Oh my Blog

An Open Letter to 2012

2011-12-16T11:45:00.000-08:00

Dear 2012,

     This past year has really flown by! 2011 brought me a lot of great things, like my daughter, that bitchin' deal on a front loading washer/dryer combo, and my addiction to sweet potato fries. I even drummed up the courage to start a small business that no one is interested in!
     It's been so incredibly unbelievable this year. So, 2012, with your impending arrival so near us, I thought I would take a chance and ask a small favor of your coming months--Could you, perhaps, spare me some drama?

     I understand it's a big moment for you, 2012. The populous is speculating that the Mayan's were onto something when they only projected THOUSANDS of years into the future and then suddenly stopped when their hands started cramping. I really don't want to step on your chance to shine as our last 12 months of existence, but, if the apocalypse does come...I don't want to spend the end of time being sucked into this vortex of egocentricity I usually find myself in every few months.
   All I ask, 2012, is that people keep things in perspective this year. I don't want to hear about how the meteor that destroyed most civilization threw off someone's groove and now it's somehow my job to get them back to a strict yoga routine. Also, no, nobody should take it personally that the zombies are always trying to eat THEM. They crave brains, so perhaps the less developed ones are more tasty, but it's really not worth pitching a fit over. Let's just all grab shotguns and shoot them in the balls for fun.

     With that all said, 2012, it would be great if the world didn't end. However, I understand your dilemma. So when it all comes down to things, I think I'll just find a nice, dead guy's house to squat in and ride it out. If I can just ignore all of humanity, that would be fantastic. And, even if the end of the Pre-Columbian Mesoamerican long calendar turns out to be nothing more than a case of Carpal Tunnel, could I still just ignore all of humanity until the end of time?
I really appreciate this, 2012. I just need some time to turn my luck around and stop feeling like the whole universe is screaming at me like that drunk homeless woman did when I stepped too close to her shopping cart that one time.

Sincerely,
Cassidy

Yo, she-bitch! Let's go!

2011-11-05T19:58:00.000-07:00

I've been in a bit of a slump lately. Maybe slump isn't the right term. Maybe I'm just on the verge of a nervous breakdown and am one more late bedtime and tantrum away from hurling all my dishes out the kitchen window and running down the street, nude, singing the theme to Bubble Guppies.

Terminology aside, I've actually been trying to improve my mood and stress level. I came up with this amazing plan--to consciously do something that makes me happy every day. I'd tried it out a few times, here and there. But today I decided to start logging it. I had a brilliant epiphany to use the blog to account for all my success, starting with today's episode in optimism: Dress like I don't have children. More importantly, dress as if I don't let my children's antics push my buttons to the point that I don't care if I look like a homeless party clown.

I was asked to have lunch with a friend at the mall. Perfect! I could wear my cute floral mini dress with some black leggings, rock star boots, and cardigan. I even had beautifully crafted waves in my hair and my hot, peacock earrings....And then the universe pissed all over me like a cat with a UTI.

While at the mall, Michael decided to run off in JC Penney. And since my rock star boots had heels attached to old lady ankles, pushing a double stroller, I couldn't catch him. People along the way were pointing what direction he dodged last, until finally an employee was calling for a Code Adam on the walkie-talkies. I was sobbing as he came lobbing around the corner to tell me that he was done sprinting. And if I had to pick a favorite memory from the trip, that would be it.

At least I still felt some fondness for the booger at that point. Because soon after, he was crawling into display beds, screaming down the hallways, and demanding that he get to play on the rides at the food court before eating his chicken nuggets. I had to literally carry and drag him down the corridor to the exit with him screaming "I don't want to go home!" at a pitch and volume that could have shattered plexiglass.

I didn't even take a picture of my outfit. I just came home, stripped into pajamas, and wiped away the raccoon eyes that my smeared mascara had left. It's now 15 til 10 and the little beast is still awake, looking over my shoulder as I type this. Not sure what demon possessed my sweet child, but let's get a priest, slayer, and a Super Nanny up in here to hit up a Necronomicon for some answers.

Today's subject line quote is from Army of Darkness (1992).

I want to eat your brains, but only if they're organic and grass-fed.

2011-10-19T19:40:00.000-07:00

Ugh. I just ate a tuna salad sandwich...in bed at 9:30 p.m. I'm disgusting. It wasn't even a good tuna salad sandwich! It was made with the lite, fall-apart, "smart" white crap that you can't use with peanut butter because it will shred as soon as the knife hits it. Plus, I used reduced fat mayo and way too little pickle relish. But did that stop me from finishing it? Of course not. I choked down the whole thing, even with too big of bites that it gave me that heartburn feeling where it feels like the entire sandwich is lodged in your chest somewhere and it would have to be surgically removed later.

But aside from my horrific recipe, I still ate a freaking tuna sandwich IN BED at 9:30 at night! What's wrong with me? I kicked my own ass to the gym last night and tortured myself for an hour long cross-training session with an instructor who insisted on listening (and singing along) to Nickelback. Seriously? Nickelback?! That's the worst band in the history of music--all of music, even in the animal kingdoms. I'd rather listen to howler monkeys or a cat in heat. Or a choir of howler monkeys and horny cats in an ensemble. I wanted to cry, from the pain in my legs and my ears.

That's all. I just had to share how nasty I've become since my husband went to Asia.

Today's subject line quote is from How I Met Your Mother (2005 TV Series)
Episode: Sorry, Bro (2009)

Oh, loneliness and cheeseburgers are a dangerous mix.

2011-10-17T14:57:00.000-07:00

I'm alone again. Dom left last Thursday for a 5 week cruise around the Pacific, and I realized that I haven't spoken to another adult since Friday. I'm so popular, you know. Anyway, that's a whole lot of children time this weekend. In fact, Michael hasn't slept in his own bed since Thursday night.

The first night, he snuck in sometime after midnight, claiming to have had a bad dream. The following evenings, I just gave up after a few hours of battling. Last night I set up a pop tent on my floor. It was kind of like having privacy, only with more snoring. It doesn't so much matter because I'm laying awake at night anyway.

I've been wondering about some crazy what-ifs. If I had an aneurism/heart attack while my husband is away--which it's likely, because all of this stress will probably kill me someday soon--I don't think anyone would realize for a good week or two. Wouldn't bother me any; I'm dead in these scenarios. But what about my kids? I don't want my almost 4 year old having to survive off of the granola bars I keep on the counter top while my 9 month old fashions a rope to climb out of her dirty diaper and a blanket just to climb out of her crib. The only supervision they will have is my retarded Labrador and his manipulative Beagle cohort (who is completely driven by the desire to eat, by the way). My children will be raised by dogs, only to be eaten by them!

So I stare at the ceiling, trying to escape my inevitable doom of dying in my sleep and end up too tired to take care of my children properly anyhow. What a world.

Today's subject line quote is from The Simpsons.

Look at this! It's like an advert for weight watchers! Before... and way before!

2011-09-13T15:05:00.000-07:00

Since my family is on "vacation" right now (we tagged along on one of Dom's work trips and am visiting his sister in my down time), I've been eating things that should probably void my weight watcher's membership...at every meal. And since I have no desire to return to slidouche 50 lbs heavier than I left, I promised myself that I would eat better today.

It's 4:30 and I'm eating a piece of ice cream cake for dinner.

Seriously, I was all weepy in the shower thinking that maybe I could just cry away all the pounds I probably put on in the last week. I had a great conversation in my head that involved some sort of pact about only eating Subway for the next 3 days and that I hate cheese on my sandwiches.

I don't hate cheese. In fact, I had McAlister's for lunch today and ate a giant bowl of cheese dip and a bowl of potato and cheddar soup. At this rate, I will continue teetering on the edge of fat until I finally just lunge headfirst into my first heart attack. I've lost about 20 lbs. since having the baby, but I've been stuck in the 150's for months now. And with my whopping height of 5'3....okay...5'2 and 3/4, it puts me VERY close to a healthy BMI.

Close. But it still makes me self conscious any time I have a lapse in food judgement. Or say, if I never drink water and end up bloating up like a week old dead guy in a river. Then I get mopey and eat cake for dinner. It's a vicious cycle. That's why I'm licking the last bits of chocolate, melty goo off my fork while trying not to flood my sister-in-law's dining room with my tears.

Today's subject line quote is from The Sopranos , "University" (2001).

I write... Erotic novels, for children.

2011-08-23T16:33:00.000-07:00

     Oh great. I'm a writer, blogging at Starbuck's. Quick, somebody get me a beret and a cigarette! Lately, I'll take what I can get. Though I've worked it out with Dom to go "work" for 2 hours, twice a week. We're in our second week, and it's going phenomenally average.

     It takes a while to get back into the swing of things, they say. See? I'm using cliches! I don't do that. But my brain is so mushified from the last few months' abuse that I just have to suffer with the rest of you readers. I'm almost sorry that you chose to read this. Almost. I also love attention...and comments.
     Well, my writing time is established and I have happily chosen to blog tonight. Mostly because my head has been on the verge of a hearty explosion with all the whatnot crammed inside of it. If I don't get this all out in writing soon, all Slidouchebags within a 100 meter range might get slimed with grey matter and whatever stress looks like manifested and exploded out of my brain.

     So let's see, what have I done lately? Let's give a brief recap of 2011. Had a baby--check. A baby who didn't understand that breathing wasn't quite like a Nascar race and collapsed her own lung and had to spend her first two weeks in the NICU. Then a follow up visit to the pediatric unit three months later for a virus. And I topped things off with her by dropping her on her tiny, infant skull at the movie theater and had to rush her to the E.R. yet again, only to be dismissed as a clumsy, idiot, mother.

     She's doing well now. Trying to learn crawling.

     I also made a metric ass ton of plans and prepped for our upcoming move to Maryland. Make that Virginia? No wait, wait! Nowhere. Yup. I spent about 6 months and 200 some odd dollars trying to get childcare arrangements made for Michael so he could attend preschool next fall. But we're stuck in the swamp until May, possibly next fall. It's a decision that Dom and I felt was the best, though the thought of spending another summer here in this hell-hole (literally, it's about 4,193,289,834 degrees here) is making that grey matter pulse a bit. It's better that we're not there in the midst of all that earthquake chaos; I heard a lawn chair fell over in Virginia.

     Now my lady parts are malfunctioning and I have to beg for a referral from my primary doctor in the morning and hope she cooperates before 2:30 tomorrow. Otherwise, I might have to actually pay for somebody to go spelunking for cancer up in my cooch.

     And I'll leave you with that, I suppose. You're welcome. Stay classy, like me.

Today's subject line quote is Friends: "The One with the Girl from Poughkeepsie"(1997).

It's a good tub. I slept there for my 30th birthday.

2011-07-16T06:13:00.000-07:00

     It's 7 a.m. on my birthday and I'm awake and everyone else is sleeping? After sampling 20 beers last night at the tasting, I should be in some kind of hangover coma. You know? I don't even enjoy beer. But I tried every last one at the Wine Market, took notes, and promptly collapsed to the floor in the back room.

   It was Dom's idea to go, but that was before we realized that our babysitter, backup babysitter, and the family that have coming into town this weekend would all be unavailable on Friday night. So the plans we had made for my birthday extravaganza were modified to have me go drink, basically, over a dozen shots of beers from around the world. By the last table, I was a bit tipsy and certainly cleansing the palette with huge chunks of bread because all of table 3 tasted like nut flavored vinegar.

   Meanwhile, my husband is babysitting our adorably sick daughter. And by "adorably," I mean she kept me up all night screaming her face off until I numbed her throat with Baby Orajel. She has the hand, foot, mouth virus--which leaves ulcers in the back of your throat and can eventually spread to your feet, hands, and torso. I had it about a year ago. I was pathetic! Couldn't even open the front door because my hands were so sore. I also looked like a leper.

     My point is that exhaustion and alcohol don't mix. I had finished sampling and was chatting with my friends around the snack table and suddenly I was on the floor. Blame it on the drinks or the hooker heels I was wearing, but for all I know and remember...I could have been abducted by aliens in the time it took me to hit the ground. Now my right hand and hip and opposite thigh are all bruised up from hitting the table and then trying to break my fall (though not succeeding, apparently).

   The rest of the night went more smoothly. We had a great time at dinner, even if they locked us back in the meeting room and we ate our burgers on desk chairs. And there was a great variance of conversational topics from the left side of the table to the right. The left end was discussing finances over their wine glasses while the right side was making jokes about bestiality and discussing how masturbation on airplanes is frowned upon. Since I was in the middle, I like to think that I had one foot in both worlds.

     Now that I've made myself out to sound like a drunken whore, Happy Birthday to me. I want to be a lady when I grow up! Maybe for my 28th birthday someone will get me some dignity.

Today's subject line quote is from Bridesmaids (2011).

We have two giant hamsters running in a massive wheel in our secret underground lair.

2011-07-02T17:57:00.000-07:00

     Are you kidding me, Universe? Two days after getting our car "fixed" at Sears, Dom had to get a jump while out running some errands! And today he tried to take it back in, but because he left the invoice here at the house they absolutely, could NOT help him. Apparently the woman that worked with my husband also received the "how to be a tool in the service industry." It must be standard orientation for Sears Automotive.

     And on his way home from the mall, work called. Apparently they screwed up his duty timing. He had agreed to work overnight tonight, but he was written in as 8 a.m. instead. So all of our daytime plans were kablooey, and I'm now scouring the house looking for a missing hamster that happens to be the same color as all the giant, dust-covered furballs that are blowing around in the corners and under the couches.

     Did I mention that I spilled paint on our carpet? Twice. Two separate colors. I'm such a walking catastrophe. I have no idea how I function every day.

Today's subject line quote is from Lost (2004) The Man from Tallahassee.

I promised sears I would tell this story on stage every night until the lawsuit settled...

2011-06-29T15:37:00.000-07:00

     The chaos has returned and it brought it's friends, turmoil and misfortune. Today was supposed to be a fun day at the mall. My playgroup was meeting for lunch and a short walk around the shops and I was very much looking forward to a good romp with the mommies. Shut up, that did not come off as sexual. Nearly 5 hours, 2 tires, an alignment, an obscure battery-related part, and 2 overly tired children later, I wasn't singing the "Fun Times with Cassidy" theme song or doing the matching, jaunty jig.

   My first disappointment today was when my favorite mommy friend made the decision that hermitage better fits her lifestyle and has recently become rather reclusive. It's not her fault, she has a lot on her plate. However, much of my excitement for the morning meetup was to catch up with her.
     So my first thought was Oh! I can skip it, put the kids in extended care at the gym and go get my hair cut. But then I started to feel a twinge of guilt because Michael loves going to the mall and seeing his buddies. Plus, I do have other friends that I enjoy spending time with that would be going. What I should have done, was stay home and eat chips in my pajamas.

   When I stopped to get gas across the street from the mall, I not only got the slowest pump on the planet but ended up calling my friend Kristine to come give me a jump start. And since I hadn't had to jump a car since Driver's Ed. in 11th grade, we pulled her boss over from the Vitamin Shoppe to come connect the cables. It's embarrassingly simple, and if it hadn't been 10 1/2 years, 2 kids, and a massive hemorrhage of brain cells since I've had to use that knowledge...then I could have done it myself. But since Bossman declared "Just so you all know, these ladies needed a man over here!" as soon as he hit the parking lot, I clearly didn't have the assets to complete the task. How could I have left my frank and beans behind on a day like this?

   My next mistake was dropping the car off at my friendly Sears Automotive Center, where the assnugget named George clearly didn't want to be working today...or possibly ever. I was waiting in the car with Complainypants McWhinerson Michael and a screaming baby while he did some kind of 9283748237498 point inspection on the car in front of me. Then when I told him my problem, he directed me to move into the spot next to me AFTER the delivery truck vacated it at an indeterminable time. After about 15 minutes, I actually got out of the car and asked the delivery guy if he was leaving in the next century.
     Assnugget George then helped 4 teenagers deliberate over cheap tire for another 10 minutes before acknowledging my presence. Why? Well, it's a scientific fact that assnuggets lack the glands necessary to multitask, but often have an excess of sweat glands. He then lectured me on the baldness of my tires and bullied me into buying 2 new ones, rotating the existing ones, and probably giving him some kind of commission for hassling me and smelling like cologne and B.O. Then he wrapped it up with the infamous words, "It will be ready in about 2 hours."

   He did call me about 2 hours later and inform me that my back, passenger side tire had a nail in it. We had already had a stellar dialogue going back and forth on how I really didn't want to do much of this before talking to my husband. "Don't do any more to the tires, I want to talk it over with my husband first before--" Then I was cut off with, "Well you still want us to do the front tires, right? You agreed to that already!" He was almost panicked at this point, and I reassured him that was the deal. "But you want me to keep the nail in it and send you home on a leaking tire?"
      Well, no. But I did want to consider getting two more tires and the thought of spending more dough to get that one fixed didn't make much sense to me--especially since it had been a slow leak for a good year now and no Michael Bay caliber explosions on the highway had occured. But the thought of having to come back there, or even somewhere else where I would have to deal with such douchebaggery just made me agree to the damn patch job. When I asked him how much the repair would cost, he said this...and I'm not paraphrasing..."You mean the amount I told you this morning and printed on your invoice? $19.95."

   I headed back over to Sears since Assnugget George informed me that my car would "be ready very soon." And perhaps truthful to some degree, since the Sears Automotive Center is some kind of vacuous time suck where laws of physics don't apply. I left the mall at 3:30, after arriving at 10:45. And the whole way home all I could think of was Ron White's comedy bit about the Sears mechanic and hoping it wasn't going to be true in my case. "Apparently he was sick on lugnut day, but they still let him work on my van!"

Today's subject line quote is from Ron White, They Call me "Tater Salad".

I was thinkin' "Hey, Saturday. Maybe a slow day for once". No rest for the wicked.

2011-06-25T09:59:00.000-07:00

     I'd like to start today's post by informing everyone that it is sponsored by Barnes and Noble's free WiFi and not the internet at the gym. Not that I haven't been whipping my buns into a firm and extraordinary shape. Because I have been going, just using the facilities for working out instead of exploiting the daycare center for typing time. But Barnes and Noble? That requires driving north on a long strip of nothing for about 30 minutes until reaching the giant chunk of land where all civilization is located. So long Slidouche, it's my morning off!

     Do you know how long it's been since I've had a Saturday free, much less to myself? We're in the middle of birthday season.   Almost every child I know was born between between the months of April and June; therefore, all of my weekends are full of various venues full of kids running laps, hyped up on cake that I can't eat. Okay, shouldn't eat.
   But since I know what anxiety is spawned by spending hours planning a party that will astound your child, entertain the guests, and not have to apply for a loan in order to pay for it, only to have 2 of the 30 some odd RSVPs actually show--I genuinely want to go to these things. What's a few hours for some kids' happiness right? Even if 3 hours magically turns into all...freaking...day...when you include packing a diaper bag, travel time, and having to physically lift the 35 lb. preschooler up over your shoulder and run him out to the car even though he'll LOVE it when he gets there, but refuses to do anything but sit in his pajamas eating cereal for 4 hours every morning.
   So I guess my point is actually simple:

Parents and Parent Wannabes, STOP HAVING SEX IN LATE SUMMER.

     I'm not factoring in the "surprises," so maybe that will even out the amount of Springtime babies. It won't do anything for the kids Michael's age that eff up my weekends, but perhaps Ivy's friends will have the decency to spread themselves along the calender. Seriously, I have chores to do and I don't want to pay a teenager 10 bucks an hour on a Tuesday morning so that I can do them.

Today's subject line quote is from Fringe (2008): Over There: Part I.

You're messing with my Zen thing, man!

2011-06-16T09:21:00.000-07:00

     I just spent the last half hour literally laughing my ass off. I took my first Pilates class at the MegaGym and it was challenging. Maybe not so much from the workout, but from trying not to fart while silently giggling in the corner. That and not stretching. I assumed that we would do a little pre-stetching ritual, maybe work into the difficult moves. But it was apparently my job to do that before we started ripping the muscles from their rightful places and throwing them across the room for 30 reps.

     That wasn't the funny part. The hilarity of the situation was that I was in a room full of old ladies, one of whom was Hispanic and decided to let out an "Aye!" or Spanish inflected "Oh!" every time she flexed. Have you ever tried breathing correctly with one leg behind you and the other in front of your face, above your head AND silently convulsing so nobody realizes just how humorous you think an old woman's pain is? It's not easy. But the good news, is that I definitely engaged my core! It's involuntary to tense up the entire abdomen when suppressing laughter.

      Now I'm having some quiet time in the lobby with my netbook. I still have 45 minutes before they make me haul the munchkins home or make me pay them extra to keep them alive. I probably look ridiculous sitting here, but I love it. I can sit here and type til my heart's content and nobody will yell, "Mommy! Be the bad guy! Now run from the dragon before it eats you!" At least I hope not...but that would be an altogether different experience, wouldn't it?

   And after cleaning up the spilled contents of a hamster cage, getting baby diarrhea sprayed onto me, and listening to 2 exceptionally needy children for all those hours yesterday--I might take my chances with any weirdos I might encounter here in the lobby. I might leave with them.

Today's subject line quote is from TRON: Legacy (2010).

He's not going to quit bouncing, I'll tell you that.

2011-06-01T13:53:00.000-07:00

     Excuse my absence. Again. I feel like 80% of my blogs start with some kind of apology these days. Sorry for that, too. My family has been mega busy the last few weeks. We've joined the gym, ended the school year, had a trip to the E.R. after dropping the baby on her head. You know, the usual. Don't worry, I'll elaborate that last one for you.

   Our theater has a summer program where they run old children's movies on the big screen for $3. Michael loves it because he can go to the movies every week. I love it because it basically costs pocket change and it includes popcorn and a drink. This kid is a movie junkie. We've seen almost every children's flick in the theater since the second Chipmunks came out in 2009. Movies aren't cheap any more, never really were. But now, even matinee showings are $7 a ticket. For 3 tickets, it's 21 smackers! If you factor in enough snacks and drinks for all of us, we're looking at having to sell organs on the black market. Once Ivy is old enough that we have to pay for hers too, we might as well just give them Dom's nuts because we won't be affording any more children.

     That is, if Ivy lives past a year. With my divine parenting skills and all, I mean. I've got some mean baby dropping moves, let me tell you! Moral of the story: "Don't try to pee with your infant in a baby sling." I leaned too far forward and she popped right out of the front of it, smacking her head on the bathroom floor. So not only did I have to worry about a concussion, her brain hemorrhaging, and cognitive delay, I also exposed her whatever the hell was growing on the floor of the public toilet.
   We made it in and out of the emergency room pretty quickly. She wasn't showing any signs of trauma and after answering all the questions about the fall, the doctor gave me a why are you even here? look. But Michael reminds me any time that I use the carrier that "If Ivy falls out, we'll have to take her back to the hospital. So be careful!"

   But when I'm not throwing my children on the ground, I've been spending my free time preparing for my sister-in-law's upcoming destination wedding. We're headed to Denver on Friday and I'm extremely excited to be going out there. DiMaggio weddings are inexplicably fun. It's a banquet hall full of loud Italians with Dom's quirky sense of humor. What's not fun about that?
   Finding an outfit for the wedding, was not so enjoyable. I went to seven stores over three days before I found something that fit well enough. I could have given up earlier, but most of the ensembles looked like a strapless trashbag was draped around me. That's because my body is an asymmetric blob consisting of about 3 different dress sizes throughout.
     My top was somewhere between a 12 and 14, my ass was a 10, and my gut a 12. Seriously, did you know that when you have large breasts and then have two kids, they get even BIGGER? I got fitted by a specialist and these ladies are a 34 FF.   The Victoria's Secret "bra wench" tried to stuff me in a 36 DD the day before that. Ha!
   I was able to find a decent pick. It's a simple, yet elegant, blue dress that I'm spicing up with a belt and strappy shoes. Know what the final size was? An 8.

     I should just change my name so that my initials are WTF. Those would make a nice monogram for a set of towels, don't you think?

Today's subject line quote is from Kung Fu Panda (2008).

Here. It's all right here in my noodle. The rest is just scribbling. Scribbling and bibbling, bibbling and scribbling.

2011-05-19T16:39:00.000-07:00

     It's been almost a week since my day at the spa and I still really, really want to write a post about my experience. Unfortunately, I've had a unusual week packed with tons of other bloggable material and have no idea when I'll get to share any of it at length.
   Such as today. I waited 15 minute for the handicap fitting room at Ross to open up so I could fit my big-ass stroller inside the stall and not have to get dressed half in the hallway so nobody would steal my baby. After the eternity passed, I expected to see an old lady open the door or even another mom whom I could exchange the "yeah, I know" head nod and cram my travel system through the door. Not even close! It was a perfectly bipedal adult, the size of my middle finger...of which I wanted to show off to her so badly.
   There were 7 empty dressing rooms of an appropriate size, but Miss Petite Thing had brought in probably 20 items and, I guess, wanted it to feel like a walk-in closet. Who knows? She could have taken a nap in there for the amount of time I was stuck waiting, shoved into the mirror corner.   And then I got stuck in 1 of my 2 dresses I wanted to try on! Because, apparently, I have a size 10 ass and size 18 boobs.

     There's also been late nights with both kids, followed by a vomiting preschooler who, later in the same day, could have finished a marathon before the end of a Robot Chicken sketch. Obviously I have a lot of lovely stories that I am excited to share, but such stories keep me from posting. Vicious cycle, folks.
     In the midst of such, I've actually gotten some sincere suggestions that I write a book based on all my chaotic happenings. I have to confess that the idea has landed on my brain a few times, but this pattern of disarray makes it pretty unlikely unless I find some serious time to myself--which is partly why I have decided to rejoin the ranks of the Naked Grannies and rejoin Megagym.
   Though the most appealing aspect of rejoining is probably just being able to shower and throw some makeup on in a quiet environment, even if the old ladies like to walk around in le buff. I know that's totally not real French. But "le nu" probably wouldn't make sense if you didn't already know real French, so...le suck it. Also not real French. Regardless, I'm hoping to spend some time post workout working on more entries and maybe even compiling a stack of crap to photocopy and send to you guys as a "book." Or send to a publisher, whatever. Oh, and I created a facebook page. "Like" me, would ya?

     But my dinner is burning and this has already taken me about 4 hours long to write this than I had hoped. So I'm going to go salvage my pasta.

Today's subject line quote is from Amadeus (1984).

Dozens of people spontaneously combust each year. It's just not really widely reported.

2011-05-11T07:27:00.000-07:00

     Summer is quickly approaching. Here in Slidouche that means a number of unpleasantries that will inevitably lead to my hermitage, i.e. back sweat from just walking to the mailbox, fear of their imminent death by putting my children in the car, having to put deodorant on under my boobs, etc.
     Somehow the Earth's rotation defies physics and allows the sun to shine directly on me and I will either catch fire or spend the next three months with a perpetual, blistering burn. All while the native Slidouchebags (no offense to those of you I know personally), have developed a tolerance for this heat and walk around looking fabulously tan. Did you guys get your sweat glands removed or something? Seriously, why am I the only one spraying people in the eyes with my armpit juice?

     As you may remember from a previous post, I have been preparing myself for these days through the art of self mutilation--commonly referred to as "shaving." I even risked getting the cancer and sat outside yesterday, trying to get some color. And yet, these post-baby hormones have foiled my plan again!

     Now I have skin that is simultaneously oily and dry, leaving a layer of grease over my splotches of flaking face. I also have a curling iron burn on my forehead, mountainous zit on my chin, and an unidentifiable, hot pink spot on my left cheek that form perfect 90 degree angles. Combined with my razor burned and slightly off-white legs, I appear to have some sort of necrosis. I expect my feet to turn black and fall off any day now. Which is one of many reasons I'm looking forward to my spa day on Friday; I desperately need a qualified stranger to take a cheese grater to my hooves.

     I will try to remember and shave before then, since my first pedicure was when I was 9 months pregnant and couldn't see my lower body much less reach it. Poor guy probably felt like he was rubbing down Bigfoot's gams for all the lotion matting up my leg hair. I just had to remind myself that pregnancy justifies such actions, and that Lady Gaga would surely pull off a Yeti look at the next Grammy's.

Today's subject line quote is from This is Spinal Tap (1984).

They can't be bought, bullied, reasoned or negotiated with. Some men just want to watch the world burn.

2011-05-05T19:46:00.000-07:00

With all of the anti-bullying campaigns that Dom and I have run across lately, we've had some interesting conversations this week regarding our own childhood experiences. Neither of us divulged many details, per se, but in the near decade we've been together it's been easy to piece together a decent picture of what each other have been through. I'll spare you a verbose explanation and just say this--being bullied from elementary school and even up into high school had a majorly negative impact on both of us.

Goes without saying, right? Then why is there still bullying and the need for such dramatic efforts to stop it? There is an exercise for coping with the intense feelings that has recently come to my attention--an open letter to all past bullies. I've decided to publish mine, here on the blog, in an attempt that is twofold. First, that anyone who has ever shared these feelings or is currently being bullied might find solace in my sharing such personal thoughts, and even find courage to stand up and make a difference for themselves and others. And secondly, that persons reading this post will understand just how serious bullying should be taken and help provide a zero tolerance atmosphere.

Dear Bullies,

I spent 6 years of my childhood and adolescence praying for cancer because I was too scared to take my own life. Perhaps it was worth the consequences--physical pain, an eternity in hell, or worst yet...the repercussions if I survived a suicide attempt. It could be misinterpreted as a "cry for help," labeling me weak and cowardly, and surely dozens of other terms to go alongside a few I already had: weird, ugly, pale, poor, fat, etc. A childhood friend of mine succeeded at taking her own life when we were teenagers, but the brief time she spent in the hospital, struggling in her last moments, were enough to turn the rumor mill...and I heard how truly awful my peers could be.

But it most certainly would not have been the truth. I just wanted relief. And at the time, it felt like death was my best option. I wanted to die, and it was 95% your fault. Yes, depression runs in my family. But I'll never know if I would have felt the same crushing feelings if they hadn't been provoked by my environment.

Now, I'm old enough to realize that most of what you bullies did was out of ignorance. Many of you didn't understand how to process social behavior and have since gone on to become upstanding citizens. Others of you, I believe might have just been sociopaths and have since grown up to become serial killers. I know some of you let jealousy convince you that I was a threat to your friendships. Some couldn't make friends easily and used manipulation as the only accessible tool. But most of you just didn't accept that, for many reasons, I was different.

No matter the reason or intention, I grew up believing what you told me about myself was true. As a result, I had low self-esteem, little confidence, and a poor understanding of social relationships. It's only now, 9 years out of high school, that I feel like I've gotten a grip on my own life. You may read this one day and still perceive me as strange, and it might still be true. I am different, and sometimes differences make the difference.

Bullies, I am still angry. I believe you stole part of me that never got a chance to grow with my body. Sometimes I still daydream of a parallel universe where those things were never said, and I got to be the person I should have been. And sometimes I'm grateful for these experiences, for molding my personality into what it is now. For letting me bond with husband over common events, and for allowing us to know the right way to raise our children. We will never forget you. And by some inexplicable need, I forgive you. But please, please, do what is in your power to NEVER let this happen to another child again.

Sincerly,

Cassidy

Today's subject line quote is from The Dark Knight (2008).

Is it crazy, or just weird? Weird I can deal with, but crazy...

2011-04-20T13:45:00.000-07:00

I feel like I should apologize for my last entry. Obviously, I shouldn't have watched My Sister's Keeper so soon after having a sick child. I must have set the blog load on heavy wash because it was soaking in the melodrama. Honestly? I think I've been secretly craving a bit of crazy. Without all the absurd chaos that somehow shapes itself into my life, the blog is boring. And by boring, I mean that the new post tab sits open, holding two poorly edited sentences for three months.

How can I have gone so long without at least a smidge of weird making it's way in somewhere? Weird usually finds me. Like how some people always step in gum? I used to step in weird every day. Perhaps I've just been so preoccupied with keeping my children alive that I just haven't been seeing the usual blog-worthy tidbits. Cee-Lo Green could walk up next to me in his Elton John-turkey-guise from the Grammy's, and I wouldn't notice because I'm busy wiping baby spit off my shirt and telling my preschooler that the Winn-Dixie is not the place to yell "penis" and proceed to whip it out.

So I guess there's always that. But seriously, I'm ready for the WTF level to raise back to chronic so I can remain dazzling you guys with my like, words. And stuff.

Today's subject line quote is from Bones--The Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood (2009).

They gave me medication. So I feel how I imagine people of average intelligence feel, all the time.

2011-04-05T07:25:00.001-07:00

"Bet you never thought you'd be covered in baby blood, huh?" It's true, I never pictured myself with my infant daughter's blood all over my pink Tinkerbell tee, but as my husband said it--everything became less surreal. It snapped me back into the green-walled room of the pediatric ward where I began to process what had happened in the last several hours--that our 3 month old hadn't eaten and become so dehydrated that two nurses and a phlebotomist pricked her limbs so badly, she bled all over the emergency room linens and my clothes. The storms had also knocked out power to most of the area until after midnight (and therefore the elevators), so I carefully carried her up four flights of stairs as to not detach her from the precious saline hep-lock it had taken nearly 2 hours to get right.

How did it get to this? Weren't we just fighting to get out of the hospital from Ivy's birth? She's 12 weeks old and has spent approximately one quarter of her life in a hospital. The NICU staff assured me that she wouldn't be chronically ill after winning the battle with her lungs--she was a normal baby, healthy. So two and a half months later, we land ourselves back in?

It does seem to be happenstance, coincidence, or what-have-you. It was an innocent virus that caused her to lose appetite and become dehydrated. There was never any real threat of impending death, but hearing doctor's throw out terms like meningitis, spinal tap, and kidney ultrasound didn't help my already trembling body and belabored mind. I want a healthy child! Not having to choose which child I get to see per day. Happenstance or not, I'm tired of being recognized by the hospital nursing staff.

We are on the mend, and this is what I have to say:

My declaration to the universe--I'm done with dumb luck. In the last 3 months we have had medical crisis, the presage of evicting the tenants from our rental, our estimated moving date changed 3 times (causing major planning problems for preschool applications and finding a rental), and the threat of a delayed paycheck--all while coping with personal emotional issues for both my husband and self and keeping up with a cranky, incontinent dog. I need some honestly good, no strings attached, stress-free news. Also some time to do our taxes.

Today's subject line quote is from "Bones" Harbingers in a Fountain (2009).

What they gotta do is build their frontal lobe with exercise. That comes from doing the wrong thing.

2011-03-21T12:25:00.000-07:00

Those skinny moms of multiple children who get up at 6 a.m. to do yoga used to make me want to barf. I thought it was fadish and somewhat egotistical for someone to be that worried about a saggy ass. But here I am, on my second large cup of coffee and droopy-eyed because I got up early to worry about my flabby bottom.

Dom and I bought a Wii Fit yesterday and I had already spent over an hour on it by dinner time. Today I set up a custom workout routine and set to it before the kids woke up. Now, I'm happy to report that my arms arms feel like mush and my legs no longer work. I did yoga, strength training, hula hooping, and skateboarding--all before 8 this morning.

Did you know I used to be lazy? Waking before 10 was damn near blasphemy (well, you know for a girl that was too lazy for church and decided couch worship was more suitable). I also only worked 10 hours a week and took naps between classes in college.

Mostly it was depression. Even when things were going well for me, I just didn't have the energy or motivation for most things. Then I had to start paying rent and bills and I was just exhausted, depressed, and broke. So I was only home long enough to bank some z's before hitting the daily grind. I was working 6 days a week at Taco Bell and still not making enough moolah to not have to eat the messed up orders instead of buying groceries that I was never home to cook.

So here I am, plus and minus a combination of over 100 pounds, trying to tone all of those lumps, bumps, and flaps that have somehow become my body over the last decade. I was a size 4 and roughly 120 big ones when I started my freshman year of college. Poor Dom. He thought he was getting a blonde hottie, but I soon skyrocketed to the 160's by our wedding, and another 10 pounds trying to conceive Michael in the following years. Then the all-you-can-eat buffet logic set in and I weighed in at a hefty 240 by the end of my first pregnancy.

Now after 2 kids and a 7 year marriage full of binge eating during Dom's deployments, I've gone up and down quite a bit and my body in WTF mode about what's supposed to be up and down. So yeah, perhaps I fit a demographic that I didn't understand before. And yes, it's purely ego driven of me to get up that early and force my limbs into such unnatural positions for the pure purpose of a tiny waist and better curves. But why not?

What's wrong with wanting to finally have a better body after 10 years of abuse? I was naive about diet and exercise as a young adult, and it's time for me to fix my mistakes. It makes me happy and excited to be so motivated and to accomplish something I've never been able to do before. So tomorrow I will also get up in pre-baby hours and let that creepy, animated balance board talk me into doing 6 more reps of jacknives.

Today's subject line quote is from Bones, "The Beaver in the Otter" (2009).

All this talk of blood and slaying has put me off my tea.

2011-03-11T16:37:00.000-08:00

It has been 00:00:14:25 since my last shaving incident.

I like to kick of the warmer weather in style, like with an arterial bleed. With all the hype around vampire media, blood is the new black right? But shaving is not the biggest of my springtime worries. Well, if my ankle doesn't stop gushing soon it might become a priority issue. I mean that tissue isn't doing the trick and I can't find the bandaids! What kind of mother doesn't know where the bandaids are in her own house? The kind that bleeds to death, that's what.

Really my concern lies with coloring. Springtime in Louisiana is more like summer near the equator. It gets spicier than flamin' hot cheetos and long pants are not an option unless you fancy yourself having a heatstroke by 9 a.m. Unfortunately, my complexion is a half-tint above ghostly.

And before you get judgey and assume I'm just any other white-girl of Irish decent and lack the gene necessary for tanning, let me tell you that I could probably go outside for 15 minutes and come back a nice, roasty, goldenness. But like all things in my life, karma is ready to kick me square in me Irish arse and my downfalls are two-fold:

1) My tan will only last a matter of hours. Seriously, a magic marker would stay on longer. Unless I'm planning on standing outside all day in my skivvies, a long-lasting option it ain't.

2) I had a scare with the big C regarding my skin about 2 years ago. It wasn't a major issue, but I do have a nasty scar on my back from where my dermatologist removed a chunk out of my back that was the size of a marble. Even if I did keep a tan, it wouldn't be worth going through that again.

Bring on the SPF 1,000,000! I don't really mind being a little pasty in exchange for not dying of cancer. However, people tend to get a little unnerved when they can see the veins and inner workings of my overly transparent legs. Nobody wants to see skin reminiscent of a jellyfish. Now I'm left with self tanners that make me break out or leave streaks and spots where the epidermis is too dry.

Case and point? Back before I was so conscious about skin health, I was planning on tanning the crap out of my body for my wedding. Unfortunately, I was also too ditzy and completely forgot until the week OF my big day to address the issue and had to resort to a Majestic Spray Tan. Worst. Idea. Ever.

I woke up the next day looking African...like a cheetah. There were spots all over my arms! And when I called the salon for a refund, solution, or even advice, the manager tartly stated that I must not have followed the directions (of which I was terrified of not following for utter fear of exactly what happened to me) and that "Well, you're not going to look like the girl in the video." How about not looking like something off a Discovery Channel special? I think we could manage that, right?

Luckily some lemon juice, my mom's Clinique self-tanning lotion, and a few showers got it all sorted out in time to walk down the aisle.

Moral of my story? Wear sunglasses in the next few months when you see me because I will freakin' blind you.

Today's subject line quote is Alice in Wonderland (2010)

I love babies. Babies rule. Pudgy arms and stuff. But, uh, they make you old.

2011-02-11T12:50:00.000-08:00

Ever have one of those mornings...

When you do everything in your ability to look fashionable and not be fashionably late to fancy playdate at the McDonald's Playland, but 5 minutes into it you have baby poop smeared all over your skinny jeans and you're begging friends for cash for a Happy Meal? I do. All the time.

Nothing happens the way I assume it will, so I've just started assuming everything will go to hell and I'm no longer surprised. It's only 10 til 2 and I'm already back in my jammies as I compose this half-conscious and still coasting on my dark roast, caffeine high. I do at least 3 loads of laundry a day in order to not have clothes saturated with breast milk, regurgitated breast milk, and toddler boogers. Just today I've managed to ruin 2 robes, the sheets I just washed yesterday, and the jeans I had planned to wear on our pseudo date tonight because they hold up my ever-sagging ass to acceptable social standards.

Take Ivy's whole birth experience for example. It was a scheduled, repeat c-section that should have taken all of 30 minutes in surgery, a few hours recovery time, and they'd hand me a screaming bundle of joy. Instead, my OB was late because she was on the phone with Fisher-Price tech support and then my baby had to be in intensive care for 10 days because she forgot how to breathe. It took over a week before I was able to hold her, and I got to be a visitor instead of her mother.

The genetics were there; she has my nose and stubby legs. But as a caregiver, I was useless for a week and a half. So I got up every 2 hours to pump and deliver a few ounces of breast milk to the NICU freezer. It was all I could do as a parent. And it may be selfish, but even though my baby was the one hooked up to IVs and tubes out the wazoo, I wanted to feel needed. I needed to feel needed. I had just spent the last 9 months incubating and growing my daughter, and suddenly my services were obsolete?

Now she's a perfectly healthy baby, with colic and all. It's still hard to process. At one point after her lung collapsed, we asked the neonatalogist if we had to worry about Ivy being in stable condition. She answered, "If you're asking me if the baby will die? I don't know."

How do you go from that to complaining about leaky diapers and extended bedtimes? Aren't I supposed to be grateful for every frustrating minute I have with my kids? I suppose I just have to do what I can , when I can--whether sucking the juice out of my boobs at 3 a.m. or a load of onesies and pants covered in poo.

Todays' subject line quote is from How I Met Your Mother (2005).

Is it just me, or did the world just get blurry?

2010-12-07T14:07:00.000-08:00

Since my absence, I've had several requests to revive the blog. Unfortunately, even though I've been feeling better physically, I just haven't necessary gusto to provide a decent entry...or decent thought... It's been a classic "life gets in the way" scenario. Sharing my body with another person, even if she's only a 4 pound fetus currently, just makes it difficult to be myself.

But I'm now 34 weeks along in the pregnancy, and I am beginning to realize that I need to write to thrive. Also, I only have about a month before my entire existence is thwarted by a newborn and I'll never have the time or brain power to blog again. Between sleep deprivation and being constantly covered in baby, bodily fluids, I'll be lucky to turn on the computer, much less type out a brilliant and hilarious entry for the masses.

So where do I begin--again? This blog rebirth has taken so long, I have literally tens of stories to relay. Dom and I finally took our European vacation, I may (or may not) have run over a pedestrian here in Slidouche, we hosted a Chuck E. Cheese birthday party for our now 3-year old, and am now blackmailing said child into brushing his teeth and not crapping his pants with the infamous Santa Claus fable. Today, however, I think I'll just fill you in on a few thoughts regarding the holidays.

I have finished my Christmas shopping in record time this year because we drew names out of a hat for both Dom's and my family. Since I don't have to waste all my precious brain cells coming up for with approximately 20 billion horrible gift ideas, it just happened that I purchased my last holiday obligation this morning. Now if I can manage to avoid any public venues until January, I can rest easy knowing that I have successfully dodged the Christmas spirit being shoved in my ears and left to mix around my brain until it's a cheery, puree of holiday gray matter.

Want a fun fact? I don't go out between the months of November through January without a charged iPod at the ready to drown out the ridiculous and incessant carols. Nowhere is safe! I can't get a sandwich at McAlister's Deli without hearing some tune about a fat man who's creepily watching me sleep--and probably pee. So I just crank up my playlist and pretend the archaic language of these songs isn't being blasted around me on a P.A. system that's probably more than a decade old. Because lets face it, gaily decking someone's halls sounds more like a hate crime than decorating a mantle with fake, evergreen leaves.

Today's subject line quote is from Dom, disembarking the plane in Ramstein, Germany (September 2010).

Find your own funny quote, I'm too lazy.

2010-07-24T15:48:00.000-07:00

I halfheartedly apologize for neglecting this site for the past few months. With the joy of a little one on the way, I have become an Olympic caliber athlete in the categories of toilet hugging and bitching.

But since the first trimester is coming to a close, I find myself slowly moving out of the worst of the pregnancy. Now instead of doing the technicolor yawn every forty-five minutes, I've simply joined the ranks of the walking comatose. Seems I'm unable to function by 2 p.m. these days. I have to hope I sitting down by mid afternoon and not falling asleep during my 78th trip to the bathroom.

There are women who adore being knocked up; they're the ones who never get morning sickness, back aches, and sneeze out their kids in a 4 hour, natural labor. I never got my invitation to the super-awesome-at-being-pregnant club! I have to slave and toil, from the ralph-o-rama to 46 hours of labor. Even then the kid had to be surgically removed from my uterus because I utterly fail at being a preggo.

So to all of you who had it easy and think I should embrace the "miracle of life", kiss my ever-growing ass. My babies are smarter than yours.

Will you please shut up. You're grossing out my baby.

2010-05-18T19:02:00.000-07:00

As a mommy blogger, I really do try hard not to dominate this site with kidisms. Even if they are REALLY funny, nobody wants to be bombarded with stories ending in my 2 1/2 year old yelling "penis" or the adventures in poop. Except today--today you literally get a shitty blog.

Michael is potty training. That loosely translates to "Michael often takes a dump wherever he feels like it while not wearing a diaper." He's been making tremendous success lately with the number ones; but I'd seriously take mopping up a pee spot any day over the fecal fest I had to clean up yesterday.

Basically, he was sitting in the office desk chair and decided that he was too engrossed in sesamestreet.com to be bothered with NOT taking a crap where he was sitting. So I scramble to get him scraped off and disinfect the office while still managing not to catch anything on fire while cooking a new meatball recipe. Then he crapped his underwear approximately 45 minutes later.

And all I could manage to think was, I'm going to have ANOTHER potential Diarrhea Monster?

Yep. That's the real content of this post. I found out last Friday and I wanted to keep it on the DL, family only. But thanks to Facebook and my relative's inability to be discreet about pretty much anything, I'm fending off congrats from obscure-non-blood-connections all over my wall. I might as well get some satisfaction in telling people myself. Spoiled secrets aside, we're thrilled!

So, I've pretty much got 8 more months to figure out where I'm going to put the thing. Really it boils down to which I want more...an office or a baby. Right now I have part of each.

Today's subject line quote is Quinn "Glee" (2010) {The Power of Madonna}.

Bees or monkeys, yes. Sociopaths, no.

2010-05-11T13:40:00.001-07:00

Did I ever tell you about the time I got squirted in the face with crab-leg saliva at the Golden China Buffet? I never really thought of it as a mind-blowing story that I could spend a whole blog on, but it was an awkward Cassidy moment at it's finest.

We're sitting in a booth at the local Chinese buffet down the street from our house and Michael's being a holy terror. Imagine a monkey, like a small Capuchin or another species that is small and agile enough to leap across a six foot gap from tree to tree, jumping on the seat and climbing up Dom's shoulders to sit on his head. That's what we had, only we had a blonde monkey-child who also has two volumes of mute and earbleedingly loud. Guess which one he busted out for this occasion?

That's when the nostalgic, middle-aged, empty nester decided to come over and do us the favor of sitting behind our table and "entertaining" Michael. Zoos have cages for a reason, lady. They don't ask random onlookers to come and play ball with the apes every time one starts to throw poop and fondle it's junk...I think I can handle my own child at the buffet. And, of course, he just gets more rowdy from all the extra attention.

So in the rare moments when I was actually eating and not running to the potty for an emergency toddler poop break, I found myself in a bit of a cross mood. That's when I noticeably started wiping my forehead and looking around rather perturbed to see why the ceiling was dripping on me.

That's when I made eye contact with the man at the booth next to us who was about the same shade of red as the pair of crab legs he was digging into. He was nearly crying out of embarrassment and I'm trying to redeem myself from making it a "big deal" from my exaggerated facial expressions and hand gestures I had done not 30 seconds previously.

The worst part is that this couple had been really quiet and not making a big whoop over our son being released into the wild. They were minding their own business and just pretending he wasn't there. The least I could do is let him shoot me in the eye with crab-juice spit, right?

Today's subject line quote is "House, M.D." (2007) {Act your Age}.

Two small paragraphs where I whine about not having a real post

2010-04-22T09:52:00.001-07:00

I know it's Thursday and I haven't posted yet this week. I've got plenty to say, but I just don't have the ability to do a full post right now. I promise I'll get you something good soon...

But seeing as I'm on prescription meds that make me feel more messed up than a drunk hobo on meth and just ordered Jehovah's Witnesses to chase after my escapee Beagle, I believe I need some time to get myself together enough to even write about how my life is ruled by chaos.

Fantastic! Look at you. Powerless. The great space dust bin! How does it feel?

2010-04-21T12:54:00.000-07:00

My junior year of high school, my drama class did a section on costuming and makeup. My coach wanted to do a quick demonstration, and I volunteered to get my face drawn on in hopes that I would look like Cleopatra. Turns out that the former Miss Arkansas runner up wasn't very good at doing an elegant, Egyptian look and decided to make me a troll instead.

Drama was my first period class. Now I got to start my day looking hideous and, undoubtedly, like a total sociotard. But did I wash it off? Nope. I hadn't brought any regular makeup with me and I was terrified of being seen bare-faced. I told everyone that it was stage makeup and didn't remove easily without a cleanser--which was mostly true.

But the real truth? I was so afraid of being seen without any makeup, that I was willing to endure any teasing or gawking. If I was going to be ugly, it was on my own terms. I had given myself the illusion that I was in control.

Recently, I can't pinpoint the exact moment I felt like I had lost all control over my life; but I'm pretty sure the minute I decided that I wanted it back was when I was in the bathroom. I was taking care of my business when my son walked in demanding that I change his poopy underwear. At that precise second, Mother Nature decided I need that monthly gift and I was left trying to clean up after both of us.

It's hard being the nurturer of a whole family. There are always moments like that where my needs are an afterthought. With Dom being in the navy, my schedule, career (if I so choose to ever have one), and plans for the future are all subject to the needs of the military. And over the past 2 months, I had even let bacteria take over my lungs and overall health.

My life felt like total chaos and I needed to take control. My readers have been blogless the last week or so because I've been devoted to taking back my power. It's not been easy either. Not like I could break out the metaphorical rape whistle any time I felt like my life was ripping me a new one.

Some measures have been taken and I am feeling less like my world is going to spin off and out of the universe now. I've found my missing doctor's office and am now on the mend from bronchitis and sinusitis. I'm on the road to taking back my body, but getting my mind back in order is considerably more difficult.

I actually cut my own hair (to give myself bangs) in an effort to not feel completely impaired. But even then I ended up with with a nice feathered look occasionally. After many negotiations, we agreed that I would not continuously pin them up if they behaved during the day and could be as unruly as they wanted after 8 p.m. until I showered the next morning.

Since this blog is already three times the size I intended, I won't divulge all the details of getting my shit together. But I will say that I've learned to say "no" more (especially to my toddler), reclaimed my house from the wreckage of last week, and talked a salesman down a little over $1,000 off Dominic's new motorcycle.

Not too shabby for someone for someone who feels like a recluse and extreme introvert 90% of the time.

Today's subject line quote is "Doctor Who" (2005) {"Dalek"}.

He's also a good snorer with amazing long-range reverberations.

2010-04-13T12:48:00.000-07:00

This post is to tell everyone lucky enough to read this amazing blog that my husband is the shiznitt. Bomb diggity? Are these terms even viable anymore? Somebody needs a trip to urban dictionary! (It's me.)

Okay, just spent the last 15 minutes on that website and still have nothing to describe awesomeness of the hubs in terms that teenagers will understand. I'm hitting the big 2-6 this year, does that mean I have to watch programs on the CW or something to up my colloquial vocabulary?

By now you've probably gotten my meaning, but here's the missing 'how come?' Saturday morning I woke up to this on my laptop screen:

Dear Cassidy, I have taken your son. Do not attempt to contact me. Just follow the instructions below. Good Luck!

1. "Frankie Goes to Hollywood" and you should do what he says.
2. Thirty minutes before the sun reaches it's zenith, mother and child will reunite at the place of the third clue.
3. + -

First off, kudos for being so adorably Dom about this whole "morning off" thing. I didn't know what to do with myself. But eventually I celebrated by taking a shower with the door closed and going shopping at the mall. It was great to try things on without chasing after anyone or constantly removing goods from tiny hands before setting of any alarms.

Dom ended up taking Mikey to work with him because he had oodles of work to do and didn't to impose any of it on me. He also had to work overnight Sunday, but instead of coming home and sleeping on Monday, he took us to Gulfport to run errands and stop by the outlet mall! He ended up being up from about 8:30 a.m. Sunday morning until 10 p.m. on Monday. Never complained.

So, bomb-diggity-shizznit right?

Today's subject line quote is Darrin Stephens, "Bewitched" (1964) {Illegal Separation (#1.32)}.

I love riding in a car full of hamburgers and french fries. I had a dream I did it once and I woke up really happy.

2010-04-08T13:44:00.001-07:00

One of the recent posts for a blog I follow was a simple listing of four things that make the creators happy. Blog only knows, I've been pretty down lately. So I thought perhaps I should rip off that idea and list a few things that cheer me up and see if it helps get me ditch my case of the gloomies.

When people do the right thing I could just burst, blowing big wads of happy all over the onlookers. It's true, and such a simple concept too. I mean, it doesn't even have to be a turn yourself in for murder kind of thing. Yesterday, there was a woman in the Winn-Dixie parking lot parked right next to the cart return. And she still went around my car to place her empty cart in the parking space next to me instead of going the same distance to put the cart where it belongs. If she would have put it away, I probably would have hugged her. It's just another gesture that proves that most people just don't care about doing things right any more.

Don't people like having that feeling of accomplishment at doing something worth being proud of? I mean, I thrive for that. And again, I'm a simple gal and don't have much going on in the accomplishment department. But when I hold strong and make my toddler actually take a nap? Oh, or manage to pick up all the toys and vacuum before they get thrown back on the floor? That's a good feeling.

But I also like to be bought. Getting gifts is easily in my top fav things. Flowers, cards, candy, even comments on this blog, anything! I'm definitely one of those people that needs somewhat tangible love. Tell me that you think I'm awesome and then bake me some cookies. You might get some of that explody happy junk on you because attention is easily an addiction for me. If they had rehab for it, well it wouldn't help unless it was solitary confinement mixed with counselors ignoring me. And who in their right mind would pay for that?

I also like that feeling when I turn on the radio to the exact song I've been obsessing to hear. Dom and I joke that everyone has a super power and that happens to be mine. I think when I finally decide to fight crime with it, I'll go by "Musicious." I could save the masses from the insanity of wanting to hear a particular song when they can't find it! Oh wait, Apple already did that by introducing the iPod.

Whatever, I still might be Musicious for Halloween...

Today's subject line quote is Ruthie, "7th Heaven" (1996) {It Happened One Night (#3.15)}.

G-L-A-M-O-R-O-U-S, yeah

2010-03-29T19:34:00.001-07:00

I've been crunching the numbers--though I'm no good at math, just ask my husband. He did all of my homework from remedial through pre-calculus. At some point or another he'd just give up trying to teach me, do the problems to get me through the course, and send me to take the test with an encouraging "Try to make a D."

Nevertheless, number crunching is what I have been doing. And roughly one third of my day is dealing with pee.

My 9 year old beagle has taken the geriatric-retiree approach to life these days. And apparently, it's not worth her time to inform me that she has to make a tinkle. So I'm sucking up doggie whiz from various hot-spots on my carpet approximately 3 times a day.

I'm also potty training a 2 1/2 year old boy who thinks that crapping your underwear is always an option. So mopping up puddles, doing loads of laundry, and drawing baths are also a generous portion of my day. Not to mention that now if I don't stop moving immediately before I sneeze, I might have an accident myself.

So yesterday I was dressed for church in a beautiful sundress that I had just finished sewing the night before and trying to get Michael into some pants before we left...and I noticed that his room was smelling a bit yellow. One of the dogs had peed onto his plastic dresser that holds his toys. Like...would have had to hike a leg up and aim it right on that sucker to have the precision that this catastrophe had.

Now I'm dressed in my wedge heels and flowing skirt, scrubbing urine off plastic toys and running the carpet cleaner looking like Donna Reed minus the pearls. All the while praying that I didn't end up smelling like dog pee while I meet all the people at the church I've attended ONCE before. Nothing seals a first impression like spritz of Eau de Pet Bladder.

Today's subject line quote is Fergie, "Glamorous." You can't accuse one of the Peas of not being able to spell...that's for sure.

BPJ Revisited

2010-03-26T10:34:00.000-07:00

As you might recall, last week's post was a review of Beloit Poetry Journal--based upon a reading I did of it four years ago. Tastes change. And let's face it, I don't always do a thorough job on...well...anything, much less my homework assignments. So it's only fair that I give BPJ a second chance.

The best way to approach this magazine is with an open mind about literature. This particular publication likes their poetry on the wild side. It's more about language and poetic presence than it is about plot lines and narration. To be more clear, it's far less prosey than most other journals.

Contemporary poetry has drifted toward a sort of story-tellers approach. It makes for clear, coherent works. And I like that, but I also like the idea of a poem being created just for the sake of language. Isn't it alright to write something just for the sake of it being written?

I believe what my training has taught me is this--yes, one can write anything ABOUT anything but it should also be a priority to maintain the integrity of a poem. All writing has potential; it's the poets job to make sure his or her work has reached it's fullest.

Which leads me to conclude that next Friday (or Saturday whenever I actually get around to posting) I will not be posting a review. Since I've already discovered two journals that I'm willing to send submissions to, I will take next week to prepare to do so. I will be posting whether or not I go through with it....

Because it's scary as all hell to me and I need the help of a blogging website to talk me into it.

Once we tried to make a cake entirely out of frosting, which turned out to be better in theory than in actual execution.

2010-03-22T07:00:00.000-07:00

Is it just me, or are a lot of shoes trying too hard to be something they aren't these days? Not to say that I don't commend the fashion industry for creating bold designs. I, in fact, think the worlds need some more bizarre-chic icons to keep the looks fresh and ideas popping. However, I don't see the need for these hybrid, half-breed high heels I've been seeing so much of.

Three days ago, I nearly crashed my cart into a shelf of Garanimals at Wal-Mart because there was a display of pumps designed to look like moccasins. Fringey, hideously brown moccasins...only with a 4 inch stiletto attached to the heel.

It's as if some designer aspired to be a formal footwear creator, but grew up being told he'd never amount to anything more than a petty, slipper-shaper. Hate to say it, but Mommy and Daddy were right on this one. Give it up, dude. You can polish a turd all you want, it's still a turd...only shinier.

But on rare occasion, you can shine your turd into a pretty cake. Yeah, I just transitioned the hell out of that sentence! Seriously though, this cake could and should have turned out to be the biggest piece of crap pastry. I managed to salvage it.

I volunteered to make it for my meetup group's first anniversary. The plan was to just make some simple piping on a white buttercream icing. Unfortunately, that stuff smears easier than most celebrity reputations. So after a panic of blending, I realized that the blue-white swirling looked a lot like Starry Night.

For a while it just looked like Van Gogh threw up on it, but I think it turned out decently after taking a spoon and some toothpicks to it repeatedly.

Today's subject line quote is Rory Gilmore, "Gilmore Girls" (2000) {Happy Birthday, Baby (#3.18)}.

BPJ

2010-03-19T14:41:00.001-07:00

Since my actual life has gotten in the way of the life I'd like to have, there's been no time for reading this week's "assignment." I was planning to review Beloit Poetry Journal for today's post, but instead I got the flu and made a cake that looks like Vincent Van Gogh's Starry Night. Not simultaneously, of course. But you'll have to wait for Tuesday's post for that story.

Fortunately enough, I had reviewed Beloit's publications before for my publishing practicum back in 2006. From what I remember, it was an odd little magazine heavy on the more experimental poetry. It was full of work that appeared to be trying too hard to be poetry instead of being a good read. Funny enough, it's still considered a decent publication to be accepted by.

In short, some of my poems that came off "too abstract" might be a good fit. But do I really want that to be the case? Or would I rather have some pride in my work and keep revising those particular poems to make them a good fit in a regular journal? And as for those few gems I'm most proud of, are they publishable by Beloit?

I really hope not.

I'm willing to give the journal another chance since it's hardly fair to judge it based on the brief encounter I had with it nearly 4 years ago. I'll review the newer archives and reassess next week.

It appears I underestimated your stupidity.

2010-03-15T15:13:00.001-07:00

This post may not be as sparklingly brilliant as some of my previous work because this week's blog is sponsored in part by the plague that I've been cursed with since Saturday night. And even though I've been waking up with a fever and dreams of Joss Whedon informing me that my destiny is to slay purses because they were sewn with evil thread...I haven't seen my doctor in over a year because she's a freaktard who moved her office and didn't leave a forwarding phone number. So that brings us to today's topic: people who are working jobs they really shouldn't.

I've had my share of experiences with these people of late. Saturday at The Times Grill I was supposed to be meeting some of my friends from the Mommy Meetup group. When I went to get our table, I simply informed the hostess that we would have 3 but a couple more might show up.

With a horrified look as if I had just asked her to do calculus on the back of a napkin, she asked me in a very cross tone "Ohhhkaaay, how many is a couple?" I really and truly tried to keep it in, but the snark must have been visibly coming out of my mouth before I realized it because the second hostess started snickering as I answered, quite honestly and harshly, "Two."

And this wasn't my first encounter with Hostess Von Smartenpants. The last time I came with a group she had the same demeanor--which was that of a Popsicle. I even complained about her on a survey. Well her and the server that thought the definition of "server" was to not serve us food and drinks and hang out in the back all night. Luckily, I got a handwritten apology by the owner of the grill and a $10 gift card.

The world needs to send me more of those, especially the woman in line at the Sav-a-Lot who needs to send me a card and a gift certificate for 30 minutes of my life back after trying to abuse the WIC system. Everything she had picked up in her cart was not WIC approved and instead starting over and actually shopping, she just had the cashier go find the RIGHT item. One loaf of freakin bread at a time.

All I wanted was some bananas and Diet Dr. Pepper. Instead I got half an hour of "Whatchu mean that ain't on it? Charles, get me a juicy juice!" and a step closer to a brain aneurysm.

Also, could EVERY babysitter on sittercity.com please send me a sorry I agreed to meet for an interview but then quit emailing you whenever we tried to actually schedule a time because I'm not really interested in working so I just put this profile up so that my husband would think I'm job hunting bouquet? K, thanks.

Today's subject line quote is Dr. Dick Solomon, "3rd Rock from the Sun" (1996) {See Dick Continue to Run: Part 1 (#2.1)}.

American Poetry Journal and the Dancing Bear Reader

2010-03-09T09:32:00.000-08:00

Turns out, homework is hard when you don't have an assignment. You know what I struggled with the most? Coming up with an actual title instead of throwing an obscure movie quote at it.

Anyway, I know the end goal of this project is to understand the journals I want to submit to, so I have a better chance of publication. But wtf does that actually mean I need to do?

Answer: read.

I started with American Poetry Journal. Editor J.P. Dancing Bear made my search for the unknown a bit easier with his personal website dedicated to his own poetry and a comprehensive page of poetry he's drawn to (The Dancing Bear Reader as he calls it). Mostly the typical, run-of-the-mill contemporary stuff by middle-aged white guys and female confessional poets and/or dead women.

So I don't exactly fit the demographic, but perhaps I can squeeze my way in. Considering some my greatest influences have been Sylvia Plath and Elizabeth Bishop, it's a distinct possibility that he'll recognize that. What doesn't work for me, is that my idol was nowhere to be found on the Dancing Bear Reader of the APJ archives. Dean Young, who I aspire to someday outwit with my own words, doesn't appear to be on J.P.'s radar. And though he may look like Barry Manilow's evil twin, he's a beautiful man with some serious verbiage under his belt.

Dancing Bear's own publications are heavy on Greco-Roman mythology. A few of mine might catch his attention with my allusions to classical music, mythologies, and such. Actually, I'm a bit psyched about some of my pieces because the major complaint in class was just that some people didn't catch the titles or works I was alluding to. Makes one wonder if it's an issue of clarity (my fault) or if the audience is just under informed (not my fault). I supposed it lies somewhere in between. I have to make the reference accessible from a general viewpoint.

The skinny on American Poetry Journal? I think it's doable. He wants a clear, easily navigable poem with strong themes. I believe the following have the greatest chance for publication here: Bjorkish, Dissonance, The History of Fashion.

In physics, twenty-five is Woodstock.

2010-03-08T18:48:00.000-08:00

As many things that I fall fervidly in love with often do, a new magazine has made it's way into my house and I have no idea where it came from or if I will get another one.

I occasionally get mystery gifts and subscriptions, like my Woodhouse Spa gift card that ended up being from my father-in-law for Mother's Day. Or even my seemingly lifetime and free subscription to OK and US Weekly.

The magazine is called Ready Made, and it's all about how to be a new age hippie. There is a flow chart to help Bohemian up your pancake recipes! And of course, my personal favorite is a reoccurring article called "How'd You Get that F*#&ing Awesome Job?"

This issue featured a Q & A with Jason Addler, a potter and interior designer whose was recently asked to decorate a life-sized Barbie Dream House. So, how did you get that f*#&ing awesome job Jason Addler? His response? He's a terrible employee who got fired a lot and found himself playing with clay instead of working a lot.

And like any other beatnik publication, there are lots of recyclable project ideas like turning a light bulb into a flower pot and turning vintage sailor suits into a fashionable dress that only women with no boobs can wear. Because we all know that flower children didn't wear bras as a revolutionary movement, right? Riiiiighhht.

Aside from catering to tiny ta-tas, I think this magazine is a perfect fit.

Today's subject line quote is Leonard Hofstadter, "The Big Bang Theory" (2007) {The Cooper-Hofstadter Polarization (#1.9)}.

And now for something completely different...

2010-03-04T05:08:00.000-08:00

As many of you might know already, I hold a bachelor's degree in English. It's not even a boring, literature degree either. It's a special one with lots of words in it--English with a concentration in creative writing and an emphasis in poetry. Or what the real world likes to call, emphasis in unemployment. It also gives me a license to wear a beret and drink ungodly amounts of coffee.

Lately, I've decided to take up my quest for publication again. I haven't written any verse since graduating in 2007. But while reviewing my portfolio, I realized that some of it might actually be good enough for submission to a magazine. Toward the end of my classes, my adviser and supervisor during my internship at Crazyhorse was coming up with less criticism. In retrospect, I think she was obligated to push me to keep improving but wasn't sure if it needed much more. At the very least she wasn't sure what direction my work needed to go in.

So I've decided that it needs to go in the direction of the mail box, addressed to various literary journals. I'm composing a database of some of the magazines we studied in my publishing practicum and will be reviewing them over the next few months. I will be providing some insight to what I find their looking for, and post my perception of what they want to see of my work on this blog every Friday.

So tune in every week and see if I've done my homework! I will still be posting my usual content on Tuesdays. This is just a project I need to post in order to motivate myself into getting any work done. Thanks for the support, guys!

And they're not all make believe, toots. Toot toot.

2010-03-02T05:51:00.000-08:00

My toddler has been constantly arguing with me and locking himself in his room like a teenager, and all the fiber from Weight Watchers has turned me into a fart machine. As you can probably tell, this week's blog theme is "Crap, it's Tuesday already."

As accommodating as I am to my already spoiled two-year-old, it's baffling how he's become so contrary in the past few days. "I want a sucker." Okay, I give him a sucker. "No! No sucker!" Okay, put the sucker away. "No, wait! My sucker!!" Only, replace sucker with every other noun and verb imaginable--that's been my week.

He also screamed "underwear" repeatedly at the mall because he decided to drown his toy cars in the stroller with Capri Sun, spilling some on the front of his pants. Did I mention that he barfed in the middle of Best Buy a few weeks ago? We've dropped a grand and a half there in the last month because technology hates us and both our computers broke in the same week. It's enough to make anyone throw up. I took him to the Wiggle Room yesterday and it seemed to get everything back to zen.

In other news, this diet is making my ass out to be Mt. Vesuvius. Weight Watchers is based on the principle, "poop until you loose weight." The points system is centered around no fat and lots of fiber. That means I've constantly got the walking farts and occasionally blow one out that upsets most of nature. I may have caused the earthquake in Haiti via the butterfly-butt hole effect.

And when folks at the checkout line are sniffing meat products to determine what's rotten, me and my cart filled with Fiber One-whole wheat-cardboard products duck away before it's obvious that it's not that pound of hamburger that went bad--it's my rancid colon.

Today's subject line quote is Lady Elaine Fairchilde, "MisteRogers' Neighborhood" (1968) {Games (#13.8))}.

I rarely find motive in bird vomit.

2010-02-20T05:49:00.000-08:00

Have you ever been standing in an acquaintance's home while they're on vacation, with a vampiric cockatiel hanging off your neck, and thought Gee, I need more turtlenecks? Of course you haven't, and undoubtedly I have--recently. And so I present to you Tales in Poor Judgement: The Case of the Rabid Fowl.

Dom volunteered us to pet sit for a coworker last week. Not a difficult job, just feeding the menagerie over at their house every day and making sure to replace any dead fish before they get home. It's been going well, aside from the attack from birdzilla.

This green, feathered monster is a master at manipulation. He was cute and cooing at the door to be let out. And in my naive, misdirected brain, I pictured him perched on my shoulder while cartoon squirrels and deer surrounded us for a karaoke night. Instead, hopped on my husband's hand and nearly bit his thumb off.

Since I grew up with parakeets for pets, I assumed that these were just "love nibbles" and that Dom was being a wimp. So I swooped in to let the bird perch on my fingers and chew on me for a while. That's when this avian Dracula decided I was good eatin' and charged toward me.

I think he was headed for my jugular, but missed. Because he's a bird and not a doctor. However, he did manage to attach himself to my neck skin and stretch it out as far as he could go without bleeding.

The shrieking and flapping (of ME) finally got him to flutter off back into the cage. And do you know what happened the very next time I came to feed the boogers? I got pulled over by a sherrif, in the driveway. I took too long digging for my registration, so he let me off with a frustrated, verbal warning.

Today's subject line quote is Dr. Jack Hodgins, "Bones" (2005) {The Girl in the Mask (#4.22)}.

Limited range forward vision is available should you require it.

2010-02-16T10:19:00.000-08:00

When I was a kid, my mom told me that Elton John didn't need glasses at first but still wore them as an accessory to enhance his already outrageous ensembles. Later, I saw an interview where he boasted a walk-in closet full of custom frames for any occasion. So when I found out I needed glasses 3 years ago, I was ecstatic! But when I found out my insurance only paid for lenses and not frames, I wondered if they could put them into a pair made out of duct tape.

This time, I bought some cute frames at Icing for $10 before I even made my appointment. They're black with a pink backing to accent around the sides, which are a diamond shape attaching to the earpieces. I was going in prepared! My hope was that my current prescription wouldn't have changed enough that I could keep my ridiculously expensive, yet fabulous pair of brown frames and just add these to my collection. Perhaps I would match Sir John's stature of eccentricism by the year 3056? (And yeah, I am about 96% sure that I just made that word up.)

But you know how the Chance cards in Monopoly sometimes make you go back 3 spaces? I don't need glasses, not even the ones I already own have been using since my senior year of college. At least not according to Dr. Sassypants, doctor of opthamology and douchebaggery.

After waiting in his office for half an hour after being hit up by the chattiest nurse, who managed to make a 5 part questionnaire last 15 minutes, Dr. Sassypants strides in and asks, "So what are we doing here?" in a Don't you realize it's Friday? tone.

What was I supposed to say, I'm here for a bikini wax? I'm getting my eyes checked, dumbass. It's pretty much your sole job there at the OPTOMETRY clinic. And yet, he still made me feel like an idiot for coming. In fact, when he asked where I was getting my headaches, I replied "at home" instead of indicating where on my head I was getting them.

Two hours after arriving, I'm showing up to my hair appointment 20 minutes late and with dilated pupils that make me look like an anime character because he forgot about me while letting the drops "take effect." By the end of the exam, he was silently scribbling in my chart so I asked, "What now?" Know what he said? "You tell me." I'm sorry, did he mistake me for his ex? Did I give him the cold shoulder one day at Winn-Dixie?

In the end, I get to do things the same way Elton John did. Make my fortune while wearing glasses I don't need, and wearing frames just because they're cool. Or I could sell them on craigslist for a dollar.

Today's subject line quote is Zen, "Blake's 7" (1978) {The Web (#1.5)}.

I'm a tumor, I'm a tumor. I'm a tumor. Oh-oh-oh, I'm a tumor.

2010-02-09T13:55:00.001-08:00

I don't believe in New Year's Resolutions. That is to say, I know they exist--like ghosts. But we all know they are a smokin' pile of hookie that just make you feel like the total loser you are by, oh, February. Me? I decided to tell tradition to "suck it" this year by making some lifetime goals...lifetime goals I wish to attain by this December.

First, blog more. I want to blog daily again, but I'll even settle for weekly. And in the true spirit of everything embodying Cassidy, my first attempt didn't happen until February 9th. It's not that I haven't had a bloggable event since my last update three months ago (if you could call that segment of bitching a post, really). My life has actually been laden with so much social retardation and unfortunate happenstance that I'm waiting for big reveal with a hidden camera crew that's been behind the shenanigans. And since I always feel that I should share this chaos in chronological order, I just end up shelving it for a quarter year. Now it's being skipped altogether. Or perhaps I will make it a surprise debut at a later posting, just to keep all my readers intrigued? Hmm...

But back to my ridiculous goals and standards cleverly disguised to not seem like a New Year's Resolution fad...

I also want to organize and clean my house so that when these disasters keep popping up in my life, I don't have to panic about the condition my bedroom is in for people to either fix what broke in my bathroom this time, or come rescue me from whatever creature found its way inside.

There's this crazy thought in my head that, if I throw away all that crap I don't need AND have a place for all the things I do then maybe, MAYBE, for the love of BLOG my house might stay clean long enough for me to relax, or read a book at a pace that won't give me a brain tumor later.

Finally, I forgot all of my other goals. I think that tumor might have already settled in.

Today's subject line quote is Peter Griffin, "Family Guy" (1999)

Is it raining? Is it snowing? Is a hurricane a-blowing?

2009-11-08T14:39:00.000-08:00

The universe, even it it's infinite vastness and equal measure of mystery, has offered me a clue to cracking it's existence. It's a bit of a Robert Langdon to the Da Vinci Code, if you will. So I will offer all of you my tidbit of wisdom, and it is this: my husband leaves on a trip and everything goes to shit.

Yes. Critters and toxic mold invade by the plague-ful, pets die, electricity evades, and my 2 year-old suddenly likes to expose my chest to the Dollar Tree cashier. And as if that isn't enough to make you want to strike a deal with Satan himself to never have to utter the words "Are you fucking kidding me??" again...

There is a hurricane headed straight for my front porch.

Today's subject line quote is Willy Wonka, Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory (1971).

This place is as empty as a graveyard on Halloween.

2009-10-30T08:26:00.000-07:00

Wow, it's October 30th already! And guess what...I finished our costumes last week. Hells yeah, I did. Just in time to go to a "costume" party, realize nobody was dressed up, and go home to change.

Fail.

Yeah, it was a coworker's pumpkin carving party and the flyer said "Come in costume or come as you are." It also said that the party started at 3:30. We took it to heart and arrived on time, as Sookie Stackhouse, Dracula, and a bat.

That sounds like the beginning of a bad joke...Sookie, Dracula and a bat walk into a bar... But instead of a bar, it was party and instead of those characters it was us in dressed up at a non-costume-costume party. Everyone else we knew wasn't planning on A.) coming dressed up or B.) coming for another 2 hours.

So we had the options of sitting in the car at the end of the driveway until our friends showed up or getting out and mingling with these people (who probably assumed we were going as retards for halloween). We chose to peel out and go home. We came back an hour and a half later and in normal clothes. I saw a total of 5 costumes out of the 50 or so adults that came to the party.

Let me just say, that this was all after I freaked out about sewing Dom's cape in time to go to this party...to the point that he got me flowers and chocolates before I started sewing people to furniture.

But a Happy Halloween weekend to all! And just so you know, my office smells like rotten milk-feet-dog and I don't know why. So you all are very, very lucky that I made a post.

Today's subject line quote is Inspector Gadget, "Inspector Gadget" (1983) {The Capeman Cometh (#2.4)}.

That ho could suck the sheet off a ghost.

2009-09-23T06:24:00.000-07:00

Michael and I have been quarantined since returning from our California trip. Not because we have the piggy flu, just mostly that we're both too cranky to be seen by people and our snotty attitude is as contagious as our faces. We just have sinus infections. Michael is a bajillion times better since getting his antibiotic; I'm a weenie who hates going to the doctor so I'm feeling slightly worse today.

Yesterday, however, was a miraculously productive day. Even in spite of my horrific nasal passages and their resident city of bacteria. Just in the last 12 hours it's gone from Mayberry in there to Metropolis. They may have even been setting off fireworks last night to celebrate the latest expansion and that's why I couldn't stop sneezing.

But back to me not being a completely worthless lump of snot-filled Cassidy. Yesterday I finished Michael's Halloween costume, sewed a piece for mine, cleaned the front of the house, folded 2 towels, gave Michael a bath, and worked on the hat I promised I'd knit for Donna (that I've been slowly working on for nearly a year). Pretty good for someone who thinks she might die today.

Seriously. And if you don't come to my funeral, I'm going to haunt you and blow ethereal boogers all over your pillow. Know what happens when you catch a ghost cold? You have it forever because ghost bacteria and viruses don't die. But when you go to the doctor, she won't see it because it's a freaking ghost! You'll be institutionalized until you die from the madness and continue haunting the people who didn't believe you or go to YOUR funeral until the entire population is nothing but sniffly spooks.

Don't be the sole cause of the world's obliteration. Make me soup or something.

Today's subject line quote is John Aboud, "Best Week Ever." (2004).

Don't say "uh oh". Vampires are not supposed to say "uh oh".

2009-09-10T10:19:00.000-07:00

So a barista, a vampire, and my husband walk into a bar...wait, no I've screwed it up. But the punchline is the hottest joke ever?

This post needs some back story. Let's hip-smack, rewind it back, shall we? I could cleverly tell you the details of my conversations via facebook yesterday where this whole ordeal started, or I could just be clever and cut/paste them. So I give you status update and subsequent conversations, exhibit A:

Cassidy Pond-DiMaggio is re-reading the sookie books...but only the parts with Eric in them. Pathetic.

Jackie Marenick

Hahahaha! So you're an Eric lover?

Yesterday at 2:07pm · Delete

Jules Munger Bochenek

Eric and Cassidy sitting in a tree K-I-S-S-I-N-G!

Yesterday at 2:26pm · Delete

Cassidy Pond-DiMaggio

I am! Bill can suck it...well not literally, he'd rather enjoy that being a bloodsucker and all...but seriously, Eric's the way to go.
And you guys are going to get me in trouble. :( But all's fair; Dom's gone until 9 tonight so I'm allowed a book romance right?

Yesterday at 2:34pm · Delete

Jackie Marenick

Oh yes, I believe book romances are acceptable! (At least in my opinion :-P )

Yesterday at 2:38pm · Delete

Cassidy Pond-DiMaggio

I think that makes it law then. I'm safe!

Yesterday at 4:12pm · Delete

Dominic DiMaggio

Ahem....I'm here now...you can stop fantasizing about Eric...the FICTIONAL vampire!

And before you lump me into the pile of every other person with a vagina in the corner humping pictures of this guy,

let me explain that he is still this guy,

And I'm more or less hot for the blond, asshole viking for the sake of "Book Sookie"

and not this bitch

because Vampire Bill is a southern dick

and this guy is a terrible actor.

Now that's been cleared, I give you status update and subsequent conversations, exhibit B:

Cassidy Pond-DiMaggio doesn't feel good.

Christine Thurmond Serigne

I'm sorry! :( Everyone in Slidell is getting sick. It's nuts! I hope you feel better!

Yesterday at 8:22am · Delete

Cassidy Pond-DiMaggio

Jules and I were wondering if the Barista at Starbuck's was spitting in our coffee or something...

Yesterday at 8:25am · Delete

[edit of banter not relevant]

Crystal Belozerows Rico

Damn yall started stuff with the starbucks guy now! By the time you guys leave Louisiana, yall will be banned from everywhere! LOL! Hope you feel better Cassidy!

Yesterday at 10:44am · Delete

Christine Thurmond Serigne

lol Crystal!

Yesterday at 11:07am · Delete

Cassidy Pond-DiMaggio

Actually, the guy that rang me up at the register was kind of flirty. :)

Yesterday at 11:50am · Delete

Crystal Belozerows Rico

Oh! a Barista boyfriend, just what you need! Free coffee! LOL

Yesterday at 12:08pm · Delete

Cassidy Pond-DiMaggio

OMG, I didn't even think of the "perks." Like my pun? I should go back and hit on him...free coffees for all my friends!!

Yesterday at 12:10pm · Delete

Crystal Belozerows Rico

I know huh! Wouldn't that b nice!?!

Yesterday at 12:18pm · Delete

Dominic DiMaggio

sigh...Eric the Vampire, Skippy the Barrister.....should I go crawl into a hole now?

6 hours ago · Delete

Now my sweet and lovely husband made me coffee before leaving for work. Aaaand exhibit C:

Pretend that he wrote "barista" instead of "barrister."

Now if you're thoroughly confused, just google "Trueblood" and watch some YouTube videos for the next few hours.

Today's subject line quote is (surprise!) Sookie Stackhouse, "True Blood" (2008) {Escape from the Dragon House (#1.4)}.

Nobody leaves this place without singing the blues.

2009-09-07T19:42:00.000-07:00

Dom and I have done a series of dates lately of which a babysitter was used. No big deal, but it does get tiresome to constantly explain where your child is.

Say, at the wedding we went to about 2 weeks ago? We knew a lot of people in attendance, and every moment we saw someone for the first time that night they'd ask "Where's Michael?" or "Aren't you missing something?"

Well, dumbass, since common sense seems to pass you by...I've actually come up with a Top 10 list of favorite answers I like to give people at such an occasion.

10. In the car. I cracked the window.
9. We sold him to the circus as a knife thrower.
8. He's in the bathtub, playing "easy-bake oven."
7. I knew I forgot something!
6. At work, where else?
5. Who's Michael? [walk off]
4. He's been adopted by a couple in China.
3. Prison. We don't like to speak of him any more.
2. Hm. Where did I leave him last?
1. [at Dom] I thought he was with you! [run off panicked]

All you parents out there are welcome to use any of them. I like sharing in my awkwardness.

Today's subject line quote is (from one of the best movies of my childhood) Albert Collins, "Adventures in Babysitting" (1987).

Ahhh! BINGO! What fun! But, I digress. Where were we?

2009-09-07T19:27:00.000-07:00

My Labor Day weekend was, for the most part, uneventful and that's the way I like it. My father-in-law came to visit for slightly over 24 hours (Sat-Sun), Dom and I saw a movie, and just had a game night with a couple we know from Dom's office. The End. Oh, and Dom got me these in pink:

They're mop-slippers. I can clean with ease AND style!

Today's subject line quote is Col. Hans Landa, "Inglourious Basterds" (2009). (Great movie btw, it's what we went to see on Saturday. Entertaining from the start.)

I love this cornbread so much, I want to take it behind a middle school, and get it pregnant.

2009-09-03T20:43:00.000-07:00

You know what I didn't wake up thinking two days ago? Hey, it'd be awesome if everyone's facebook exploded with uterine exegesis?! Yeah, that happened. And it ruined my routine of ass-sitting and Mommy chit-chat all day long.

Do I have to say it? I don't give a flying hunk of marmoset poo that Michelle Duggar is pregnant for the 19th time, and I'm certainly not shocked or surprised. The woman's uterus is a professional fetal support system--why shut down the factory after 20 years of hard labor? bah-dah-ching! High five? Anyone? Bueller?

But seriously, stop. Facebook has been overrun with commentary about a stranger's cooter for the last few days and I need it to end. Maybe it's just me, but unless I'm somehow related to the subject vagina, I don't want to know about what's in it. I also don't want to see pictures of the little alien-shaped embryo. Unless it has a percent chance of coming out looking like me. *muah-kiss-kiss* Close friends count as relatives, so no worries. I want to see your hoo-ha!

So here's to not over-sharing the deets of our reproductive organs to unfamilar faces! In the words of Juno, "I'm guessing it looks probably like a sea monkey right now and we should let it get a little cuter." K, thanks.

Today's subject line quote is Tracy Morgan, "30 Rock" (2006) {Hardball (#1.15)}.

O fair Hermia, thou art so incredibly hot and stuff.

2009-09-02T05:30:00.000-07:00

This post is just to inform you all of my adorable husband. I mean, look at him!
Cute, right?

He always wakes me up in the morning to say he's leaving for work at the hairy-asscrack of dawn, and I only seem to appreciate it on the days I wake up before he leaves and get all huffy that he skedaddled without giving me a kiss first.

But apparently the semiconscious hugs I give from my pillow every morning are enough to have me declared "the best wife in the world" to facebook. What a lovely status update to see first thing today! And who said "Romance is dead," besides me earlier this week. What? I forgot that he seems to idolize me on facebook at times. But material presents are a nice touch too. *wink* You know, paying tribute to the goddess that is your wife? Flowers, candies, cards, human sacrifices...Wait, what?

Plus last Saturday we got to go to a wedding for the first time in 3 years and he was uber mushy and giving me the dough eyes...*sigh*...while wearing his formal dress whites.

(The first couple in the picture are Dave and Michelle)

I have "Hot Stuff" by Donna Summer playing in my head right now. Oh, and that's the dress I made for my birthday thankyouverymuch. You can't see the bottom of it in that picture so I'll give you another shot to ogle me in. This was from the weekend before last when Liz came to visit and we all went to New Orleans.

Ignore the gigantic, seductive bandaid on my back. That was so my ~~hideous~~ sexy stitches were covered and nobody on Bourban Street would puke on them.

Today's subject line quote is Berke Landers, "Get Over It" (2001).

Factoid three: Her fashion sense screams predator.

2009-09-01T09:43:00.000-07:00

As many of you already know, I've been seeing a dermatologist for about a month or so now. I had a suspicious mole on my back biopsied; it came back atypical but noncancerous. Just to be safe, I had the surrounding tissue removed. The margins are clear and I'm super-duper.

Except I went in with a precancerous mole and came out with acne. Dr. D gave me two prescription creams and now my bacteria-face is peeling, the fuck, off. Oh, and not to mention that everything UNDER my skin has decided to get the hell out of dodge and surface. So I have a mountainous pimple on my chin big enough to be declared a city. I'm expecting to see tiny people starting to settle on it and plant a flag any day now.

Colossal blemishes aside, I really just wanted to tell you all about what my dermatologist likes to wear to work. Granted, I've only seen her on Fridays so it could be some "extreme casual Friday" business, but seriously? This is what she had on when I got my last set of stitches out...

She walks in wearing pajama pants. And I'm 90% sure they're not scrubs because they were the thin, well-worn, striped kind with the drawstring front, and a frayed hem. To go with the "I own my own practice and don't care what I wear" getup, she added some slip on shoes that looked like they were from Hot Topic. The kind a scene kid would wear, complete with black, white, and red checkered pattern and a bow on top. And here's the best part! She wore a longsleeved, gray undershirt with a tiny, Barbie pink t-shirt over it that had "Botox" bejeweled on it.

I shit you not. Here, I drew a picture of it. Today's subject line quote is Buffy, "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" (1997) {Teacher's Pet (#1.4)}.

It's not a crime to be an asshole, but it's very counter-productive.

2009-07-09T08:01:00.001-07:00

Things I've done this summer so far:

* Built a corner desk out of shelving material and plastic drawers (total cost: $55)
* Designed a dress for my birthday outing (it's only lacking the hem now)
* Made 2 1/2 purses
* Taught a toddler to stick out his thumbs and say "Aaaayyy" like The Fonz
* Taught the same toddler the alphabet
* Finally decorated my house to near perfection (bedroom is still lacking)
* Won an epic war waged against killer ants invading my house
* Made an extended car trip with a 1 1/2 year old, solo
* Emailed my husband once a day for a month
* Celebrated my 5th wedding anniversary
* Had my cat cremated
* Brainstormed a kickass idea for a teen novel that will never be written
* Had a miniscule mole on my back removed for pretty much no reason at all
* Touched a hissing cockroach at the Insectarium
* Visited the Aquarium
* Perfected my sugar-free chocolate chip cookie recipe
* Had a smoke bomb explode in my hand, turning my fingers hot pink

What have you done?

Today's subject line quote is Ray Embry, "Hancock" (2008).

Bug spray. We should've used bug spray.

2009-06-11T18:30:00.000-07:00

Tonight I was talking to my mother on the phone while checking my email (I'm a woman, we're decent multitaskers) when I glimpsed something to my right. As it started to register what it was, and how LARGE it was, I quickly hopped over the baby gate surrounding the desk and proceeded to freak out. That's because what I saw was something like this...

Okay, so it wasn't bigger than a house since it was inside my house. But it did look like it could eat me--or at least win in a bar fight against a drunk biker. He was so huge, he may have actually been Spiderman and just didn't realize.

Now, Gigantospider had perched on the rail of the baby gate and nested itself between the desk and the wall. How does one smash a freakishly enormous spider that's wedged in a relatively tiny spot? That's when the hilarity ensues.

I had limited options.

First, I could just ambush the sucker and hope I smash the crap out him before he has a chance to fling himself at my face. But given his location, I didn't see much room for success. In fact, he'd be likely to hide behind the desk and I'd never get to use the computer again!

Secondly, by slowly pulling the gate forward I might bring him out far enough to...well...smash the crap out of him before he eats my face off and escapes to destroy the greater New Orleans area and lay it's eggs that hatch buick-sized monster babies.

As I'm evaluating my options, my mother is still on the phone giving me motivational tidbits such as, "All your laundry for the trip is in the office. You're going to be driving down the road and have one pop out and crawl up your leg." She was also kind enough to remind me that they could be lurking in my bedsheets or shoes.

Awesome. Now I have visions of spiders the size of my face coming out of the pipes, waving their fangs at me and I will NEVER SLEEP AGAIN.

I opted to arm myself with Dom's shoe and a rolled up newspaper and to stare at it for nearly half an hour, throwing in a good shiver and squeemish girly noise occasionally. But I knew option #2 was my safest bet, so I began pulling the gate out at a rate measured by nanometers per decade.

The splatter of spider guts was epic. It's like I hit it with just the right umph to shoot its legs into the wall and send the body spiraling to the floor. And it still wasn't dead! Because we all know you can pulverize a spider into 14 pieces, scattered across 3 states but it will still twitch if you go to pick it up with a paper towel.

That's why I hit it 9238749237439 more times with the shoe and carried it to the bathroom with a pair of tongs and flushed it. And now it will live in the sewers of Louisiana and send an army of mutant spiderlings up through the toilets of the unexpecting masses.

Today's subject line quote is Paige [after getting stuck on the wall by a spider-demon], "Charmed" (1998).

So, it's like a secret society?

2009-06-10T17:56:00.000-07:00

No word from Dominic since his flight landed on Monday. I'm assuming they're not letting anybody on the boat contact family so they can be all secrety and hunt bad guy submarines. Or something boss like that? Because if it's something lame, like Dom forgetting to email me, it's a bit more uncool.

Speaking of which, I went to my Zumba class tonight. Evenings at the MegaGym are ridiculously packed. First off, I had to wait in line to even turn into the parking lot because there were cars waiting in line for someone to leave their spot! There was a line to wait in line...

So the class was super pakced and the only spot for me was, naturally, by the window. Let's forget that I had an exhausting day with le bebe, battled ants for claim to my bathroom, or the fact that my dinner was a PB & J. If you take all of that away and put me by the window on my BEST day in Zumba, I still look like a freaktard. Now I've got everyone walking in from the main entrance stopping to stare at me like I'm a fish in the aquarium. Children even tap on the glass.

But at least I wasn't the girl in pink up front. She likes to boogie, and I don't think she cares who knows it. Unfortunately, she looked a lot like Selma Blair in Cruel Intentions when she was dancing around, singing "secret society, secret society."

Today's subject line quote is Cecile Caldwell, "Cruel Intentions" (1999).

I'm a little concerned that your date has her hand down my pants.

2009-06-08T16:51:00.001-07:00

Dom made it safely to Norfolk yesterday afternoon and will setting sail sometime today, I believe. Meanwhile, back at the ranch, things did not get off to a smooth start.

My friend, Christine, watched Michael for us Sunday night so we could go on a date! It was super sweet of her to take on a rambunctious toddler on top of her 3 other boys. Not literally on top--you know what I mean.

Anyway, we went to see Night at the Museum: Battle of the Smithsonian. It was cute and about as funny as the first, but overall it felt like the writers got lazy and recycled a lot of the same old jokes. I think sequels often have the same affect as senioritis; they don't really give a crap because everything is secured. People will spend the money to see Piece of Crap: The Sequel because the original was good. Or if it really was sh-crap, the promise of a second movie means it will be better!

So approximately 105 minutes, a bag of buttered up popcorn, and half a king-size Reeses's Peanut Butter Cup later, we weren't exactly jonesing for some dinner. But I'm a caffeine addict and requested somewhere with coffee and we ended up at a local diner.

So approximately 45 minutes, a Belgium waffle, four giant slices of French toast buried in powdered sugar/drenched in syrup, and 2 cups of coffee later...

Michael had been a darling for the sitter! Later Christine told me, "When we were eating dinner, we asked Tyler if we could keep him and he said we could! He said he could sleep on the couch and he would be his big brother." Michael also kept kissing baby Jacob while he was there. Phenomenal news! Because when I hold baby Jacob, Michael tries to slap him.

We decided to reward Michael with a trip to the car wash. Most kids find the automatic car washes funny, so why not give it a go?

Approximately 10 minutes, a terrified toddler, and an over-squeezed set of adult hands later...

He wasn't a fan. He didn't cry, but he had to hold Dom's hand. He also kept looking out the window with bug eyes every time a spinner came by and telling us (calmly) "No. No." We paid $8 to frighten my son. Fantastic.

He fell asleep on the way home but Dom wasn't ready to put him to bed yet because he was going to have to leave the house around 5 a.m. and would miss saying goodbye in the morning. That's when I got to take this picture:

To round out the super-awesome date night, however, I decided to barf up everything I had pigged out on in the past 24 hours. Apparently I got some stomach bug and expelled everything I had in me.

Good news is, I finally broke into the 140's again! Only 17 more pounds to go before I reach my weight loss goal!! Don't worry, I'm planning on losing that through diet and exercise and not by vomiting. But, that's probably only 3 good flu's away from being skinny? But I am wearing this dress right now...

That's Dom and I leaving our wedding reception back in 2004. I fit into that dress again!

Today's subject line quote is Keanu Reeves, "Action" (1999) {Pilot (#1.1)}.

The good news is there is no more bad news.

2009-06-04T05:19:00.000-07:00

I have good news, followed by bad news and lots of crying, followed by good news and much giddiness. I'm not even going to bother asking you what order you want it in; it's my blog and it makes more sense to do it the way I just set it up.

Oh, Happy Day

I finally booked my manicure and pedicure at the spa and it was fabulous. Dom's dad got me a gift card for a 2 hour hand and foot extravaganza for Mother's Day. It was stereotypically the most relaxing place I've ever seen.

They have a "quiet room" to wait in where they bring you hot tea and you can read magazines and listen to fountains dribble while they get set up. The fountain thing just made me have to pee, but bodily fluids aside, it was relatively calming. Then I got my feet rubbed while sitting in a massaging chair, my hands dipped in paraffin wax, and my nails painted a pretty purple shade that I managed to screw up on the way to the car (even AFTER I waited the 15 minutes for everything to dry). My hand and feet are still feel soft. I love being a girl!

Afterward I called Dom and let him know how it went. He asked, "So you're nice and relaxed now? Not stressed or in a bad mood?" I answered "No," followed by "Why? Do you have bad news?"

Yes, Bad News

Because some Chief is a dumbass and can't get qualified to go on his own deployment, Dom will be leaving on Monday in his place. He'll be gone for a month. There will probably be much bloggage in his absence. So I suppose it's good news for you guys!

Happy Ending?

Since my husband is adequate at his job and has to take the place of Chief Diddly Hoo Ha, he will be gone for our 5th wedding anniversary on June 12th. Dom took me out for an impromptu dinner and romp around the mall (get your mind out of the gutters, people) last night.

That's when I got this.

I have such a great hubby! Now I'm going to miss him extra because he was all gushy and sentimental. Here, let me ruin it with this video.

Today's subject line quotes is Herr Flick, "Allo Allo!" (1982).

Deformity's sexy. I picture Drew Barrymore with, like, an eye patch, a club foot, maybe a lisp.

2009-06-02T05:11:00.000-07:00

I'm too [insert adjective that makes you less upset with me for not blogging here] to write my own life's story of late, so I'm just stealing Liz's (my sister-in-law) latest blog update. But she's a popular bloggess, so it's all good. This requires participation, so cooperate or you won't get any new posts at all!

Who would play me in a lifetime movie? Liz suggested Drew Barrymore for this reason:

Bubbly, adorable-faced blonde with porcelain skin and rosy cheeks. She can clearly handle the quirkiness of the Cassidy out on the town with the gals, having a few margaritas - we've all seen her not handle alcohol well in Wedding Singer. She can also handle the darker, depressing Cassidy turmoil - she just has to dredge up her own past, right? We've seen her do dark and philosophical in Donnie Darko. And an artsy poet in Music and Lyrics. And when it comes to the spiritual side of Cass? I'm thinking a bit of "Firestarter" LOL! I'm trying to figure out where to throw in the Charlie's Angels reference...but I've never witnessed you kickin ass.

Do you agree? Why or why not. If you reply, I will then cast someone to play you.

Now, let's hear who you guys think would play you? Wait, why don't you post your name, and I'll give you MY best offer, then you can tell me whether you had a better idea. : )

Today's subject line quote is Peter Dragon, "Action" (1999) {Re-Enter the Dragon (#1.2)}.

I just hope it's not that lame death clock you presented last year.

2009-05-25T18:03:00.000-07:00

I have a good blog for you. This is not it. This is another craptastic puddle of mediocre word diarrhea. My other idea is taking too long and will have to be for tomorrow. Maybe. Maybe I just have a case of the blog runs and will continue to write shitty pages for a few days.

Today's subject line quote is Professor Ogden Wernstrom, "Futurama" (1999) {A Big Piece of Garbage (#1.8)}.

That's not excitement, that's a hangover.

2009-05-24T19:28:00.000-07:00

Blog. Blog. Blog.

See? This is why I don't usually blog on the weekends! I'm so invested in whatever other shenanigans and hoopla that I just don't have it in me to type anything witty out for you people. Not to mention going out two Saturdays in a row, free cosmos at ladies' night, and more drama than the alcohol...has left me with limited brain cells.

And seriously, I'm not a drunk. As Jenn said, I'm more of an amateur than a lush. I can't hold my liquor because I don't usually drink. And since peer pressure and the promise of "we love you when you're tipsy" have replaced the little angel and devil on my shoulders, I usually end up saying (or screaming) things like "ME ME ME" and "somebody walk me to the bathroom" by the end of the night. So three mixed drinks involves me needing an escort to the bathroom because I can't balance sitting down, much less walk myself across a bar.

Somewhere in Arkansas my mother is googleing rehab centers in Louisiana.

I did have a lot of fun! And I certainly wasn't the worst one of the bunch. We all got to see different sides of our fellow Mommy friends, and it was both entertaining and heartwarming--enough to make me puke. Or that could just be the hangover.

Today's subject line quote is Mr. Humphreys, "Are You Being Served?" (1972) {Cold Comfort (#2.2)}.

And I've done some shaving. Somewhere on my body you will discover a tufted heart.

2009-05-23T15:08:00.000-07:00

A few months ago I splurged and bought my first ever, non-disposable razor. It's a Gillette Venus Breeze with the built in shaving gel on the replaceable blade heads.

First couple times I used it, no big whoop. It's a razor. It's not any cheaper than disposable razors. It even produces a tremendous amount of trash from all the cartridges that the razor heads come in. But you know what the difference between a disposable razor and this particular one is?

Bleeding to death.

I switched back to disposables temporarily because I didn't have time to go searching for the right make and model in the grocery store the last time I went. So when I pulled out my disposable Bic Soleil, I nearly chopped my leg off with it.

Maybe it's the shave gel or the shock absorbing neck I've gotten used to on my Gillette, but I looked like a mangled emo kid by the end of my shower. And because I was so scared of nicking an artery, I missed lots of spots.

Yesterday I must have looked like a yeti with mange in my shorts. Every time I looked down I caught, yet ANOTHER, patch of hair I had managed to leave on my legs. And it's not blonde, you-can-only-see-it-in-the-right-light hair either. I have thick, dark, black, coarse leg hair.

Pants it is! Until I can get some more cartridges for my razor, at least.

Today's subject line quote is Dick Solomon, "3rd Rock from the Sun" (1996).

She's like the Terminator, except she's not from the future and she likes to dance.

2009-05-22T20:27:00.000-07:00

It is 10:27 p.m. and I am too tired to give you a real, daily blog. Sorry, but you get this piece of crap.

After meowing for about 2 hours straight, I finally threatened my cat that I would sell him to a Vietnamese restaurant if he didn't shut the hell up.

I also so Terminator Salvation this afternoon. The sound was so loud and rumbly, that when we walked through the parking lot I nearly peed my pants when a car with the bass all the way up drove behind us.

Also, I've eaten nothing but fast food and popcorn for 2 days straight and It makes me feel a little barftastic. Definitely not going to help rid myself of the jiggly bits.

Today's subject line quote is Wendy McKay, "Andy Richter Controls the Universe" (2002) {Little Andy in Charge (#1.3)}.

Thanks, Mr. Wolverine. I'm ready to play.

2009-05-21T20:53:00.000-07:00

Whew! Made my daily blog cut-off with an hour to spare!

I just got back from the movies with my friend, Jules. She's funnier than me, you'd like her. Or you do like her since some of you have met her. Anyway, we had the theater to ourselves because nobody wants to see X-Men Origins: Wolverine, including us. Night at the Museum 2 didn't have any showings until midnight.

I'm too old for that. Jules brought me a latte with 3 shots of espresso and I'm still gonna pass out before 12.

We kinda had a Mystery Science Theater 3000 dialogue going--which was fine because the whole movie's dialogue consisted of "NOOOOOOOOOOO!," arms flinging back, and grunts. But I did see a tremendous amount of beefy men and Hugh Jackman's bush, so it evened out.

I also saw a ripped midget at Wal-Mart afterward.

Today's subject line quote is Marmot, "Franklin" (1997) {Mr. Fix-it Franklin/Franklin Has the Hiccups (#4.2)}.

Madder Hulk get, stronger Hulk become!

2009-05-20T13:48:00.000-07:00

I just pulled a crying child off of the conveyor belt at the register of a Winn-Dixie.

Yes, it was my child. He had not taken a nap despite the 3 attempts I'd made since 9 o'clock this morning, and this was not one of those didn't really need a nap kinda days. Tired tots are a lot like the Incredible Hulk; they transform into an uncontrollable beast that thrives on the anger of frustrated parents and caregivers.

Despite my son's episodes of crankiness, he seemed in a good mood after working out at the gym. So when I ran to the store for exactly two items, I didn't anticipate it being a mother-son wrestling match in the aisles of Winn-Dixie. It was horrible!

First off, he now refuses to sit in normal shopping carts. I have to use a clunky one with a child steering wheel attached that doesn't steer with the kiddie wheel OR the normal handle. Does he at least stay quiet and enjoy his mother's ridiculous efforts to calm him while maneuvering an 18 wheeler through the aisles that are not designed big enough for their own carts?

No.

He starts doing an interpretive dance comprised of up, down, jump, scream that must be designed for attracting bad moods because we were both in one by the end of it. And as I'm yelling at him to sit down before he falls out and spills cranky baby brains all over the tile, he grabs my neck and begins to pull himself out. Using the cart as leverage under his little toes, he starts pushing off and standing up to wrap himself around my torso.

By this point, I'm pushing a gigantic cart around the corner while wearing a toddler like a scarf.

I had to bait him into the car with Teddy Grahams--of which he fell asleep with his hand still in the container on the way home. And you know what? I Didn't even make it home with both the things I went to the store for in the first place.

Today's subject line quote is The Hulk, "Ironman" (1994).

They've gone to plaid!

2009-05-19T13:03:00.000-07:00

About two weeks ago I was so sluggish and grumbley about the perpetual sink full of dishes that I was praying to Betty Crocker for guidance while looking for the switch that would put me back into homemaker mode.

I found it. It broke. I've been stuck at ludicrous speed for two days now.

Once I get past the morning grogginess by ingesting a few gallons of coffee and staring at a wall for a minute or two, it's GO, GO, GO! Yesterday I did all the laundry in the house, folded it, and put it away, (Or tried to at least. I'm not used to having everything clean at once, so I ran out of dresser space and hangers) and made a purse from scrap materials.

Today I cleaned out the kitchen cabinets, scrubbed the counter tops, and windexed the appliances. What's next, color coding my closets and alphabetizing my shirt labels? Maybe I should start small by simply finishing my projects from back in 2000andgodknow'swhen.

Yeah, I owe people crafty projects all across the country. I have a partially knitted hat for Donna in Portland, Oregon that I started when it was still cold. There's a neglected Memphis Raqs sign in my garage in need of some quality artist-project-spraypaint time, too. Hell! Remember that purse I finished yesterday? It was something I had promised to make for a friend from Charleston before I graduated in 2007.

I have craft ADD. I get all invested in a project just long enough to see something "cooler" that I want to make and run after it like a hyperactive kid who just saw a quarter. Or whatever other shiny things their attracted to these days.

Today's subject line quote is Barf, "Spaceballs" (1987).

Damn, double damn, and an extra pint of damn for the weekend!

2009-05-18T05:35:00.000-07:00

I have survived this seemingly pernicious weekend, and it was no simple feat.

Just like most of you, I'm grateful for Friday to come around, sweep me off my feet and carry me swiftly into the sunset of Saturday and Sunday to recover from a hellacious week. But, this weekend? It must have downed some primo speed, smoked a pound of crack, and went on an espresso binge in an alleyway behind Starbuck's.

Can you even get crack by the pound?

Regardless, I'm worn out and now need the work week to recover. Why? Because Friday-Sunday were filled with things like this:

FRIDAY

Well, actually, I don't remember Friday. Weird. I'm sure it was splendidly filled with kooky events and equally freakish people enacting them. Wait...was Friday the day we went to the park? If so, I was right and that's when the old man kept hinting that I need to be touching Michael in order to keep a close enough eye on him. Doesn't matter. Saturday is what you really want to hear about.

Saturday

My mother-in-law came to visit and subtly called my outfit whorish.

Saw Angels and Demons in the theater and was called out by my husband on my "reaction" when Ewan McGreggor appeared on screen. He thought I was laughing at his accent, and I assured him it was just because the man is very pretty.

Something about a wine bar, a rude waitress named "Titty McSlutterson," and me raising a "not a vaginatarian" to her "strictly dickly."

Lastly, there were exploding lightbulbs in my bedroom when I got home.

Sunday

Woke up around 6 with the dogs and stood in my bedroom staring at the wall until Dom asked me what I needed. To which I rasped "water," gulped down a cupful and somehow woke up again around 9 with no knowledge of getting back into bed.

Rain, New Orleans French Quarter, more rain, more mother-in-law, and a hangover.

It was much fun. But there can be too much of a good thing and now I have to decide between taking a shower or going into small coma while Michael is napping.

Today's subject line quote is John, "A Bit of Fry and Laurie" (1986) {(#2.1)}.

Sleepy-time now?

2009-05-17T19:16:00.000-07:00

Almost forgot to eat my worm. Er, write a blog today. Unfortunately, I was already snuggled up under my covers and ready for bed when I realized this fact.

That is all.

Today's subject line quote is Al Bundy, "Married with Children" (1987) {All-Nite Security Dude (#5.16)}.

The best way to take our minds off the smell of burning flesh is to begin tonight's karaoke contest.

2009-05-16T06:25:00.001-07:00

When I did that whole bit about writing every day, I wasn't sure if I meant weekends too. I guess so since I'm typing this out on a Saturday. It is Saturday, right?

If it is, then that means I get to go to the wine bar again with the moms from Meetup! I'm psyched up for chugging back a glass of champagne, or seven. I've even been practicing karaoke just in case someone drunkenly announces that we just have to do it.

Unfortunately, there isn't much that practice can do for me. I suck. Hard. I'm in the caliber of suck as one of those Oreck vacuum cleaners that can pick up bowling balls. It sounds like cats in a microwave or something. But if I had to because my singing to a midi file would save the word from an alien attack....here are my star songs:

"Ice Ice Baby" Vanilla Ice
"It's Oh So Quiet" Bjork
"Silent All These Years" Tori Amos
"Adia" Sarah McLachlan

Maybe one day I'll bless you with a video. But I doubt it.

Today's subject line quote is Emcee, "Duckman: Private Dick/Family Man" (1994).

I'm homesick for Oreos and Yoda.

2009-05-15T05:14:00.000-07:00

We live here now--in Slidouche. It's slightly more official because I can go to the grocery store and run into natives that know my name. That means we're settled, no going back!

I don't remember that feeling abruptly punching me in the gut when we had moved to South Carolina. It, more or less, snuck up behind me to knock me out with the barrel of a shotgun. And suddenly, I liked it there in that redneck melting pot.

Sure, the fear of being rear-ended for stopping at a red light was hampering. And occasionally I missed customer service representatives talking to me instead of grunting. But I had those great, once-in-a-lifetime friends that mesh into your family. And Jenn was only a few hours away to visit on holidays!

It was also pretty. Downtown wasn't any farther away than New Orleans is from my house now, but I had a reason to visit downtown Charleston daily! It was smaller, and quainter, and I got to know it rather well.

Now I've got slidouchebags trying to shove the Fleur de Lis so far down my throat that I vomit LSU purple and yellow! I suppose I should quit resisting and just accept it. I'm sure in a few years I'll be whining about leaving Lousiana from our next station.

Today's subject line quote is Dorothy, "Roundhouse" (1992).

Nobody loves me. Everybody hates me. I'm gonna eat some worms.

2009-05-14T14:30:00.000-07:00

Do you guys remember that book How to Eat Fried Worms? It was all about a kid who made a bet with a bully that he could and would eat a worm a day for like a year, or some extended period of time. This blog is my worm.

I've decided that Writing is bullying me too far. And just to spite Writing and parry his attempts to give me Indian rug burns or rub metaphorical dirt in my face, I'm going to write SOMETHING here every day.

It may not be mind-blowing. Probably won't even be coherent! But I will defeat that tyrant...

even if I have to eat my own words?

Today's subject line quote is Brian Robeson, A Cry in the Wild (1990).

Um, ok. The fifth dentist caved and now they're all recommending Trident?

2009-05-13T09:19:00.001-07:00

Ever tried putting on lipstick while half your face is numb? You should. It's fun as shit. If you haven't guessed, I got the last half of my fillings done this morning. My lower lip is just a blob of skin to me right now. If I open my mouth at all, I have to be careful that it doesn't get stuck between my teeth. Gross, really.

Speaking is..interesting. It's giving me flashbacks to when I had my braces put in and had a palate expander that kept me from being able to pronounce words with vowels in them. Had to stop at Wal-Mart for an air filter and I thought people were going to start signing to me because, yes, I sound like I've been deaf since birth.

Right now I'm attempting to drink through a straw while praying that I don't aspirate diet Dr. Pepper and die a humiliating death before my 25th birthday. So far? So good. Now I'm going to blow raspberries and finish the laundry.

Today's subject line quote is Chandler Bing, "Friends" (1994) {The One with All the Poker (#1.18)}.

Revenge is a dish best served with pinto beans and muffins.

2009-05-12T10:03:00.000-07:00

Dom and I got our buddy, Larry, to come sit on the baby last weekend so we could go to the movies and feel like real adults for a while. We went to go see the new Star Trek and then retreated to a wine bar. And we picked the wine bar just so that we've been to a bar together on a date without losing all that prestige and pompousness we've acquired all these years by using words like "pompousness" and "lacrimose."

That's beside the point, which is this: Star Trek was AWESOME. Maybe it was just seeing a summer blockbuster in an actual theater, or eating fistfuls of popcorn somewhere other than my couch, or maybe even just seeing Sylar with groomed eyebrows...but it was awesome.

Of course you have to go into it knowing that it's an epic space opera and is more of a headbang to the old 1960's series than a nod. Also, you can't say the words "space opera" and not expect me to start quoting lines from The Wrath of Khan in vibrato. I have done it, publicly.

Today's subject line quote is Armando Guittierrez, "Freakazoid!" (1995) {The Chip: part 2/Freakazoid Is History (#1.7)}.

Okay, I'll be the hungry lioness and you can be the baby gazelle!

2009-05-11T11:25:00.000-07:00

Writing is still mad at me, ran off to Cancun with My Patience, and left me here alone with Crankiness. So I thought I'd just share a picture to let you all know that I'm alive...and have pretty hair.

Been doing a wild 'n curly thing with it, hoping it will make me look hot and not tamable--like a lion, even though girl lions look bald and it makes no sense for me to want hair like that. It also makes me less of a slave to my hairdryer, and therefor, my electric bill.

Today's subject line quote is Maggie O'Donnell, 17 Again (2009).

Well, you sound like a little bitch.

2009-05-07T04:56:00.000-07:00

Me and writing haven't been getting along very well lately. I've always got some great thoughts dancing around in my head, but every time I sit down to type I'm just like, "Fuck you, Writing! What's you're problem? I don't need your shit." Then I throw a drink in his face.

Which is why it's a good thing I haven't been trying to blog at the Starbucks or somewhere public. People get scared when you yell at imaginary things and demand their coffees to go. Not a good way to make friends with the native Slidouchebags.

And see? That's all I've got for you today because Writing is being a bitch. And not in a good way, like Writing is MY bitch. No, just a typical drunk chick off the Rock of Love bus kinda bitch. Yeah Writing, I just gave you Herpes! How do you like that? Oh, well I didn't give you Herpes from me, I just...whatever. I'll just go clean something.

Today's subject line quote is Naomi Clark, "90210" (2008) {We're Not in Kansas Anymore (#1.1)}.

They say an elephant never forgets...but I forget what the elephant remembered.

2009-05-05T06:46:00.000-07:00

The blog's been in a bit of a slump.

I realize and have now not only addressed the elephant in the room, I had a nice talk with her. She likes chick flicks, works for Nilla Wafers instead of peanuts, and is ironically afraid of clowns for a former circus performer. Maybe that's why she's camped out on my couch watching DVD's of Grey's Anatomy?

Anywho, I have some things I need to do for myself. Stuff I'm not really ready for the world to read about just yet. Pull yourself together! I know it's out of character. I'm so self-involved and intertwined with the internet reading about my life that Michael might actually be the love child of me and this blog. There's no blood test compatible for half-human-half-megabyte babies though, so Dom will just have to go on raising him as his own.

I did go back and read my old, angsty, teenage blogs for some clarity. Holy crapola on a stick! I had a lot on my mind circa 2002. It's a bit more obvious to me now what was bothering me. Wonder what made me so absorbed at the time that I couldn't see Jumbo playing Crash Bandicoot in my bedroom, scowling at my Cirque du Soleil poster?

Today's subject line quote is Ed, "Ed, Edd, and Eddy" (1999).

A vampire wanting to slay a demon in order to help some grubby humans? I just don't get it.

2009-04-27T11:42:00.000-07:00

I read a book.

Don't freak out or anything. I know, it's shocking to me too. I don't think I've read a book for fun since Bush was president...Bush Senior. Perhaps not that long ago, but certainly pre-motherhood. And the last book I read and actually enjoyed was when I was still young and thin enough to pass for a background dancer in High School Musical.

My book club (which is just another name for my Mommy Meetup group that wanted another excuse to get out of the house) is meeting for the first time this Saturday. We all put up suggestions for the first pick and since vampires are the new magical wizards, I begged and pleaded for the Sookie Stackhouse books. To my dismay, everyone else picked Twilight.

Of course. I shook my nonconformist fist and grumbled in the background, but eventually picked up the damn thing to get a feel for it before next weekend. I started it around 5 p.m. last night, read between rounds of dinner, diaper changes, watering Dom after he mowed the lawn, and was about 2 chapters away from finishing it by the time I went to bed at 10. Woke up and immediately finished it between rounds of breakfast, diapering, and coffee/sippy cup refills.

Now, it's no secret that I have an affinity for the strange and elegant allure of a good vampire saga. Well that and cutesy robots that dream of being human. Who doesn't like a heartwarming robot story? Or cheesecake? I really love cheesecake.

Anytransition, back in the day I was nearly to the level of obsession that involves licking the television screen every time I saw David Boreanaz on Buffy the Vampire Slayer. So, holy freakin' bloodsucker...I need me some more Edward Cullen. I've actually been pacing my house because Dom took my car today and I can't continue from the New Moon sneak peek in the back of my paperback until he gets home and I can go get the full version.

Can you blame me? It's got all that excitement of falling in love that gives your stomach flutters, danger and damsel in distress rescues, and the guy sparkles in sunshine. Yes, I not-so-secretly daydream about being saved from death by incredibly handsome undead men who are then shocked when I suddenly kick their asses in a very slayeresque manner for doing so. Because clearly, I don't need saving but I want the best of both worlds.

Today's subject line quote is Bookstore Owner, "Angel" (1999) {Are You Now or Have You Ever Been (#2.2)}.

I hand selected them with careful consideration to group dynamics.

2009-04-03T05:45:00.000-07:00

Social circles involve all kinds of horrific and annoying people. Not all are the same level of civil atrocity and depending on what person you are, "the worst" is always subjective. Over the years I've met rainbow of headaches in the form of people. I'm guessing most of you have met someone that could fall under one of these categories too.

The Escape Artist

He or she is a master of self-defensive maneuvers, and by that I don't mean a wicked set of karate chops and sweep kicks. This person has an excuse for everything. They've given stubbornness a face and it's staring you right in the eyes. These types have a million problems they have to share with you, but secretly like their troubles because of the attention they receive. Here's an example:

EA: "My foot is on fire."
Joe Schmo: "Throw water on it!"
EA: "I would, but I don't want to get wet."
JS: "Fire extinguisher?"
EA: I'm allergic to things that might help me. I'll just wait it out.

The Therapist

This Dear Abby will undoubtedly get tired of the Escape Artist's shenanigans quickly because he/she is an advice giver to the point of needing a real therapist. "Therapists" think their crappy experiences give them the authority and heroic calling to inform everyone that "What you need to do is..."

One-Uppers

Have a really great story involving dancing elephants and a tour bus breaking down in front of your house? Great, but the One-Upper had Dinosaurs in tutus drive a trash truck through a neighbor's window.

I'm naturally a bit of a One-Upper. It's not intentional or as extreme as most true OU's, but I do feel compelled to share story for story. I've met a new group of moms via meetup.com recently. They're normal. All pretty down-to-earth and even sometimes funny. More importantly, they laugh at my humor instead of just staring at me with a why are you still talking look.

Which is why I'm trying to mute myself every other conversational topic. Not everyone has to hear EVERY story I might have been reminded of. That's what I have a blog for.

Today's subject line quote is Hodges, "CSI: Crime Scene Investigation" (2000) {Lab Rats (#7.20)}.

And Australia's still like "WTF, mate?

2009-04-02T05:12:00.000-07:00

I am not dead! It's been an eventful and interesting week of which I will now address; however, Dom made me watch this again last night and since I, too, am le tired I feel like pronouncing everything with a Group X quality French accent.

So I have declared that le blog should be read today out loud with a French accent. Is funnier, no?

First off, the inspection I was yelling at the laundry about went fine. They have now registered that we have a "mostly outside" cat that "we made the mistake of feeding once." In other words, we never told them about Opie and instead of staying outside after I threw him over the fence in the back, he came back whining at the back door.

Also, our oven broke the day before the guy showed up. And since I'm still waiting for a call back, I'm going to have to contact them myself. We also must have been right in the middle of a light bulb kamikaze mission because they ALL burnt out the same day. No one has that many on hand unless they're Mormon or a Boyscout.

Then our internet got scared of all my yelling at the laundry and ran off again. After spending 2 hours on the phone with tech support with the cable company and a man in India that works for Linksys, my internet still didn't work. Well the net did, but the router was still effed up. I fixed it by myself without having to call another Indian man for 2 hours. I am le awesome.

You forgot to continue with the accent! Hm? It's ok, I reminded you. Come on "reminded" is an especially fun one to say all French and fancy pants.

Now for the better parts! Did (most) of our taxes and we will be receiving a large refund. I'm not surprised, we do have a walking rebate trying to poop in his diaper right now. But we've decided to pay off a credit card with it. We managed to pay off 2 in the last year! Now if we use our refund, that will leave us with minimal credit card debt and can actually eliminate that by next tax day!

So we celebrated by buying a few frivolous (do it French) items. We never really do that! We have a monthly allowance that often gets neglected because we're so frugal now. Frugal is just another word for "guilty about spending."

Anyway, Dom got a new Playstation 2 since the one we bought used a few years ago died a slow and painful death. It's been refusing to read discs more and more. Since we just bought an assload of Guitar Hero stuff at Christmas, we just couldn't bring ourselves to get another platform. We felt a bit frugal about it.

And guess what I got! Did you say iPod Touch? Why, yes! I did get an iPod Touch!! It's le sweetness. I'm totally turning into one of those people that's always on the internet via a mobile device. Prepare yourselves for me becoming a total asshole. That's why I'm having you pretend I'm French today.

Today's subject line quote is from "But I Am le Tired" by Group X.

The ornaments were yanked from the tree with despair, while dad vacuumed pine needles from his rump.

2009-03-26T14:07:00.000-07:00

I'm having internet issues...so this is actually the entry intended for March 26:

Friends are the family you choose and family is the family you endure for the sake of good blogging material after major holidays. However, I lucked out when the heavens assigned me to my dad. He's about the coolest dad I could have ended up with. And since today marks the 55th anniversary of him popping out of my grandma, my readers get An Ode to my Dad.

He's often regarded as a quiet man. When he does speak, it's frequently profound or simply hilarious. When on vacation in Orlando, we rode the "Earthquake" ride that ends with a flaming propane tank exploding next to the fake subway car. My dad, who was sitting on the outside of the car and had been front and center for the firey blaze, turned to the rest of our family and quietly said, "Well I forgot to wear my SPF 5000." He's very much like the classic Winnie the Pooh, in his short and very matter-of-fact statements such as "Oh, just a small helping of honey...well perhaps a bit larger of a small portion."
This secretly thrilled me growing up because it scared the holy crapolas out of boys coming to court me. See, teenage boys don't like a silent father figure because there is a fear in the unknown. There was no way to tell if they were liked or likeable. Was there even hope for them to charm their way in to my father's good graces? Even I couldn't tell. But it did make me rest easy that I wouldn't be hassled or treated like anything other than the lady I was, because my dad would probably run them over with the GMC Jimmy parked in the driveway. Quietly. They'd never hear it coming.

And even though I may sing his praises on the blog one day out of the year, I think about him constantly. I'm lucky. Because my son is a blonde toddler version of my dad's image, I am always reminded of how much I love both of them.

It makes me recount my days still living with my parents and sharing all of our favorite snacks that made my mom want to gag, like cottage cheese or crackers and milk. It was something that I had solely with him. And it made me feel special knowing that I was the only person in the world that got to sit in his lap after he came home from work.

Since he’s a quiet guy, I may talk to my mom on the phone more--but I still feel just as connected to my dad. I really hope that Michael will get to share some of those bonding experiences with me and his "Pops" when he's older.

Today's subject line quote is Big Pete Wrigley, "The Adventures of Pete and Pete" (1993).

See, this is another sign of your tragic space dementia, all paranoid and crotchety. Breaks the heart.

2009-03-25T07:17:00.000-07:00

A plea to my laundry:

Um, laundry? Why do you have to be such a punkass bitch? I've got an inspection of this renthouse on Saturday and you're just lying there on my couch like a lazy pile of clothes. Go fold yourself! Make yourself useful. Get a job so I can hire a maid, watch my kid while I take a shower, or just make me some more coffee so I can clean this place up on my own!

Every day I have to see you crumpled up in a heap, mocking me with your lifelessness until one of the umpteen toddler shirts rolls onto the floor and I'm forced to pick THAT up too. You disgust me. I'm going to set you on fire and buy new clothes.

A plea to my hair:

Please stop doing that wavey, kinky, swirl thing. It's not cute. Now I have to spend the time I need to fold the good-for-nothing laundry drying and styling you because I'm a superficial and petty diva who wants to be judged by her social ineptitude rather than bad hair.

A plea to my stomach:

Quit whining. There's an enchilada in the fridge.

A plea to the enchilada in the fridge:

Please don't make me fat. If I have to eat any more grilled sandwiches with fat free cheese and light bread that falls apart when you butter it with SmartBalance Lite margarine, I'm gonna set the laundry on fire.

Today's subject line quote is Mal, "Firefly" (2002) {The Train Job (#1.1)}.

Then I'm afraid the fever has reached your brain and you'll have to be destroyed.

2009-03-23T06:06:00.000-07:00

I've caught something that's been going around and I have now given it to my husband. I'm not talking about the stomach bug that's been causing major barfage--though, I may have that as well.

This is much more serious. It's epidemic that inevitably keeps society going and growing. I've got the fever people! Baby Fever.

From a statistical standpoint, it was an inevitability. I first contracted it back in 2006 after being exposed to Meredith's first round. Once you've had the fever, you're far more likely to develop symptoms in the future--especially after being in close contact of mothers with multiple or small children.

There is no set "cure" for Baby Fever. After the initial exposure, the fever will either burn itself out or develop into a much more serious condition which eventually leads to the removal of a large growth from the uterus.

Luckily, there are precautions that can be taken to prevent the growth from gestating often known in common vernacular as "birth control." It will not treat the fever, but does give the affected patient time to assess the sickness and prepare for the onset of symptoms.

Symptoms that develop in Stage 1: Pre-growth Fever

uncontrollable verbal skills near infants that cause the patient to involuntarily say "awwww," sporadic bouts of crying near children, young and fluffy animals, and Pampers commercials, illusions of grandeur that allow the affected to believe they can withstand extended periods of time without sleep, a compelling need to spread the fever to your significant other

Symptoms that develop in Stage 2: Growth Inutero

extreme irritability, incessable hunger leading to the expulsion of the patient from all-you-can-eat buffets, vomitus maximus, back pain, knee pain, foot pain, neck pain, vagina pain, a magnetic force around your belly that pulls in old ladies to touch it, sensitivity to stupid people

And those are just the ailments that occur in women who contract Baby Fever. So what happens when men, like Dominic, are affected? They gain 20 lbs. after sympathetically craving sushi and ribs for 9 months.

We haven't moved from Stage 1 yet, so with some home remedy treatments (exposing ourselves to ill-mannered, screaming toddlers and taking vacations without children) we might beat this thing before it becomes much more serious.

Today's subject line quote is Daria, "Daria" (1997) {The Teachings of Don Jake (#1.12)}.

This is a bar. You want conversation, go to a Starbucks.

2009-03-18T07:35:00.001-07:00

I feel better.

Dom took me to get some New York style pizza last night for dinner and it helped me unwind a little. I found the ziplock full of my makeup in the back pouch of the diaper bag and managed to salvage my hairstyle with a knitted headband, so I didn't feel so trashy going out.

We laughed about the lousy day we both had and it was nice. Though Dom didn't have to save a toddler from a gigantic ant hill, he did have 4 shots of espresso for breakfast and was still reeling from it in the car after dinner. Being the java junkie that I am, just talking about it made me ask him stop at Starbucks to let me go in and get a latte.

And here's the part of my night when a barista confused me with his social ineptitude.

I think he must have interpreted my need for coffee and knitted headband-metallic purse look as someone who throws "The Hills" watch parties because he kept making assumptions about how I'm not appreciating my day enough.

First off he was one of those bubbly, service industry guys that feels particularly safe fortified behind the counter. I say this, because he wasn't even the one taking my order but still felt obligated to say,

"So one of everything on the menu right?"
"No. Not quite."
"Oh, just half then."

I smiled at his attempt, because friendliness is a rare and precious thing to me. Strangers are often stiff and uncomfortable, and it's unfortunate to not be yourself around the majority of society. My smiling demeanor usually goes unnoticed in public. If I try to coax a pleasant interaction out of someone behind a counter, 99% of the time it ends with them looking up and away while telling me a total.

The one time I go somewhere with an I had a bad day countenance, and Super Barista thinks it is his personal quest to figure me out.

"You look tired." I immediately shot back an "I am," with an implied you dumbass attached. Good thing I don't have that condition where you can't filter your thoughts from what you actually say because I was thinking, You work at a coffee shop, shouldn't the people coming in either look like zombies or completely wired?

He then proceeded to spill his guts about how it's a nice day and I should go for a walk in the park to make up for him being stuck inside, only to retract it quickly with a "What am I saying, you're probably on your way to work."

I corrected him. Kid, husband, car...coffee? I also really wanted to tell him that this afternoon's romp out in the backyard got me a handfull of antbites while rescuing my 16 month-old, so my appreciation for the outdoors may need some time to recover. I didn't.

Once discovering I was a stay-at-home mom and not fashionista locked in a cubicle all day, he seemed to quit trying to make me have a bigger love for life. Or maybe he was just trying to hit on me the whole time.

So, was he insulting me or hitting on me?

Today's subject line quote is Patrick Hanchin, "The Dead Zone" (2002) {Playing God (#2.11)}.

End of the line leprechaun. So much for the luck of the Irish.

2009-03-17T11:56:00.000-07:00

Ever have one of those terrible days when you feel overwhelmed after a 12 hour car trip to visit family for the weekend and having to tend to a baby, dog, and husband the whole way there and back, but then you get home and realize there's 3 suitcases of laundry to do and a basket leftover from before you left, then you run out of diapers but don't want to go out to buy any because you lost your makeup bag somewhere in the car and already let your hair go curly today because you were feeling the ick after traveling all day yesterday but without proper makeup you look more like a homeless person instead of pulling off the wavy chic look, but later have to go anyway because you need to buy children's Benadryl after you and your son were attacked by ants while playing in the back yard, especially when the Irish in you just wants to drink all day and say "fock" instead of "fuck" in honor of St. Patty's Day?

Ever had one of those days? Don't you dare say "yes." I will throw ants at you.

Today's subject line quote is Rose, "American Dragon: Jake Long" (2005) {Professor Rotwood's Thesis (#1.8)}.

Oh, I'm sorry. Now I'll aks you again. Where is the mi-cro-wave?

2009-03-12T05:16:00.001-07:00

Last night the shopping expedition went much smoother. Dom stayed home with Michael so I didn't have to worry about the munchkin running through the aisles of Hobby Lobby and knocking over the displays of glass decor that fill the center of the store.

I got a birthday present for my dad, but I can't tell you what it is because he sometimes reads this. Hi, Daddy! And I also found a sweet metallic purse. It was the only one left and someone had pulled the tag off. When I asked an associate about the price she said, "Oh, I bought a few of those the other day. I think they were either $11.99 or $19.99." I scrunched up my face when she said it might be 20 bucks and she smiled and said, "Want me to take it up front and tell them it's $11.99?"

Sweet! I got a cheap purse. It's got a lot of room, too. It's this shape,
but this color, and no fake scaley trim either.

It made me wicked happy. And even though I only spent about as much time shopping as the night before, I felt less rushed. That made the whole experience more enjoyable. I even managed to get a portable DVD player for Michael for our upcoming car trip! Yay, I can listen to Elmo for hours instead of a crying toddler. Is that really any better?

The chick that got it out of the display cabinet for me didn't know anything about DVD players or car mounting kits. But she did say she could "Axe someone over dere." I bit my lip so hard, I though it would be bruised this morning. It's not. And I get to tell you all about it. Makes me think that it really will be the proper pronunciation in another 1,000 years. Futurama may be right! Let's just hope none of us accidentally time travel trying to make popcorn and end up our own grandparent.

Today's subject line quote is Leela, "Futurama" (1999) {Roswell that Ends Well (#4.1)}.

I concur. It is unremarkable.

2009-03-11T05:25:00.000-07:00

This week has been filled with nonbloggables. Lots of unremarkable things that I must remark on to magically manifest into a decent post.

No. I refuse. Not the post part, you're getting it. But it's not going to be decent...or coherent. Ready?

I'm making a purse out of scrap materials because another henna artist in Ohio does it and it looked like fun. I also look to her website for inspiration with my designs and that's where I buy my dye from. She should be flattered by how much I stalk her via the web, really. But what makes my purse able to kick her purses' asses, is that I am embroidering mine. It's not by hand, but it's certainly not being done with a computer program either. I'm using my sewing machine, but I'm guiding it by hand. And yup, you guessed it...I'm doing a henna design that I probably ripped off from someone over the past 5 years.

I saw Hostile Harriet in the gym locker room again. She just smiled at me and left to go soak in the hot tub. Score!

Liz left me the most awesome voice mail message ever. Too bad you can't hear it. I'm certainly not going to type it out because it looses it's magic without the fluctuation in tone.

Last night, Dom and I planned to go to dinner together and then he would take Michael to the park and let me shop. But by the time we split, I only had an hour and a half to get to the mall, shop, and come pick them up. I sped shopped through Sears and Forever 21 and came out with 4 shirts that look the same.

Any nonbloggables you want to share?

Today's subject line quote is Seven of Nine, "Star Trek: Voyager" (1995) {Bliss (#5.14)}.

P.S. Anybody else super excited about the new Star Trek movie coming out in May?

Stimulating neurons... tampering with people's brainwaves... it just raises too many questions

2009-03-10T06:26:00.000-07:00

I have had a miraculous and life-altering epiphany.

Turns out, Breathe Right Nasal Strips really do work. I've always been one of those cynical A-holes that assumed it was all a big load of dookie. My husband's used them off and on for years, but I figured he bought into the propaganda and psyched himself up for a miracle. Because, really, who expects a bandaid strapped to your nose to stretch your nostrils wide enough to breathe better?

Me. That's who.

But since I don't think I snore, there hasn't been much opportunity to give it a whirl. Except last night pollen must have invaded every crevice of my body because my eyes were puffy, I thought my skin was going to fall off from the constant scratching, and my nose was rather useless to me for all the snot occupying it.

Dom gave me one of his glorified bandaids. Of course I had to put it on crooked and waste one because I'm inept like that. But once I figured it all out, I slept great! I didn't wake up with that dry throat and crusty tounge that usually comes from breathing through my mouth for 8 hours. I don't think I even woke up in the middle of the night.

Maybe I need these things every night? Maybe I toss and turn because I do snore? What if I have Apnia like my dad and need to sleep with a machine strapped to my nose that blows air up my nostrils? Does this mean I can have a free nose job? Is this too many questions, like what Val Kilmer said to Jim Carey in Batman Forever that made him go insane and dress in green spandex littered with question marks?

Which is today's subject line quote! Bruce Wayne, "Batman Forever" (1995).

The internet. 95% of it is rubbish.

2009-03-09T07:26:00.000-07:00

I have my very own website!

My father-in-law is some sort of domain name guru. He must own half the internet because he throws websites to people like Mardi Gras beads at a parade. He had set us up with www.domdimaggio.com of which I post all of our family pictures but now I have a page of my own namesake.

Unfortunately, I haven't got a clue what to put on it. Currently it still has the white background and default "Welcome to the world of Cassidy Leanne Pond-DiMaggio" that Dom's dad put on before sending me the link. I've put some pictures up of my artwork in the gallery, but nothing on the front page. See what I mean? Here is the gallery I was talking about.

Any ideas on how to format or what to even showcase? I want it to look like a real website, professional. I don't want it to look like a 5th grader put it together for a class project.

Today's subject line quote is Richard Hammond "Brainiac: Science Abuse" (2003) {(#1.6)}.

Push me. And then just touch me, till I can get my satisfaction.

2009-03-06T04:25:00.001-08:00

I skipped yoga yesterday to let Michael play in the backyard longer. He was having a wonderful time running laps with the dogs and anatomizing the giant pile of that used to be an anthill. After cranky baby syndrome outbreaks going around, I didn't want to risk exposing him to another bout.

He played outside most of the day. And since can see the back yard clearly from the kitchen and living room, I was able to get dishes done and work on a painting! When it's finished, I'll put it up on my website for you to stare at in awe. Then it will go to the highest bidder because you can put a price on the things you love.

I still went to Megagym and ran my butt, literally, off. It fell right onto the floor by the elliptical machines. Very embarrassing, yet satisfying that all that badonkadonk is off my backside. You know what sucks about Megagym? The extremely nice locker room that makes the finest room in my house look like a prison cell...is filled with people. I. hate.

Exhibit A: Naked Grandma

She has now gotten other grannies to join her ranks as she attacks the dressing areas with her exposed cooter. There are at least 2 other elderly women that now drop trou simultaneously to hike up the legs and apply lotion in a dasterdly strike of terrorism.

Exhibit B:) Hostile Harriet

This woman spends her day making laps in the locker room to bitch about any single thing she can about the news. And not just legitimate news! If Access Hollywood is on, you'd better prepare yourself for a threatening lecture about Octumom or Rhianna. The first time I encountered Hostile Harriet she made me feel personally responsible for the death of Kaylee Anthony. And yesterday? She bitched about her healthcare premium going "up $20 because people who are sick all the time make too many claims" and Obama came up with decent compromise. Really, lady? You can't sacrifice $20 to help someone in need? Our country was founded on democracy, that means majority rule. If you can't understand that the greater good of the country reflects your premium going up a negligible amount, not my problem.

I just put my headphones in while she was still talking. Which is why, I need my own iPod.

Dom and I share one. And he takes it to work with him most days because the gym at his work isn't as spectacular as mine that provides personal t.v.'s and such. And since I know dropping hints like "I've really enjoyed having the iPod these last couple of weeks" won't work, here goes...

I want this for my birthday...or St. Patrick's Day...or whatever excuse you want to use to get it to me...

Today's subject line quote is "Satisfaction" by Benny Benassi, the song from the stupid Wendy's commercial with the hamburgers that go up and down like a synthesizer and totally creeps me out.

I am Jack's complete lack of surprise.

2009-03-05T07:16:00.000-08:00

It's Thursday. Generally, this would be a post about my yoga class shenanigans because I look forward to Zenning myself out. Unfortunately, it started 18 minutes ago and I'm typing from my house. Instead you get to hear about my Wal-Mart shenanigans...again.

Last night I needed a few grocery staples, i.e. milk, turkey, underpants. Off to Wally World we go. I ate a quesadilla before packing up, Michael fed his to the dog. Unfortunately, not finishing your dinner is a trigger for Cranky Baby Syndrome.

CBS kids will often exhibit symptoms such as, but not limited to: near convulsions and a severe desire to throw things from carts, restless leg syndrome, the inability to speak under 140 decibels, pointing at strangers (especially creepy ones), belief that he or she can fly if given the opportunity to jump from the cart, an inexplicable inability to sit down or follow simple commands, and random shoe loss.

As this was a particularly difficult flare up of CBS, I had to cut my shopping short. Of course, not before realizing that he had lost a shoe somewhere from the parking lot to the middle of the frozen foods section. And it hadn't been a straight trip from A to B. As I forcing my toddler into the seat of the cart and retracing my steps to locate his missing sandal, I noticed a man in uniform running up to me yelling "Ma'am! Ma'am!"

Great, the cops have come to seize Michael. I guess my constant screaming of "SIT DOWN!" and shoving him back onto his bum might have been construed as "child endangerment." And the guilt of not purchasing eyeshadow last week was nearly giving me turrets because I was severely fighting "I stole stuff!" from escaping my mouth. Which must have been all over my face because he had a confused look himself.

"Your shoe is up at customer service. I found it and gave it to them. Been looking everywhere for you."

Turns out, he was just a nice guy trying to help me out. I think I thanked him. Things become a big whirl of what the fuck when you're about to faint. Shoe recovered, all is well.

Or it would be except for the Banshee in my cart squealing for a banana like he wants to mate with it. I think it was that point that the man with no teeth asked if I wanted to sell Michael to him. I said "Oh no, sometimes it feels like it...but no."

Everyone looked at me with big, pitiful eyes from the produce section up to the checkout stand. Even the cashier said, "You look like you're deep in thought." I guess I was because it startled me. That, or I'm not used to cashiers acknowledging that I have arrived in their presence. I just looked at him and said "I'm definitely somewhere" with a hint of stress and whatever dignity I had left in my voice.

Then Michael threw the package of underwear I had just bought onto the ground of the parking lot and continued screaming until I gave him half a banana in the car.

Today's subject line quote is Narrator, "Fight Club" (1999).

Yeah, kharma's a bitch. Hey, um, is anyone curious as to HOW he got in there?

2009-03-02T05:32:00.000-08:00

So...I was going to post this yesterday but it turned out to be a challenging day and I didn't get a chance to. So ignore all the present tense or just imagine that this is yesterday...

I want a day off. As a mom, I work 24 freakin' 7 because even when the offspring is sleeping, I'm dreaming about having to rescue him from falling into a vat of molten poison...that he then drinks. I want a day off. As a "Navy Wife," I just put in overtime at my underpaid job as a stay-at-homer.

No, I don't need a day off and this is not me being stressed out over having to change 1,932,847,893,274,347 diapers per day. This is more about justice. I want equality. Everyone else hates their craptastic jobs on days just as much as me (though you guys probably don't get the pleasure of watching a toddler chase our asshole cat around the kitchen while screaming at a barely audible octave). I actually like spending time with Michael and the hubs is a fantastic guy. This isn't about that. This is about order being trumped by chaos, as usual.

I preplanned this day off. I went to bed at 8:30 last night. I also set my alarm for 6:00. I did all of this to ensure a shower before the munchkin woke up and we would be ready to go to the daycare program at Megagym by 9:00.

Because my dogs wanted luxuries like food and peeing outside in the 40 degree weather, it didn't happen that way. Michael woke up at 6:15 instead of 7:30. There was no showering until the first nap and by the time he woke up, it just wasn't worth dropping him off for an hour of "me" time.

I ended up taking him to Wal-Mart with me. BAD IDEA. The kid was trying to escape the shopping cart like he was attempting to flee a beating. Which, by the way, it looks like I have been punching him because of all the bruises he's acquired from tripping so much. He even tripped on a hanger in the dressing room as I was trying to smash my boobs into a workout top for yoga.

Then I picked up some sodas off the shelf and knocked over another 12 pack right onto the floor. It exploded, I got sprayed in the face with Diet Rite. Kharma much? The last time I was there I "deftly aquired" some eyeshadow, remember?

Ready for the kicker? The night before I ran out of soda and ordered a pizza just to have them deliver me a 2 liter of Diet Coke and I wouldn't have to endure a trip out like this. Except the delivery guy didn't show up with my drink, and I had to wait an hour for him to return with...you guessed it...Regular Pepsi.

Okay Universe, you've had your fun. Now give me a break.

Today's subject line quote is Sherrif Jack Carter, "Eureka" (2006) {Family Reunion (#2.7)}.

You are getting sleepy. You... are no longer a cat. You are a bagel.

2009-02-28T05:40:00.001-08:00

Opie will turn 5 sometime this April. In cat years, I think that makes him...an asshole? At least some rebellious, ungrateful teenager that has abandonment issues from being adopted rather than appreciating us taking him into our home to not be made into a kitty pot pie! It's enough to make me yell, "I'm the only mother you've ever known!" at him, but that would be a little crazy.

Last night he hopped up on the desk and tried to play with my arm fat while I was on the computer chatting with Dom (who is in Virginia currently). It wiggles just right to make the perfect teaser toy, I guess, because he was grappling at my jigglies with his claws and biting me.

Then he goes and stays out ALL NIGHT with his good-for-nothing, hoodlum, teenage cat friends breaking into neighbors' trashcans and stealing leftover tuna salad. Wasn't terribly surprised when he woke me up this morning pounding on the back door to be let in. I was surprised that he knocked over my flower box in an angsty rage for not "understanding" him.

So I started my day at 7 a.m. replanting the bulbs of my miraculously resilient Paper Whites in my ducky pajama pants. And Opie is crashed out on the sofa getting hair all over my clean laundry. Why can't he get a part-time job like most teenagers?

And to think that the Egyptians worshiped these animals?

Today's subject line quote is Alf, "ALF" (1986).

Well, I'm also a wanted criminal. Who could be proud of a son like that?

2009-02-27T08:26:00.000-08:00

Oh dear. I've reduced myself to common thievery by shoplifting from a major retail store.

You got me. It was totally an accident. You know when offices offer you something to drink to be courteous and show you how much they love your business and your big, fat mouth that will tell all of your friends how much you love their business? I can't even accept a complimentary soda without feeling like a societal wart and thinking how badly I'll ruin their livelihood with all the Diet Cokes they'll have to replace that day. So imagine my horror to find that this was still in my cart when I got to the car...

It had wedged itself between my purse and the diaper bag. But since Michael had already thrown a royal fit from the store, through the parking lot, and not stopped by the time we reached the car there was no way I was out of my mind enough to haul the screaming toddler back in there with for a packet of hot, $5 eyeshadow.

Why not just keep it? All the cool kids are shoplifting these days and I'm sick spending my proverbial lunch period in the band room. Okay got me again--not completely metaphorical. I really did spend my lunch period picking sandwich out of my braces with the other band geeks. Does it illustrate my point any less?

But there is the long list of crazy that's been trapped in my brain since the incident that's made me nearly pack up and drop off the money. Not only that, but I've been worried about telling anyone about it!

What if the C.E.O of said retail store stumbles across my blog and then informs the police? I could be dragged from my home in a puff of smoke bomb gas by a S.W.A.T team that breaks down my door! Then I have to pay for a new door!! And then they downsize even more to cover costs of the assumed MILLIONS of dollars worth of makeup products I've potentially stolen for years!

Or worse...What if my mother reads this blog, hops on a plane, to pull my by the ear to give them a formal written apology for wasting their time and money AND for failing her as a child?! Not to mention my attorney/sister-in-law is now probably legally obligated to at LEAST chastise me.

But then I thought, Wait. Didn't these losers make me cry when I was pregnant by yelling at me for going into an empty line that I was waved into by the cashier? And then I didn't feel so bad. In fact, I may steal some more shit to compensate me for these shenanigans.
Maybe some of these? Or this? Or one of those!

Today's subject line quote is Faceman, "The A-Team" (1983) {Family Reunion (#5.8)}.

Colonel in Special Ops said he was the bastard son of Clint Eastwood and Yoda.

2009-02-26T10:19:00.000-08:00

In case you were wondering, no. No. Today's yoga class was not the magical booze cruise to Tahiti it was last Thursday.

First off, I was a little distracted by the Sweet Valley Twins performing their own version of Cirques du Soleil in the intermediate class. There were two particularly dainty blondes that were able to move their 85 lb. bodies with the likes of Mongolian contortionists. I really wanted to hand them both a McDonald's arch card tell them to "Have a Big Mac or two on me."

There was also a man there that I am convinced is the DNA hybrid of George Takei and Clint Eastwood.

As if there weren't enough human distractions while forcing my Sulu-loving ass up into downward dog, I realized something about myself. I'm the worst distraction in the studio. I'm...the underwear fiddler.

No, not this kind.

I'm a wedgie pickin', pant leg kickin', bra aduster that is constantly touching my own ass to assure no ride up and smashing my quadraboobies back into my shirt. Oh, and the pants I was modeling today managed to somehow balloon up at every stretch and make me look like Aladin. And there's nothing like a room lined with mirrors to let you know that you are not as descreet about readjusting the crotch of your panties as you had hoped.

Today's subject line quote is Colby Granger, "Numb3rs" (2005) {Toxin #2.9)}.

Are you kidding me? No, no. I'll grab my iPod.

2009-02-24T17:07:00.000-08:00

I am now a firm believer that iTunes is directly controlled by God. How else can you explain the phenomenon of facebook note postings that form such a coherent description of the universe? Two out of Two random iTunes oriented "bulletins" on facebook, if you will, have turned out pretty sweet. This one told me to write a poem using the first line of the first 20 songs on my playlist. The title is #21.

"Under Pressure"

Yeah. I mean, I hear what you're saying.
Meet me in outer space. We could spend a night and watch the earth come up.
You got a great car. What's wrong with it today?
Right about now, funk soul brother. Check it out now.
I am the son and heir of a shyness that is criminally vulgar.
You could be happy. I won't know.
Jerry was a race car driver. Drove so Goddamn fast.
Whenever I'm alone with you, It's like I am home again.
A long time ago, me and my brother kyle here, we were hitchhiking on a long, lonesome road.
Crack that whip, give the past the slip.
I've come to bring the pain, hardcore from the brain.
You let me violate you.
Oh, you're gonna take me home tonight.
It's a wonderful night. Gotta take it from me.
Darling, you've got to let me know. Should I stay or should I go?
Summer's coming too fast. Winter's been here too long.
I'll kiss you once. I'll kiss you twice.
I was angry when I met you.
Something takes a part of me, something lost and never seen.
Well-painted passion, you rightly suspect.

Like the playful banter of a bashful romance and ongoing car theme? So it may not be the hand of the almighty laying his finger on random mode, but it's godly nonetheless. Makes me want to revamp it into a real poem. Here is the list of songs this fake one came from.

Another Love Song, Insane Clown Posse
Stellar, Incubus
Bohemian Like You, The Dandy Warhols
Rockafellar Skank, Fatboy Slim
How Soon is Now?, The Smiths
You Could Be Happy, Snow Patrol
Jerry Was a Race Car Driver, Primus
Lovesong, Tori Amos (The Cure cover)
Tribute, Tenacious D
Whip It, Devo
Bring the Pain, Mindless Self Indulgence
Closer, Nine Inch Nails
Fat Bottomed Girls, Queen
Wonderful Night, Fatboy Slim
Should I Stay, or Should I Go?, The Clash
Out Here All Night, Damone
Graveyard, The Yeah Yeah Yeahs
Push It, Garbage
Freak on a Leash, Korn
The Dumbing Down of Love, Frou Frou
Under Pressure, My Chemical Romance and The Used (cover of Queen feat. David Bowie)

For today's present, you get to be poets! It's easy. Do one. Playlist...open...type...post.

Today's subject line quote is Morgan Grimes, "Chuck" (2007) {Chuck vs. Tom Sawyer (#2.5)}.

...she'll go on and on about the time she choked on her beads at Mardi Gras and was legally dead for five minutes.

2009-02-22T11:17:00.000-08:00

As you may know that it's Carnival season here in Lousiana. Mardi Gras is alive and puking all over the streets of the greater New Orleans area! Weekly parades in the names of various gods and goddesses are held to celebrate the joys of diablerie and sin before giving up chocolate and booze for Lent. We actually went to a couple.

The ones here in Slidell are pretty family oriented. Though if you stick it out to the end, the float riders have had ample time to enough chug Miller Lites that they think throwing beads (full speed) directly to the baby in the stroller is a good idea. I got one in the eye early on and it hurt like a bitch. Dom and I just took the stance above Michael when it got rougher.

Here is an example of the caliber of crazy that the spectators like to bring to these events. Yes, that's a Mardi Gras port-a-potty and a guy grilling in a viking helmet. No, that's not a float in the parade.

That's what people do here. They bring out the campers and park on the grass for weeks just to watch parades and get free crap thrown at them. I have a trashbag full of plastic necklaces on my kitchen counter. That's just from attending 2 parades. And Michael now needs a stuffed animal hammock for all of the bears, footballs, crabs and crawfish that were chucked at him.

There's a picture of me with our friend Larry and a random person I met standing on the street.

There's Dom and Michael...
Here are...ghost cheerleaders?

So have a Phat Tuesday, everybody! Look, I made you a cake. Well, I made Dom a cake. Okay, I made Dom a cake for Valentine's day. But that's the present you're getting today.

Today's subject line quote is Maya Gallo, "Just Shoot Me!" (1997) {A & E Biography: Nina Van Horn (#4.23)}.

Good news, everyone. Tomorrow, you'll be making a delivery to Ebola 9, the virus planet.

2009-02-20T05:42:00.000-08:00

The Google Fairy visited me again last night. Not in the dirty, molest you in your sleep way. Sickos. Nope, The Google Fairy (or Bot to be more precise) crawled this blog for the second time since I registered the web address with Google.com!

Basically, you can register any site with Google for free. Once you do, they send out their little robots to do "crawls" and scout out the page and download all of the little links and pages to revert back to the google index. That way, you have more information when you google my name. *wink*

And here's the best part...

Google "Cassidy Pond-DiMaggio, blog" check out entry 4 on the first page! Also, the first entry is Dom and I's website. But look at 4! It's my December 28th entry about Christmas. The tag underneath the link is talking about Pond Family doing Karaoke and the DiMaggio's are too sexy for their pants.

Okay, so now google "Oh my Blog, Cassidy." The bottom of page 2 yields my myspace page! It picked up the link to the blogging group I created on cafemom.com. Unfortunately, there are no active members in it. But it did help me make the second page of Google!

Ready for the big finale? "Oh my Blog, Cassidy Pond-DiMaggio" reveals this blogger website as the first entry. Now, this isn't likely going to bring in new readers. However, if people that already know the website forget how to get here...Wham! Google it.

It's a small victory to me. I'm very excited. Stop rolling your eyes. Now take your gift. Stay cool with this google fridge...

Today's subject line quote is Professor Hubert Farnsworth, "Futurama" (1999) {A Big Peice of Garbage (#1.8)}.

It's like going to heaven and finding God smoking crack.

2009-02-19T09:55:00.000-08:00

Why do I have to microwave my enchilada at 50% power for 8 minutes? Couldn't I just nuke the sucker full on for 4? Raise your hand if that sounds like a better plan than doubling my hunger in that precious 4 minutes. If you don't raise your hand, I'm going to eat it instead. Mmm, tasty appendages for everyone!

Doesn't matter how long I try to kill my frozen enchilada with radiation; it will come out at magma levels of hot and I will end up waiting another 10 minutes for it cool enough to not melt my mouth into a puddle of tongue on the floor. But I won't, so cheers to the lost ability to speak clearly.

For those of you wondering why I'm eating an enchilada and not the usual coffee and imaginary bacon and eggs breakfast, get with it. It's noon. I broke morning protocol of baby-highchair, coffee, blog to get ready for yoga class. It's at the worst possible time for me, 9 a.m. That actually translates to 8:45 in mommy-drop- off-the-kid-in-childcare time. And if you factor in my morning scramble to pack a bag and wrestle a toddler into clothing, we're really looking at a process that begins sometime around 7 p.m the night before.

So is it worth it--all the downward dog, ass in the air, stretching into a pretzel time? No. I go for the last 5 minutes of the hour long class. I go for total body relaxation power nap time. Yes, I will put my body into unnatural, hard poses to maneuver in (and out) of for a chance to go completely limp on the floor in near darkness. It's heavenly.

And all the yoga moves make it that much more superb to just lay down and die a little, but in a good way. The instructor came through and did a cool move with everybody too. She took my feet and and swung my legs side to side to loosen up my hips and back. Then, she came around and massaged the back of my skull. It was the most relaxing moment I have experienced in ages. I know, I'm 24 and I shouldn't be allowed to use the term "ages" yet. But I speak truth!

Now I want to go spread joy to the world by telling them to lie on their back and swinging their feet for them! Go ahead, I'll be right over.

Here's a gift while you wait for me to show up.

P.S. I kinda felt like this during the class.

Today's subject line quote is Riley, "The Boon Docks" (2005) {The Story of Gangstalicious (#1.6)}.

Hey it just occurred to me, Mickey Mouse is black.

2009-02-18T05:39:00.000-08:00

I thought of like umpteen different topics to blog about last night, but all of them have escaped me this morning because I'm way too invested in whether or not this computer animated bug will survive the roller coaster ride that Gopher built on "My Friends Tigger and Pooh." Don't worry, he's fine. Little guy crawled back to his jar to take a nap.

Aside from super sleuthing in the Hundred Acre Wood, I'm finding myself rather engrossed in the toddler programming I have running during the day for Michael. "Sesame Street" is funny as shit. I get to see popular celebrities act a fool while talking to puppets. They always have guest celebs cameo to teach some valuable lesson, but I'm always too busy trying not to control my bladder from laughing to pay attention. See?

Don't even get me started on "Handy Manny." Okay, I started on my own. First off, it's a cartoon about a Hispanic handyman. Way to embrace a stereotype, Disney. But am I the only one that sees that Manny really wants to bang Kelly? She's the cute blonde that owns the hardware store, and he's ALWAYS over there. And I think it's for parts other than elevator relays. I just know he wants in that fanny pack...

By the way, this is Manny...And this is Bob the Builder...

Now, I've got to go see what the mystery mousekatool is for today so that Mickey Mouse can help Goofy rodeo the number 8. And yeah, I always want to say "Your mom is a mouskatool" when I hear it.

Want your present?

Today's subject line quote is Mike Stivic, "All in the Family" (1971).

I didn't mean to ruin your evening, I just bruise easily.

2009-02-17T05:29:00.001-08:00

So guess what I gave my son for Valentine's day! A black eye. Seriously, I did. Well, I didn't physically but might as well have.

Dom and I decided to go to Mega Gym together on Saturday and workout together. It was a lot of fun despite him making me do push ups in front of all the other worker-outers. And since I can't actually do push ups, I had to do the girly knee push ups.

So after crunches with my ass over my head, lifting my leg like a dog at a fire hydrant for several reps, and feeling like an asthmatic on the elliptical machine...I went to go pick up Michael out of the childcare center.

I walk in to see my son being carried around sporting a huge knot and matching caliber bruise under his right eye. I got greeted with "I was just about to call you back here," which is the equivalent of answering the phone with "I was just about to call you" and you both know that's just a cover up because you totally forgot that person existed.

Apparently my son gets his grace from me because he tripped over a toy and banged his face on the corner of a cabinet. Something he had just done two days before that, only outside and on the corner of a lawn chair. Luckily he had already healed up from that one so he wouldn't have a black eye AND a scrapes on his nose. It would totally ruin his modeling gigs. And I'd probably get arrested for child endangerment.

So all weekend we had people giving him googly faces and Dom and I What the hell? looks. Real awesome for social events like Valentine's dates and Mardi Gras parades. On Monday, Dom was playing around and almost hit me in the face. I thought that would look real great for him if both his wife and son had a shiner.

In summation, I unwittingly lock my dogs up in bedrooms for hours, neglect my cat by forgetting to let him back in from the garage, and let the people that watch my son for two hours damage his face. Somebody get me a sash and a crown! I'm the best mother ever.

In honor of Michael's misfortune this weekend, here is today's gift. Maybe putting a cold one on his eye will help, kinda like raw steak.

Today's subject line quote is May Wynn, "The Caine Mutiny" (1954).

Ordinary. The kind of beautiful, dangerous ordinary that you just can't leave alone.

2009-02-13T19:41:00.000-08:00

So it's Valentine's weekend and I thought I'd share a few things about being married. No no, they're good things. They're reasons why I love being married!

First off, I'm married to this guy.

What's not to love, right? He's fun-loving, quick witted, and looks great in a bowler hat. The goggles make him look like he's missing a chromosome though. But I'm letting it slide because knowing that I have someone who might just sport those puppies at any given moment is exciting. I have a partner that makes me laugh. Well, he makes everybody laugh. But I'm far superior to you schmucks. At least I am in his eyes.

Yet another perk of being married. I can talk about poop and pick my nose and not feel self conscious. And believe me, sometimes there are things you just have to talk about but know that none of your friends will want to hear how big of a crap you just took. But I know I can tell my hubby and he won't leave me for it. Why? Because divorces are expensive and we're too cheap for that. And as super as he may be, he wouldn't have anyone to discuss bowel habits with either.

Marriage is not all potty talk. There's nothing in the vows that says "Do you take this woman to have and to hold, and talk incessantly about otherwise inappropriate subject matter?" There are much more tender moments thrown in there, too. Like these...

Where I had Dominic every step of a very scary, and painful journey to motherhood. I was also excessively swollen from the C-section complications, but I had no idea until I saw the pictures a week later. That's because my husband never gave me a reason to feel any different about myself. He loved me just as much then as he does today, 75 lbs. lighter I might add.

Our first Christmas as a couple, I took a picture of us and framed it with a short list of things I loved about him printed over the top of it. It's still in our office, and all of those reasons are still valid. Plus several more have been added since then.

So today's present is for Dom. A long, but non conclusive, list of reasons why I love him.

I love you because....

of those cute dimples when you smile, of your eyes, you like anime, of how you always feel guilty about Michael making a mess at a restaurant, you're picky about your food because you have taste, of how passionate you are about so many things, my opinion matters to you, you cry when you're sick, you always tell me about the things you find fascinating, the way you always seem to think your lap is the most comfortable place to sit, how you always want to play with our son, the way you make a bad day disappear, you read my blog, to you nothing is impossible, you're not finicky about disciplining Michael, you're a wonderful teacher, you can be silly a lot but serious when you need to be, you make me giggle even in the worst situations, you chose to stay in the navy for your family over going to grad school and pursuing a career in physics, you always drive when I don't want to, you're nice to fast food workers, you have an understanding of quantum physics but sometimes you need me to spell things for you, you got excited when I started painting again, you let me sleep in sometimes, I can tell you anything, you're my best friend, and because every day with you is beautiful.

Today's subject line quote is Faye Valentine, "Cowboy Bebop" (1998).

Tell me. What's your pain? What is it that makes the needle go in?

2009-02-10T11:57:00.001-08:00

Wow. I actually don't feel like blogging today. Stop the presses, or the webmasters, or whatever is applicable here in the world of virtual media...

My point is that I nearly live solely for the express purposes of this blog. I judge my experiences on their bloggability and how difficult it will be to word them! So for me to feel like I'm being burdened to share my annoying account at Mega Gym today, makes me want to check my pulse.

Is it me? Of course it's me, it's certainly not the inanimate computer webpage's fault. But in what sense is it me? Am I getting bored with my life or is it the prospect of writing that's giving me a metaphorical wedgie. Just the fact that the last line I wrote was all I could come up with tells me that I need to pick the creativity out of my ass crack and not take up skydiving.

My senior year of high school I picked up a black and red journal decorated with Chinese symbols at a bookstore in the mall. I wrote in it compulsively. There were anecdotes and even whole poems written in drafts. They were really crappy poems, but there were tons of them in my head that I felt obligated to put down permanently before they fluttered out of my brain forever. Even the most minuscule of ideas was so, so important. Now the things in my head are just so, so.

Because my tiny, Mommy brain needs a break and is feeling quite broken, I won't be handing out presents today. If you'd like, feel free to share a gift with me! Go on. Leave it right there, in the comment box. That's it. Good.

Today's subject line quote is Ramon Salazar, "24" (2001) {Day 3: 6:00 p.m.-7:00 p.m. (#3.6)}.

I watch soap operas. I bake brownies. Normalcy is coursing through my veins.

2009-02-09T06:57:00.000-08:00

Dom has returned safely from his trip and things have gone back to normal around here. Mostly. Unless you witnessed the hour long, ADHD play binge that Michael went on last night--things appear normal to you.

I, on the other hand, watched a 15 month old climb onto his toy box and dive off it repeatedly last night. We also saw him jog in place, stop and dance like Stevie Wonder, then try to climb in the toy box. It was the most revved up either of us has ever seen him. As disturbing as it was, it was also hilarious and a lot of fun for the whole family.

I'm thinking that a combination of chocolate chip cookies at snack time and playing with Dom after bath time got him so wound up. Michael was playing with his daddy in the office with one of those humongous (did I actually spell that right? Wow.) exercise balls. The were bouncing it off of their heads and chasing it around the room. Next thing we knew, Michael was bouncing off the walls.

Unfortunately, with the return of "normalcy" comes a stack of dishes in the sink so high that causes me to get a crick in my neck looking up at it. How can one man cause so much mess? It was so easy to keep the house clean when he was gone! I also had nothing to do all day/night so I cleaned constantly. Now that he's home, I find myself snuggling on the couch with him in my waking hours and snuggling in the bed with him during my sleeping ones.

I'm so happy to have him back home! Even if I have to do all of the dishes in the house twice (because they never get clean the first time). And since this weekend is valentine's day, I'm probably going to have a gigantimous blog in Dom's honor later this week. Or not, because once I mention that I'm going to do something it becomes a homework assignment and I never get it done. You're still waiting on the New Orleans blog, aren't you?

Don't be mad, have a present! This one is mostly for Eddie...

Today's subject line quote is Jackie-O, "The House of Yes" (1997).

If I had a hole in my neck, I'd put pennies in it!

2009-02-05T20:22:00.000-08:00

A lot of my friends on facebook have been posting pictures from this website called faceinhole.com. It's a virtual hotspot full of those goofy cardboard cutouts that you stick your face through and take pictures while on vacation. Only, instead of making your hubby the pirate wench or wifey the muscle man (which is still an option there) you can make yourself into a celebrity.

Since Jennifer Aniston and I have a similar head shape, as it turns out, I opted to be her. Now I'm totally growing my hair out...and getting skinnier...and hoping I have boobs like that when I turn 40....

I do secretly wish to be so skinny that I could be mistaken for a life-sized bobblehead, but for now I'll just photoshop my face onto other people's anorexic bodies. Like hers.

But we all know you're in it for my awesome personality and undeniable good humor. So I give you this guy.

Look up. That's today's present, you ungrateful bastards. I made myself into what I'm assuming to be Richard Simmon's stunt double just to make you all laugh. Go stick your face in a hole.

Today's subject line quote is Chris Griffin, "Family Guy" (1999).