." But my property in another state is now eligible to become a protected marshland so the universe owes me a door opening now and then.

Racism was the new black.

Raise your hand if you were forced to have a conversation with a racist, old lady about "funny" names while getting the blood sucked out of your arm through a giant syringe. Just me, then?

I put Michael in daycare for a couple of hours today so that I could go get my bloodwork done and the flu shot I was supposed to get at my appointment last week. That meant a cranky Mommy left the house at 8 sans showering and coffee to drop off a screaming 1 year old to the poor daycare workers at the gym. Unfortunately, the extended care program doesn't start until 9 a.m. So I had to go to the nearest park and let him root around in the wet wood chips for half an hour.

Once I finally made it to the lab, there was a wonderfully talkative woman in her 70's to keep me company as the techs took, what felt like gallons, of my blood. She had a thing or two to say about "those funny names. Especially those black girls." Her technition happened to be black, but thought it was just fine to lump all of the people of the world with long or hard to pronounce names into the category of black, Mexican, or Chinese. Somebody even mentioned coming across this name "La-a," to be pronounced "Ladasha." The hypen is apparently no longer a silent article.

It made for an eventful morning. Now, I have around a bajillion kajillion things to do before we leave for the Xmas break tomorrow. That's just an estimate though--it could be more. First on the list is to fix up my playlist and burn some car music. But because I love you all, I decided to blog first. It's probably gonna be your last one for the next couple weeks. I might get a chance to update at the various stops along the tour of Arkansas and Mississippi, but we'll see.

I'm sure I'll have plenty of stories about my drunken karaoke endeavors at Christmas with my folks that I'll want to share as soon as possible. Speaking of which, Dom and I exchanged our gifts yesterday because we wanted a chance to have our own holiday before it got steamrolled by our collective family Christmases. Is that seriously the plural of Christmas? Anyway, Dom got me this:
and this to go with some of these and make me do this in front of my family.

I also got a tea set and a homemade coupon booklet good for services such as babysitting, laundry, cooking, and cleaning. It's a cute, romantic gift and I'm super stoked about using it! Now I can force him to do the dishes, take me shopping, or any of those other husbandly duties that were implied but not spoken in our wedding vows...without feeling guilty or overly naggy!

Heyhey! The Postal Dude! I'll get you!

Talk about weird coincidences! Okay, I will.

Yesterday my former neighbor (not the crazy one that wanted to borrow Dom's uniform and always made me get the heeby geebies) read a note I posted on Facebook that mentioned this blog. She checks it out just in time for her to have a cameo. All about the timing? Or is she just internet stalking me? Just kidding, B. Welcome to the bloggity fun.

Now here's where I bitch about the UPS truck. I've been waiting for Dom's last gift to ship out via UPS for about a week and a half now. I really want it to get here before we leave on Tuesday so that it's not sitting on our front porch for the FEMA trailer neighbor's dog to come and pee on.

The website said that it was scheduled to arrive on Dec. 11. No big deal, that's plenty of time. So I hear the big truck coming down the road and I get that excited feeling that comes with waiting for something to arrive via mail or big truck. I'm peeking out the window to see how close it is, I put the dogs outside, and I wait by the door to watch it pull up right to my house....and pull right back away. No package! I look on the website today and it says "rescheduled delivery for Dec. 12."

They freakin forgot my package on the damn truck. WTF? Let's hope that's it and they didn't just break it and then buy some time to ducktape it back together.

Alright, Michael just stopped in the hallway to poop his pants so I'd better take care of that.

By the way, today's quote title comes from a movie called "Postal." Apparently there's a whole filmed dedicated to a "Postal Dude" serial killer. Here are some of the quotes I found:

"No, that's not him. Do you see how his hair shimmies? This guy looks just like Jesus."

"Postal Dude. Is that the best we could call him? Postal Dude! He's wanted for kidnapping, a shootout at the social welfare office, the assassination of Candidate Wells..."

"Only my weapon understands me."

Twenty bucks says it aired on Scifi.

Correcto. Ice and snow, no Eskimo. Even hallucinations have laws.

Yesterday's appointment at the Doctor's office went better than expected. Dr. G is extremely nice and thorough. I figured she was probably good at spending time with patients when I had been in the waiting room for 45 minutes...

That was the worst of it though. She wasn't judgmental or harsh at all, she's already way better than any other doctor's I've had (aside from the OB's because they're required to be uber nice otherwise you might go into early labor). Made it out feeling fairly good about the whole deal.

She's getting me a referral for her gynecologist for my lady parts checkup. Let's hope I get the right number this time. I don't want to call any more police officers about my privates. She also gave me a prescription for acne. So other than my bacteria-face, I feel pretty healthy.

I went to CVS to get my pills filled afterward and froze my touchie off. It was in the 70s earlier this week! Today? Snow! Seriously, look out my window. Okay, now get out of my house. It is snowing, here in Slidouche! I'm the furthest south of everyone I know right now (except maybe Caitlyn) and all of the schools are closed today due to the mass hysteria of "le neige." That's French, because I'm in the New Orleans area. It's probably wrong though. I just googled it. Four years of Spanish isn't gonna help me communicate with the Cajuns.

Anyway, I left my keys in the car at the pharmacy. Almost locked them in, but since I was dumb enough to leave them in the ignition my smartypants car wouldn't shut me out. That's great, since I had only budgeted for one lockout this month. Dom already blew our wad of fat cash on that last week. I have no room to complain. I used to lock myself out of the house on a daily basis when we lived on base. Security had to come and let me back in a lot. I finally hid a key in the shed so my neighbor wouldn't think I was such a moron every time I had to come over and use her phone.

For her birthday this year I wrote this on her Facebook wall, "Happy Birthday! You know, every time I lock myself out of my house I think of you."

Aaaaaah! Doc, your fork has magical powers!

Wow, I think the Latin name for my household should be Vomitus Maximus after all that's been going on this year. Poor Dom got food poisoning from a frozen turkey pot pie yesterday. This is just ridiculous! We're healthyish people. Definitely more healthy than we've been in a while. Though I did eat his half of the pizza I made for dinner last night, in addition to mine. But that was just because he wasn't able to eat it and take it away from me!

Perhaps we should ingest some more vitamin C in our daily diet? Regardless, I have a checkup with my new doctor tomorrow afternoon. Whoo. That's a whoo like a deflated balloon, not a let's-go-party whoo. I haven't been to the doctor since my pregnancy and now I have no idea how to act. I mean, it's a checkup so do I list everything that might sorta be ailing me and make her think that I'm a hypochondriac whacko addicted to webmd? Okay, clue her into the fact that I'm a hypochondriac whacko, etc., etc.? Or on the opposite end, do I say that I'm completely fine and she say "Why'd you waste my time? I only see sick people."

My anxiety is really this, is she going to be like my doctors I've had up until Michael was born? Who were Bitch and Superbitch, by the way. Or is she going to be a nice, understanding physician like my O.B.s and the peeps in the hospital? I'm guessing that since she's a civilian doc, it'll be the latter.

In other health news, Liz replied to my plea for blog material with this:

"A 70 year old woman in India just gave birth to a baby. She had to use in vitro because all the efforts with her 72 year old husband went no where. Blog about THAT. *shudder*"

Okay, I will.

What in Brahma's name did you think you were doing, lady? Best case scenario you get to spend 30 years with your kid but only 10-20 of it will be coherent. You've just made him or her the weird kid in class that everyone will whisper rumors about his or her conception via a lab experiment gone wrong by the crazy, old, geezer scientist.

This is what I'm talking about people! Just be cause you're in your golden years doesn't mean you're owed shit. I'm sure her thinking was that she wanted to have children before she died. Why didn't you start, oh, 40 or 50 years ago? If you would have given birth to the little guy in your prime, he could be having contraversial invitro babies of his own by now!

That is all.

NORMAL? Some boring, old, normal, old, toilet goer, huh?

I'm suffering a blog famine of sorts. Material for this page usually presents itself, and often. I don't usually have normal, boring days like the average American. My days are frequently filled with odd encounters that I must immediately share with you. Like this one:

Wal-Mart is piping in pure Cassidy quality insanity fuel through their P.A. system. There is nothing I want to hear less while battling the mobs for the last gallon of milk than Christmas music. Unless it's Beyonce singing Christmas music in her gospel vibrato--which it was. I was so distracted by it that I physically bumped into an old lady last week. She's too old to be in the demographic that I'm currently holding a vendetta against though, so I felt bad. This granny was the so old I don't give a flying monkey fart what people think--therefore I will be surprisingly fun old. Which is why when I bumped into her and excused myself she said this, "Boy, I bet I could sing that better than she could."

Right on, old lady. Right on.

Other than that tidbit? I got nothin'. I've been having a fairly nondramatic week of nonbloggables. "Nonbloggables" are just moments in time that even I can't make seem interesting. Where's all my drama at? If you're a loyal reader and want this blog to continue, please donate a topic and/or story that I can reenact for the betterment of the internet.

Otherwise, you're just going to read my bitching about target.com because they failed to tell me that my niece's birthday present was backordered until yesterday. Her birthday was a month ago. I ordered it October 23. Then the D-bag decides to respond to my nasty email with "That tends to happen during the holidays." Really, the "holidays" include Halloween now? Is that when the hysteria and incompetence can officially start now? I'll mark it down.

Well, crap. That was it. That was all the bitching I had saved up for future blogs! Seriously, comment, email me, message me on myspace or facebook, anything!

This is my dad. And these are his new underpants.

Most everyone that knows me probably realizes that I like to reinvent myself occasionally and now you're all probably thinking "Great, here's another freakin' blog about Cassidy changing her look." Yeah, get over it. My blog. There's nothing like slipping on a new hair color trying out sluttier makeup to cover up your insecurities and bring yourself out of a slump. If all else fails, get a piercing. And even better than that, is blogging about it.

Over the last year or two though, I've developed some new styles that stuck. Not the usual abandonment crap after a few months of feeling like a fashion-assbackward retardista. For example, high heels are still here and I'm feeling a shoe fetish spreading over me like a bacteria. The good, help you fight off sickness and be balanced kind of bacteria though, because I like shoes...I don't want to disinfect them.

I've become increasingly interested in style and actually giving a flip about fashion. I blame the Bravo network. So with finger pointing done, what's your favorite blogger into now? Well, I've been told my entire life that there is a preventable disaster that plagues women of fashion--panty lines. That's right, I wrote that whole blog to say that I'm taking up thongs.

I've been wearing one since this morning and I've only felt the urge to pull out a massive wedgie a couple times. This isn't my first attempt at taking up underwear as a hobby. In high school my fellow colorguard members decided that our uniforms would look much better sans panty lines and we all vowed to buy thongs to fix it. Totally didn't wear mine. It was terrible.

So I'm not really sure why I'm risking the torture all over again, but kinda glad I did. They feel sexy. I might just end up humping my own leg if I keep wearing them. Overall, it's just a "the cool kids are doing it" syndrome. Same reason I'm sporting leggings under my mini skirt. I'm sure I'll be carrying around a miniature dog wrapped in a feathery boa any day now.

I've been called ugly, pug ugly, fugly, pug fugly, but never ugly ugly.

AAARRRGGGRRRRRAAAAWWWWWRRRRLLLLLLPPPFFTTAHHLLSAAAPDAAOOOG!

That is the sound my brain is making inside my head this morning. It's mad at me for making it try to do a funny-as-shit blog when it's not in the mood. Not really, that's the clean version. Even I don't think you can start a blog with blogdamncocksuckmotherfuglyassmuncher! You just can't. What if a kid googles "assmuncher" only to have my dirty blog pop up with the word "fugly." I'm all about the families!

But back to me. Yeah, Me! ME ME ME!! Because this is the one place in the whole wide web that is for moi. (French is sexier, admit it.) I mean, unless there's some site dedicated to my awesomeness and filled with stalkery goodness that I don't know about--this is it. Trust me, there's no such page. I've googled myself plenty. And you can't run a stalker website of worship without proper tags.

This blog is the friend I get to gripe at when I don't feel like explaining every juicy detail of my bitch-a-thon. That's fabulous, because I know it won't ask questions. It won't say, "Hey, back that up a minute...where does the banana come in" or "so why were you googling yourself?" Nope. I just get to lean back in my folding chair and type away about anonymous douchebaggery that has been done upon me.

First off, let me just say that on Cyber Monday it is implied that the sales should last until Monday is over...not until say, 8:59 p.m. Seriously, I missed out on a reeeeallly good deal on a Christmas gift for the hubby because some A-hole at Amazon flunked the bit of 2nd grade math and science that told him how long a day lasts! Also, that Super Saver Shipping crap gets ya. I had one thing I was going to get and then that friendly little message pops up to say "Spend 5 more dollars and you get free shipping!"

So I go on my quest to find something that qualifies, because you can't just spend any regular 5 bucks you have to find Super Saver Shipping items to spend your $5 on to save $5 on shipping. I got so frustrated that I came back to it after dinner and the sale price was $43.99 instead of $19.99. Fartmonger!

Okay, so now I'm spending all freakin' week looking for stuff online to show my appreciation for my spouse and SHAZAAAM! Defeated by Cookies. You know how google "remembers" recent searches? Well a certain someone googled another someone and he wasn't looking for my well-deserved website shrine. Let's leave it at that. And this...

Douchebaggery!

Now I've got to pull the boogers off my son's face and go to the gym where I can run away from my problems anorexic-style, on an elliptical machine.

Hey! No guns at Thanksgiving!

I'm back from vay-cay! We got in around 4 o'clock Saturday afternoon so that Sunday we could have pizza-eating, Guitar Hero playing, recovery time. I'm rested, about 90 lbs of turkey and fruit salad heavier, and ready for Thanksblogging.

Before you ask me, "Cassidy, did you get drunk at your parents' house on Thursday, then take off your bra and hide it in their bathroom?" Let me just say this, yes. Let me also say that Merlot and gingerale make a tasty homemade wine cooler. And when you run out of Merlot? White wine and gingerale make a lovely champagnesque drink.

It was a decent trip. Eleven hours in the car isn't my ideal beginning to a holiday getaway, but it wasn't the worst car ride I've ever had. Michael only had a cold to spread to his relatives this time instead of the super flu. That was a plus. Although by Wednesday morning I sounded like I had throat cancer. Overall, both my dog and my son were rather well behaved in the car. Along the way we got behind a semi that had this paint on the back:



Overall the holiday was a smashing success. For most folks the T in T-day stands for "turkey" but I'm all about the Thanksgiving casseroles. I load up my plate with green bean casserole, baked corn, my mom's cheesy broccoli & cauliflower concoction, and most importantly the fruit salad.

Oh my blog, it's the most fantastic dish on the planet. It's a mix of cherry pie filling with Cool Whip, pineapple, mandarin oranges, and other sweet stuff mixed in. It's a big bowl of edible heaven that I could very well eat every meal for the rest of my life. And I try the whole Thanksgiving week. Breakfast? Fruit salad! Lunch? Turkey sandwich and fruit salad! Dinner? You betcha, fruit effin' salad. It's one of those dishes that I would sacrifice my dignity to lick the bowl clean after it's all gone and get it smeared all over my forehead.

Here I am slaving over a hot stove to make a wonderful Thanksgiving dinner for my family...


Nah, I made my sister-in-law and mother do all the cooking this year. I just stole that apron for a quick cameo on le blog. Festive, isn't it? Oh, and you like the socks a top my leggings? I was polite enough to remove my rock star boots at the door.

Sexy Mrs. Clause aprons aside, the whole holiday was actually pretty fun. I played games, ate a fuckton of food at two Thanksgivings, and had a nice 2nd first birthday party for Michael. I only had to use code with Liz once to scootch out of the room for a break from the family. We retreated to look at her snake round-up camping trip for the zoo while my mother-in-law and her new husband discussed the relative offensiveness of Chinese lanterns to Confederate battle flags.

That was after I won the challenge against Liz in using all of my sons alphabet blocks to make a crossword puzzle. See?



I'm such a dorkataur.

I just don't want to disgrace the peacock.

Today's my last blog for about a week, so I wanted to go out with a bang! As you may have noticed, I've redecorated. I tried to keep it personal, as always, by incorporating either a picture I took or one I drew. I drew the peacocks, but I flat out stole the photo on the sidebar.

What? There aren't a lot of peacocks running around Louisiana. Even if there were, it's not like they'll respond to "Hey, sit still while I set my camera to macro." I think it would, more so, involve me running awkwardly at it while it screams a "brawwwkllwaaa" sound and I make a"whoaoooaaah" sound after tripping.

Alright, today involves much housework and packing. That means you may get multiple blogs today. We all know how I love to blog instead of doing chores, homework, take care of my baby, etc. It's my favorite form of procrastination. We'll see. I don't know if I'll even have the time to procrastinate.

But I do still want to blog about the Mobile International Festival. And trust me, you want to read about it. There were Kenyan acrobats, Thai singers, and more middle-aged, belly dancer cleavage than is probably safe for human eyes.

Look sherriff, this is not just a local story. This creature has been spotted across this country.

It's so cold in my house right now that I'm wearing leggings under my nightgown. As if the nightgown itself wasn't sexy enough, I had to spice it up with some spandex! It's not a piece of lingerie, it's more like this:
with these underneath

If only I had some curlers! If there was a fire in my house--first off, I'd run to it because I'm so damn cold--I'd have to steal Dom's robe before I'd go outside. Is it weird that I think about those kinds of things? If I was forced from my home in the middle of the night for some disastrous reason, are my p.j.'s decent enough for public? Speaking of embarrassing--yesterday I called the number that I had written down as my doctor's office and asked for an appointment for my annual Pap Smear only to have the voice on the other line tell me that I had dialed the Sherrif's office. True story. This shit happens to me.

Anyway, It's really not a matter of fashion. It's more like, Are my bazoombas visible right now? I don't want the whole neighborhood to be "linin' up the block just to watch what I got." You know? I definitely don't want to be vulnerable out in front of the crazy FEMA trailor couple.

They're ALWAYS fighting. They obviously hate each other and just stay together for convience and someone to scream their frustrations out at. I just want to leave a Post It note on their car that says "Break up already!" Yesterday I heard her yelling, "You don't understand! I hate this fucking trailor!" Okay, first, yeah I do. I hate your fucking trailor. It's the hellacious redneck view from my front door and your bitching is all I can ever hear outside. So then he replies, "All white people are psycho just like you."

Whoa, back that crazy train up a minute. I am not nearly as crazy as your trashy girlfriend who is obviously just frustrated with the construction taking waaaaay too long. Seriously, are you guys trying to finish it with telepathy or something? Also, aren't you both white people?

Sorry, that chunky paragraph was just for them. That too would go on the Post It. And, "Don't park your car right behind my driveway." But then they'd know it was me. Eh, I feel bad for the girl. She was nice enough to come tell us that the dome light was still on in our car. And her boyfriend sounds like a genuine Slidouchebag. He was making laps around the neighborhood at about 80 m.p.h. after their fight while she was looking for her dog. I think he was trying to hit either.

The next time they decide to include the whole neighborhood in on their "private" affairs I'm busting out the popcorn and watching from my front porch with a giant foam finger that says "Go Psycho White Girl!" And if they wake up my baby? They're getting a poopy diaper in the face.

You really want some space, or are you and I going to go get drunk?

As you may recall from previous blogs this week, I went out on the town with the girls Saturday night. And by 'girls' I don't mean my boobs. Those are ladies. I mean the other stay-at-home moms that want some time away from changing diapers and whiny husbands and children. It wasn't filled with nearly as much alcoholic fun this go-round because, after a sit down with myself figuring out who I am in this relationship, Margarita and I have decided to see other people.

Margarita's an enabler. Margarita always wants me to do things louder and without thinking. If I'm out with a drink, I need it to be a good liason between my brain and my vocal chords. I don't need Margarita shutting off my filter and having me blurt out my bra size and sexual curiosities. Okay? That's why I took Rum out on Saturday.

Rum's a boring, fruity, fucker. You ever go out with a friend that's too timid to make any decisions or speak up and just shrugs any time something might be interesting to him or her? Yeah, that's Rum. That's me on Rum because when I ingest it, I become Rum's boring ass proxy. I only had 3 drinks the whole night and I wasn't feeling buzzed with any of them. It made me really miss Margarita's wild side, you know?

I did manage to fall off the curb of Heidelberg's though. That was completely sober. But again, classic Cassidy behavior...especially since we were trying to make a quick escape from Geraldine's new stalker.

He seemed normal at first and I even felt bad that he bought a round of drinks for a table of married women. But I certainly got the "creepy dude" vibe after this conversation:

Geraldine: "The three of us met online and now we're friends, we babysit for each other, and even work out at the gym together."

Stalky Creepsmith: "Oh, what gym?"

Geraldine: "[actual gym name]" (of which she instantly regretted mentioning)

Stalky Creepsmith: "Which one? [Location A] or [Location B]"

I just got the feeling that I was going to be running on the treadmill one day and have Mr. Creepsmith wave a jolly "Oh, didn't realize you worked out here." I would probably trip, land my face on the track, and be promptly shot out onto the floor via conveyor belt. Not that I'm terribly worried about my own safety, he was all about G-dawg. He even gave her his card after trying to shoo Kelly and I away from the table. By the way "Stalky Creepsmith" is a step up. His real first name was Quitman. It wasn't a codename either. We saw the business card.

Long story short, one shit-hole karaoke bar and a near DUI arrest later abd we found ourselves at some honky tonk joint that played a combination of AC/DC, Country, and Booty Rap--of which everyone still line danced to. They even had a mechanical bull and a stripper pole. Totally a step up from "T's Toothless Karaoke Lounge." Seriously, the door hadn't even closed behind us before we walked right back out. It was a tiny room so filled with smoke that it made a fog that rolled off it's whopping 3 tables. And yes, there was at least one toothless man.

If Margarita had been around, I probably would have been singing karaoke on the bar and later been heaved off of a mechanical bull.

I'm Gene Simmons, and I wear more makeup and higher heels than your mommy does.

Well, I'm not rollin' in the dough I made from the casino on Friday night. In fact, I was down $10 in 20 minutes playing the penny slots. It wasn't even the Monopoly slots with the fun bonus games. Nope, I could have had more fun setting my Hamiltons on fire.

I blame old people.

That's right. They're are putting me on a level of pissed off that only an internet wide campaign against the elderly can rectify. And before you start whining "But Cassidy, they're old. You should respect them in their dying moments..." hear me out. I'm not talking about the Grim Reapers next poker buddies. I'm talking about the early 60s to late 70s bracket that think they're owed something for making it to said decade. No, I'm mad at the Grams and Gramps that are always pissy with me for being in their bubble of, say, 50 feet?

I'm through with that shit. I've seen too many Granny boobs to just be Zen about old men stealling the good slot machines and scowling at me. Naked Grandma even glowers at me for using an electrical outlet in the locker rooms. There are two mirrors with outlets at them and she doesn't need either of them. But she decides to put all of her hair gel and crap right next to me while she washes her bathing suit in the buff and while giving me the metaphorical finger?

Plus, old people are responsible for this:


After brooding about the slots, I did finally have the balls to play a table game. So then Dom and I gave all our money to the dealer at the roulette table. At least that was fun. That and being in the same hotel/casino as KISS!

Well, Mini KISS. They're a KISS cover band of dwarves and they were playing at whatever casino we were at. Blogdamn, I can't even remember where we were? I wasn't even drunk that night.



I think the one on the far right is Asian. Their lead singer is actually a girl, too. Our group said they saw them walking in carrying guitar cases, but I totally missed it. I may never again have the chance to see Gene Simmons's 1/2 doppelganger in person again!

Hello, Sleepy Bird! Oh, sorry. You go back to sleep, Sleepy Bird.

Wow, I haven't been tired like this in a while. I stayed up to watch the new "Robot Chicken Star Wars" episode. I guess 10:30 is too much to ask for these days. Especially after being out late on Saturday. I got 8 hours both nights, but maybe it's just the shift in time slots that's got me dragging ass. Anyway, a gallon of coffee and much eye rubbing I have decided to go ahead and blog, despite my complete inability to spell and or proofread it once I've finished. I've also spent several moments just staring at the screen without realizing it until I got jerked awake again by Michael banging toys on the floor and singing his rendition of "AAHHHH MMMMAAAAA OOOHHHHHH!" It's a classic.

But it's just a blog to tell you that I'm not blogging today. It's way more than my brain can handle presently. Well, have a great day. I've got some good stories to share from my weekend excursions, so keep coming back.

You have it, nun girl! This is no time to be gambling around a casino!

Whoo! Big props to Kelly for babysitting tonight because now I get to go to the casinos!! Granted, I'm going from like 2-7 or something like that...but at least I'm going. That's the important thing. That and fat stacks of cash.

Oh, me! I'm so funny! Why? Because I don't actually play the real casino games because I'm a scaredy cat retardicon. The closest I've come to one was standing over Dom's should while everyone at the table told him what he should be doing during blackjack. The best I can do is win a few extra bucks at a time on the Monopoly slot machines. Now, If I can keep track of my winnings better this time I might have a chance. Usually, I break even. And by usually, I mean the two times I've gambled.

Really though, I'm in it for the buffet. Where else can you get every type of ethnic food on one plate? Last time I checked there wasn't a Harry's Thai House of Pancakes, Italian Bakery, and Burrito Palace. I didn't actually check, but believe me, if there was one I'd know about it. I would buy it. I would be 400 lbs.

Yup, there goes all my weight loss. Good thing I'm going out with the girls again on Saturday. Perhaps I can drink myself into a thinning hangover?

Well, readers, you should all place bets on how much money I lose (I mean "give charitably to the good folks running the gambling industry"). The closest one might win a blog in their honor. Might...I'm pretty lazy and bad at keeping promises that I don't really want to keep.

Bears are Crazy. They'll bite your head if you're wearing a steak on it.

Dom and I went to Texas Roadhouse for dinner in honor of Cassidy Awareness Day. I think I celebrated myself into a bigger size of pants. Dude, I ate enough to last me to next year's CAD day. Oh, not a good abbreviation. Then again, I named my band on Guitar Hero "Cassholes." Cause I'm a classy lady.

Anyway, next time I have a choice between Texas Roadhouse and well, anywhere, remind me to pick anywhere--even the mall food court, even the mall parking lot. It's not that the food was bad. No, it was some tasty cow. Unfortunately, the "Don't mess with Texas Roadhouse" atmosphere is enough to give me an aneurysm in my brain. The only people that want to be surrounded by that much Texas, are from Texas.

My badonkadonk is not honky tonk.

They had the stereo up so loud that Dom couldn't hear me while sitting at the same table. They also restarted every song halfway through, then ran it to the end. I got to hear country songs, on average, 1 1/2 times.

There's also a giant mural of a bikini party boat on the bayou. Nothing says "Texas in Louisiana" like a swamp full of busty chicks and a snake hanging from a tree. I think I'm going to paint that in my living room. Won't that be a surprise for my landlord, eh? Instead of losing my security deposit, she'll probably pay me for increasing the value of her home with such a masterpiece. Um, a K.C. Masterpiece of crap of which I stole the idea from a steakhouse? Telling you, people, classy.

It's sad. The only way some people can find a purpose in life is by becoming obsessed with demons.

Today is an important day in the history of me, which should make it eligible for a national holiday because my personal bygones are certainly worth celebrating. This day, November 12, marks a two year anniversary of my victory over depression.

Now, I'm not going to get all weepy and sentimental about how much more I appreciate life and express the same hormones that the Lifetime channel runs off of. I'm not even going to tell you stories about my dark days filled with turmoil and angst. I'm just going to subtly declare the mastery of my own emotions with a smile and a carefree blog.

I woke up with a good feeling today, not even remembering the date. I just felt vigorous and wanted to flaunt my vibrant sense of security. I just felt like everything was finally falling back into place, regardless of how stressed I've been lately. There are things to look forward to and, though I didn't realize it first thing today, things to look back on and be proud of.

So I got home from the gym this morning and looked in my keepsake box. Sure enough, the hospital bracelet confirmed that two years ago today, was the day I lived. It wasn't an incredible occasion to celebrate otherwise, but it does mark the beginning of a new age for me. It was then that I realized that I could and can get past any hardship, and do it gracefully.

After 22 years of constant ups and downs, an entire lifetime of making my body go despite my brain telling it that it's useless and so tired that I could do nothing greater than sleep for hours --but the insomnia kept me from even closing my eyes for days--I have not suffered from the symptoms and torture of being depressed.

It was like being stuck in a shell of myself, unable to break through the insecurities until I realized that I deserve happiness. And it wasn't going to handed to me, or left in a package on my doorstep. I had to work harder for it than anything else I've ever done. It is an infinite puzzle that takes working out any time I doubt my potential or get a dopamine overload.

So here's to a job well done and many more years of success! I officially declare November 12 National Cassidy Awareness Day. Ask your boss for that day off next year if your job doesn't already celebrate it. We'll go party.

Maybe some monkey's running around Trinity doing his thing with bored housewives.

My days have been slowly getting better lately. No one is sick, I don't have a rush of things to do in a short amount of time, and whatnot. Unfortunately, that's when I get my best blogging in. It's a great form of procrastination!

I can temporarily escape my duties as a wife and mother long enough to bitch out a couple of paragraphs before returning to whatever it is that, apparently, the universe has agreed that only I can do. Also, this stress-free environment has left me with another predicament. Possibly, it's one that you folks can help me with.

I'm bored as fuck.

I've made Thanksgiving decorations, organized toys into bins, and even dyed my hair back to a more solid blonde instead of the streaky crap left over from my last attempt at highlights. I've even cleaned myself bored! There's only so much dusting I can do before I'm gonna start breaking into the neighbors' houses and cleaning up their messes for fun. Oh don't worry, I'll leave a note asking for payment. Cleaning is hard work!

Now I charge you with task! You get to feel important, isn't that great? Okay, I need suggestions of things to fill my spare time. It can be book recommendations, places to visit, things to make, whatever. However, they can only come to pass if my son deems it so. Lately he's been very clingy, so maybe you should suggest things to distract him as well. That's the whole reason I haven't finished knitting the hat I'm making for the Arkansas trip. It might actually be fall weather at my parents'--I must prepare for the possibility of frostbitten ears and the fashionable return of lumpy, handmade, hats.

Newspapers? Religious tracts? The Victoria's Secret catalogue?

Today's a new day not filled with frustration. I'm starting fresh and leaving my horrible week behind me. That is, right after I bitch about one more thing from last week. Then optimism abound--promise!

In an attempt to cheer myself up this week, I went to Victoria's Secret to splurge on a new bra. Seeing as my last purchase there was now hanging off of me from the weight loss. After being sized and then handed one of every style to go try on, I spent about an hour there deciding what to get. Then realizing that they didn't have the one I wanted in any cute colors or prints I settled for the boring nude and put down the last one I had tried on top of the shelf it came from.

I get home, put it on to check it out, and get asked to come help get Michael ready for bed. I threw my t-shirt back on and got him ready for bed. As I'm putting him down in his crib, he vomits all over my shoulder. The new bra is removed and washed.

The next day I put it on, not remembering it being quite this cut. It was a little uncomfortable and the one I had picked out was the deluxe comfort model. Then the look of frustration and realization sweeps over my face. I had put back the wrong one.

If I was going to get the Ipex, I could have gotten a cute one! Now I'm stuck with this crap. I can't lie very well, and I'd be completely guilt-ridden if I waltzed in to return a puked on garment.

That was a few days ago, so it's starting to grow on me. Not literally, I can still remove it. But I'm getting used to it and I'm over my temper tantum that I originally threw once I noticed the label said Ipex--which is latin for You have bad luck, Cassidy. Not true, I made that up.

Anyway, today is shot day. Michael and I are packing up to go get the motherload of vaccinations pumped into him this morning. I really love shot day. A combination of the vaccines and tylenol make him drowsy. So he's either really easy going, or just sleeps all day. It's like a day off! But since he's getting the flu shot this time around, we'll see just how off my day ends up.

You're playing Betty Crocker and cut up like a god damn Virginia ham.

And now for What the FUCK?! Weekend Blog #2: All Aboard the Crazy Train

For those of you newer readers, I don't take people coming into my house very easily. So when I found out that my in-laws were coming for the party that I was already freaking out about hosting, somebody hit the crazy button in my brain. That's not to be confused with the Easy Button, that's Staples. No, I bring out the hardcore nutball that doesn't think anything is good enough, or for the love of Blog, clean enough.

And it's not just the day or two preceding guests entering my home--it's a month long obsess-a-thon. No denial here, it's stupid and it's me being incredibly insecure. However, I've had enough therapy for this lifetime so let me just blog it out.

So now I'm waging war inside my brain trying to keep the Molly Maid on steroids part of me at bay long enough to not be an ungracious hostess. Really, I just wanted to curl up and die on the couch for a while because I was still not 100% from the flu. And I did take an unbelievably long break while waiting for laundry to finish because I wasn't expecting Dom's dad and brother to show up until after dinner.

They must have left at the ass crack of dawn because I got a phone call at 1:00 saying they would be there in an hour. I still hadn't showered, vacuumed the furniture, or put away the laundry. The look on my face was probably something like this:

I was also planning on making meatloaf for dinner and hadn't done any prep for that either. I didn't want to look like a recipe novice, you know. We ended up eating out anyway because everyone wanted seafood. I've still got pounds of hamburger in my freezer if anyone's interested in a giant pan of cow.

Anyway, it just really threw me for a loop because I was expecting the weekend to be my prep time for the party. I mean I wanted to go all out making cupcakes, decorating, and feeding everyone--because if I don't, you know that's a sign of my inability to exist as a woman and a mother, right? I know it's not, but that's the way 'Roid Rage Suzy Homemaker sees it.

I had finally convinced myself that I didn't need to buy the cupcake kit and try to fashion a puppy dog out of various icings to tie the whole theme together. At least I had the sugar cookies to decorate, right? Not so much. The icing had gotten refrigerated so it was really hard to manage, even after sitting out. And I realized as I was opening the package, that I hadn't bought a decorative tip either. Dom fashioned a sandwich bag squeezy tube for me, but I was still praying that the dog bones didn't turn out looking like penises.

But you'll get the whole account of the party in the next blog. This one was just about me bringing the crazy.

Frankie, remember that pinata I promised you for your birthday?

Now for What the FUCK?! Weekend Blog #3: Crappy Barfday.

Michael turned 1 year old on Sunday. Yes, we celebrated the day he was surgically removed from his cushy uterine home November 2nd. I have been so excited for this to come! Planning parties and buying presents, the whole lot! I've even been stingy up to this point so that I could splurge and get awesome toys for both his b-day and Christmas.

So 5:00 a.m. rolls around and Big Mike's screaming his birthday face off because he's hungry. He didn't finish eating before bed, so now he's starving. He had been temporarily moved to our bedroom while guests were staying in the nursery and office. So we opted for Pedialyte because he had still been having the runs first thing in the morning and we're trying to beat that into submission with a fruit flavored electrolyte magic drink. Unfortunately, he sucked it down so fast he puked all over the pack n play. Great.

Routine clean up, redress, lay back down. The magic Pedialyte had obviously not worked because five minutes later we're changing his poopy jammies. Off to a solid start, right? And yeah, he was tired and cranky all day up until the party.

I opted for a puppy party, because the little man is obsessed with dogs. He chases Vega and Miles into hiding just trying to get kisses from them. His first steps were actually to give our Beagle's ass a hug. The kids had a great time; I think it went really well.

So well, that we decided to pile in the car and go see a friend in New Orleans. She was one of Dom's friends from high school and was in town for the weekend. Sounded like an opportunity to see the town and get some local food. It would have if we had gotten there before 8 p.m.

We left my driveway at 5:00. We were stuck in traffic, 4 miles away from our exit to the hotel we were going to, for over an hour. They closed part of the highway--the part we needed! So we had our GPS take us through the ghetto detour, which took another 45 minutes. Meanwhile, Michael's getting increasingly cranky.

Now we've got to find a parking place that won't break the bank. As we're getting pulled into the lot 1/2 mile away from our destination, my son barfs all over his carseat and my jeans' leg. We just paid 10 bucks for parking and spent hours in the car to get here, we're gonna go see Dom's friend!

You know, I always thought that if my first experience walking down Bourbon Street involved me being covered in vomit that it wouldn't be my 1 year-old's. And there we were, shuffling through crowds with a stroller. At least the smell of cigarettes and urine made me my yakky pants fit right in.

Fast forward past the 10 minute visit we had with Candace and her boyfriend, walking back through drunken crowds terrified, and get us strapped back into the carseat (mopped up with papertowels and wipes). We turn the corner just out of the lot and he spews party food once again.

Again and again...

And again and again when we get home and wipe him off in the bathtub. He fell asleep in my lap doubled over and naked. I had to wake him up to get his diaper back on. Best birthday ever! What's even worse? I infected all of the party guests. All of the parents now have puking kids and husbands and Dom's family even got some of this mess as soon as they got home.

As Geraldine said, we gave "the gift that keeps on regurgitating." I might leave that out of the baby book.

Come on, I can't stand watching my delusional friend waste another precious Halloween! Ted, the slutty pumpkin is not coming!

Good morning, readers. Have you missed me? Because I love your little noggins too much to overload them with this weekend's tests and triumphs, I've decided to break up my posts. You know, be kind--rewind? Now let's take a journey all they way back to Friday, October 31.

HALLOWEEN

I was already up to my neck chores and motherly duties by Thursday when I contracted the virus that Michael was so kind to share with me. As you might remember, the dogs tore apart the favor bags while I was gone and made a royal mess of my afternoon. Luckily, I have a fabulous husband who sent me to bed. While I was dreaming in a feverish sweat, he remade the bags, took care of dinner, and entertained Michael.

Let me preface these many posts with this, I had many goals and expectations for this busy weekend. Unfortunately, I had not finished my costume by now and away flew Goal #1: finish making costumes early in the week so that I didn't rush and end up sewing my fingers to a dress that I wear to the emergency room.

I didn't sew any appendages to the dress, but I did stick my index finger a bunch with a hand held needle. I also left a raw hem and the back of the dress looked like I attached the zipper playing a game of pin the tail on the donkey. I didn't even try the dress on until Friday night. And there I stabbed my next expectation right in the heart. Goal #2: Don't look like a douchebag on Halloween.

Apparently I thought I was going as Fat Dorothy because the top was about 2 sizes too big. I'm actually sinching it up with my other hand in the back in this picture. Whatever, I just looked like an asshat trick-or-treating. Which that was going to happen anyway, because I'm taking a one year old who can't eat any of the candy.

And that brings me to Goal #3: Let Michael have a blast trick-or-treating. Nope. He was super cranky as we were getting ready to go out the door. Once we had him in the stroller, the walk calmed him down but since his mom was going as Fat Dorothy, he wanted to be Catatonic Toto.

Dom's costume was right on, even down to the straw for brains. He kept forgetting to hold out the pumpkin to collect candy.

Of all said and done this Halloween, I did make a few goals this year. Goal #4: Carve a kickass pumpkin without a pattern. I didn't do it until 3 p.m. on the 31st, but damnit I did it! Mine was the witch, Dom did the cool face.

And lastly, Goal #5: Eat my son's trick-or-treat candy. What? I gave him a piece. He didn't like it.

Oh well, Goal #6: Have a blogworthy Halloween.

It was the best of times. It was the worst of times.

Yesterday was not a bad day.

In fact, someone signed the lease on our house and put down the deposit. We have a renter for the next 12 months, guaranteed. Had coffee with Geraldine while Michael was still in childcare. I even finished making the favor bags for Sunday's birthday bash--little brown bags with puppy faces.

Dom and I decided some celebrating was in order. We hopped in the car down to Chili's for some good eats. After all that hard work of prepping for the party and costume sewing, I was ready for big ole plate of honey BBQ flavored chicken crispers. So crispy and tastey, that therein lies the first of many unfortunate happenings.

As I'm taking a gigantic bite, the crispness of the chicken's outer layer shot a teaspoon of honey barbeque burn right into my eye. I don't know how many of you have tried to eat sauce through your eye before, but the horrible stinging and shock of what the fuck just happened renders your speech uncomprehendable. While making stiff sweeps across the table like a rusty robot, I found a napkin and garbled, "Eye. It's sauce. Ah."

Today was a bad day.

I woke up with the ick that Michael's been spreading all over the house with his germy little hands. And I was going to inquire about the flu shot on Monday. I still managed to drag my body, which feels like it's rotting from the inside out, all over the house to get ready for Yoga class because I was supposed to meet Geraldine at 9. Too bad I didn't check the email that said she wasn't going before I left. I figured she was just running late, so I waited for about 15 minutes past before giving up and taking a shower. I had even shown up 15 minutes early because I had to stop and get more pedialyte for Michael Poopypants.

Now at home, I spend about an hour on the phone with my insurance provider trying to get Michael's card mailed out to us and change my doctor...blah, blah, blaaaahhh. I finally lay down for a glorious nap while Michael's still sleeping....only he's no longer sleeping. Fuck me.

I get him to the doctor's office and filled out my clipboard of family diseases while chasing him out of the bathroom and off of people's laps. It was a great time for all of us. *gag*

Ready for the shittiest part of my shitty, shitty, shit-filled day? I walk in to the living room and see the massacred remains of my cute, puppy favor bags lying mutilated on the floor. Blog damnit.

Hey, Dick, why is it that you see nude people in museums but they never show them on TV?

Remember how I said that before noon on a weekday the gym becomes a geriatric petri dish? Oh my Blog, it got worse today.

I'm taking the usual 15 minutes - 2 hours to blowdry my hair, because it has some sort of anti-drying charm on it that makes my locks perpetually wet and therefore takes an unbloggly amount of vigorous hairdryer waving to make any progress, and I see it via mirror standing behind me--naked grandma.

Diverting my gaze was absolutely top priority. I don't want to see any boobies in the locker room and here I am staring at Grandma Moses's exposed ta-tas. But with there being so many mirrors, it was nearly impossible. I had naked grandma in IMAX 3-D with Dolby Digital surround sound. I just started reading a sign sitting atop the counter over and over again. Ironically, it said this:

We hope you're enjoying your new locker rooms. For the consideration of other locker room patrons we ask that everyone remain covered in the common areas.

I never truly appreciated that sign before today. It's not just the age of the nakedness (though it does play a role). It's just awkward to turn around and be staring into someone's bare ass. Maybe it's me and my overly self-conscious attempts to stay fully clothed in the common areas that makes me think that everyone should at least wear the towel dress. Granted, I take the crazy cake and come out of the shower sporting my jeans and all. But as I heard a different elderly worker-outer once say, "Could you bring me my robe? I'm not ready to be Miss America."

Well hello there handsome. Coffee tea or me?

There are some things you just don't want to start your day off with and some without. The whole internet knows that I'm a dark roast lovin' java junkie--so when I don't have my caffeine infused miracle drink first thing I'm a little strung out. I certainly don't want to wake up and strip my son of poopy pajamas and wash his sheets. He is currently watching Curious George and eating handfuls of Captain Crunch.

And no matter how much I love my husband, having a conversation standing over me (still wrapped into my blankets and pressing one ear hard into the pillow) isn't going to be very two sided. All I can hear is the adult-figure voice from Charlie Brown. That works great for normal weekday circumstances of "I'm leaving for work. I love you. I'll call you this afternoon." But important news? You'd better sit me up and hand me some hazelnut flavored joe.

I'm pretty sure he was telling me that our realtor emailed him about an interested buyer. The guy's military but can't afford a down payment right away, so he want's to lease for 6 months. A sort of rent to own option. He hasn't been to look at the house yet, but the pictures got him seriously interested. As long as the carpet doesn't frighten him away (since we ARE offering a carpeting allowance) we may be golden. Also, we have a couple interested in renting the house (if we recarpet). Finally, competing bids on my house!

I'd rather sell it. For the love of Blog, let's hope this guy takes the recarpeting allowance and does it his damn self. I'm so sick of relying on unreliable "professional" people in the housing market not getting me a fucking estimate. It's not like I can hop a flight down there with my trusty tape measure and do it. Well, I could but then I couldn't afford the carpet. But seriously, how hard is it to walk into Home Depot and talk to a dude with a lumbar support strap?

Neil, have you noticed that no matter how late girls seem to go out, they always look good after a night on the binge?

Now that I have taken the weekend to recover from Friday night's Margarita mahem, I'm celebrating my sobriety with a nasty cold (or allergies, more likely). I'm about two drips away from shoving toilet paper up my nose to keep it from running any more. It might help the itchiness too. Sometimes that's the only thing that helps when I've got an itchy nose and can't sleep. I just stuff my nostrils with tissue.

All nose problems aside. Let me really start this blog with: I hate you Margarita. At least there was no barfing. Silver lining? In all honesty, it was a lot of fun. In fact, there was a lot of honesty. I was loud and I told the table (and probably other tables by fault of my booming, drunken voice) most everything I've got when it comes to secrets. I did get some juicy details out of the other girls as well. It's not my fault, Geraldine brought conversation starters. They worked...well. And yes, about 3 questions into the night I revealed that my favorite website was, indeed, this blog. Let's just say it wasn't the last time I mentioned it, either. What a fucktard I am.

I was surprised at how well they took some personal details that I blurted out and I'm certainly relieved to get it out there. It's nice to feel free with your friends. What it actually comes down to, is feeling unhampered yourself. It's a shot of confidence that doesn't taste like tequila.

So, highlights of the night anyone? Okay. Let's see if I can remember anything. And I'm not revealing any dirt on my partners in crime. Not that there was any crimes occurring...that I recall.

We start off at Los Tres Amigos around 8 p.m. Fitting right? I then drink 3 regular sized Margaritas within the first half hour there. That's at least 24 oz. in 30 minutes. Almost an ounce per 60 seconds. My math is kinda rusty, but I think that equals drunkass. Of course, then I decide--but really Kelly and Geraldine decide for me because they want to see more of uninhibited Cassidy--to order a fishbowl of alcohol. This thing was the size of my head! I think I even mimed sticking my head into it at one point, but details don't really exist by this point. I drank half. That's another 32 oz. Big Gulps at the gas station are 32 oz. I drank almost 2 Big Gulp's worth of Margaritas--56 oz. That's almost as much water as I'm supposed to drink in a day.

I remember exchanging dumb jokes, missing my straw a few times, and hitting my head against the booth wall after talking too vigorously with my hands.

Los Tres Amigos closes at 10, so we had to vacate to the drive-through daiquiri place across the street. There, Kelly got hit on by a dude named "Nate" and I got hit on by his gap-toothed, pot-smoking sister. And I guess the pickup line of the day was "You from around here?" We heard it at least 3 times. But hey, it was a conversational peice--Slidouche is a hit even here. I got a high five out that. We even heard it from Peirced Ears McCreepy as we were heading back. He left us with "You have a good night..." then paused dramatically and deepened his voice "ladies."

By the time we were ready to leave I had not fallen down in my heels, but I had tried to jump into Geraldine's car only to be hindered by the carseats. That's when she drove off with me still leaning on her vehicle.

I got a ride back with Kelly, but first we had to stop at CVS and then get milk at the gas station.

This is got to be the fifth biggest margarita I've ever drank in my life.

Today is going to be a busy day for me, readers. I have to start the morning off by driving to B.F. Mandeville for half an hour. No, B.F. does not stand for "best friends" or "bean fries." It should be worth hauling my ass out the door by 8, strapping a cranky 11 month old in the back seat, and listening to baby screams drowning out my radio and all the thoughts in my head about Gee, I wish I would have curled my hair after all because I look like a cavewoman. Should be.

Why? Because we're going to Ducky Joe's! I found a stay-at-home mother's group on meetup.com the week after we moved to Slidouche. It's just me and two other moms with an occassional pop-in now and then from somebody else. But mostly it's 7 other women who stand us up the morning of. This week, we're meeting at Ducky Joe's Indoor Playground! It looks like so much fun. I'm going to dress up and play in the castle.

After I make an ass of myself and/or get kicked out of Ducky Joe's for breaking the bouncy house. I'm heading back to fit in some time at the gym because I skipped Thursday which was supposed to be moved up because I was going to go today but can't because of the playdate being too far away so it just makes a time paradox that opens up another dimension behind a Ruby Tuesday's.

Now, after I turn my legs to jelly working out and get back home with Michael(who will be undoubtedly fussy and overtired from the hot mess of activities for the day) I have to get ready for a girls' night out.

I know you're thinking That sounds like fun. Nope. I'm nervous as tarnation. I'm going out with the two moms mentioned above (sans babies) where we'll be going out past my bedtime and drinking...

Margaritas.

Margaritas and I have an on-again off-again relationship. I love them, but they just can't commit to not making me act a fool. Next thing you know I'm drunk-ass, telling the world what color underwear I'm sporting.

Now, most of you know that I'm an open book. I publicly announce every interesting detail of my daily happenings to entertain you adoring fans. However, these chicks actually like me right now and I think it's because I'm quiet. I don't chime in every time my brain thinks up some random saying, that would make for great bloggage, because I know that it is socially inappropriate to say most things that I think up.

So, here's to the real me who's gonna be making out with a Margarita tonight between spiels of how awesome my blog is and why they should read it.

We're going to be Rock Stars. But first... we must burgle.

Due to our current inability to sell or rent out our house, we may have no dollars soon. Naturally, Dom and I decide to splurge on an early Christmas present to ourselves because that makes sense.

Seriously, we're bad with money. I once bought 6 years worth of magazine subscriptions over the phone to enter a contest that required no sales obligation. Now I have Redbook, Elle, and Interview until 2010. I'm a total sucker and usually fall for sales pitches unless I hang up on the poor guy before he finishes his first sentence. That's why I spent a 3 hour evening with a vacuum salesman--he offered me a 6 pack of free paper towels.

What did we buy, you ask? Oh, just Guitar Hero--Legends of Rock. Oh yeah, I'm totally badass. I mean actually bad and ass all at the same time because I suh-huck. Easy? Easy is not easy. Easy is just hard light.

I have to concentrate so hard that I barely move and my face does this one-eyed-squinty look while I bob my head to the beat. Pathetic. Meanwhile, Dom's freaking shredding the crap out of some metal song--and I'm struggling to strum and hit at least one note at the same time for "Barracuda." At one point yesterday he stood up on the couch and now he's moved on to making laps around the living room. I bet next he's going to beat a hard song strumming via telepathic powers.

I'm a Guitar Lame-O. I'm the victim who the Guitar Hero has to save from the burning building set aflame by my inadequacy. Here's a video: