Tip o' the Day

Next time you eat a pound of BBQ ribs and wash them down with 32 oz. of alcohol (rum/coconut/pineapple concoction), DO NOT decide to try a bungee catapult for the first time with your teenage son and come hurdling towards the earth...at incredible speeds...face first...in the dark! Just sayin'. (My incredibly long, howler monkey-like toes? Wrapped around the lower bar, holding on for dear life).


The best part about road trips with my son (besides occasionally sticking my right arm out across his chest like we're coming to a sudden and complete stop): torturing him with my Sirius Satellite 80's retro station.

We used to have this game - I'd say, "I'll give you a million dollars if you know who sings this", but he started getting wise that I wasn't really going to pay up. So, yesterday, during West End Girls, I cranked it up and said I'd give him $10 if he knew the artist.

Wise ass son: "Let's see...they sound really gay..with a crappy, techno beat. It must be Pet Shop Boys."

SCORE! Part of me is so proud that he's been paying attention all these years (though I'd disagree with his assessment of PSB's talent). But now I have to hand over $10.

Long distance drunk dialing expert

Voicemail from my sister Saturday night from my cousin's wedding reception (kindly add the sound effect of my mother giggling in the background):

Tiffany: "Colleeeeeeen. This is your sister...and your mom. We are having a blast together. And we really want to talk to you because we love you. P.S. your mom is a HOTTIE...her body is banging and she looks great so answer your phone and talk to us. Bye, love you. Call us back. We're so over you. I'm OVER you. Haaaaaa. Your mom's over you. That's bad - that's hardcore if your own mom's over you. If you don't call us back, she'll be over you for the rest of your life. Bye, sister."

I cannot WAIT until she has kids...

My driveway is full of boxes, I can't find my hairdryer, I'm going to bed and I'm NEVER doing this again!

I like to talk trash about my ex-husband because...I can. One thing I will say about him, though, is that he is physically the strongest person I have ever known. He bench presses over 400 pounds and he could single-handedly move all my belongings out of his house, by himself, with one hand. Oh, wait, he didn't, though, because I HAD TO HELP.

He's staying with me during his two-week break from Iraq in order to move, pack and ship all his belongings out of his house then sell it (Open House is Sunday - stop by for cookies). The plan was to have me rent a U-Haul truck, then he would help me move the rest of our son's belongings out, the cherry entertainment center I bought last year, the 54" big screen tv I traded my laptop for, and any furniture, books, etc. that I still wanted.

Because I felt guilty when we were going through our divorce a couple of years ago, I let him keep everything except for a couch and my son's bedroom furniture. He kept two houses, 100% of his retirement, the dog, and all the STUFF. He makes three times more than I do. Does it piss me off sometimes that I never even talked to a lawyer? Yep. Did it REALLY piss me off today? Apparently.

Move #47 was a meltdown waiting to happen. He didn't think we should risk moving the tv OR the entertainment stand ourselves because they would most likely end up damaged. I whined, complained about giving him the best years of my life with nothing to show after 17 years, etc. and he told me to quit being such a selfish, greedy bitch. I politely told him, "Fuck you, prick. I don't want anything of yours. I'm loading up all this shit and I'm taking it to Goodwill, motherfucker!" (I never swore when we first met..and I know he really hates it, so I turn on the fountain of "fucks" when I get mad at him).

There really should be some sort of law against people of Irish descent marrying. We yelled, threw things, broke dishes, I cried and resisted the urge to run him over...ahhhh, just like the good ole days.

Famous last words

All of my relationships end in these three words:


"YOU NEED THERAPY!"


Pffft. That's why I have a blog.

Dander packrat

Me: (face-flushed, mini-rant mode): My damn tenants...they smoked - in MY house - then vacuumed up the butts. And? They never bothered to change the air filters - not once in EIGHT MONTHS - the fur, dirt and crap was at least five inches thick. Disgusting pigs.

Ex: You changed the air filters in my house while you were living here, right?

Me (sporting a blank look from the Fall 2005 Collection): Uh...I'm sure I wanted to...where do they go, again?

Thank goodness he didn't have the foresight to get a deposit from me.

Explosive Dinner Theatre

Ingredients:
- one pro-Bush, Conservative, Right-Wing, macho military man
- one bleeding heart liberal
- one teen revolutionary/socialist

Preheat kitchen to 97 degrees Fahrenheit. Marinate soldier in bleeding heart liberal for two hours until eyes bulge and veins throb. Sprinkle generously with Che Guevara-t-shirt wearing teen.

Bring to a boil, then simmer indefinitely.

Who's ready for seconds?!

Gingko Biloba moments

These are two arguments I used to have regularly with my ex (do NOT take your camera out drinking if you're married - ever):

"You SAID you had to go to work but you went to Bowling Green with your 'friend' M (put an extra snide emphasis on the word 'friend'), stayed up drinking all night and came back with a camera-load of film of you drinking with a group of guys! This is not the way married women should act."

"Of course I threw all your clothes outside...I don't care who the hell he is, you shouldn't have a business card from Eric Hipple that says, 'thanks for a great night'" (hey, he used to be a quarterback for the Detroit Lions and he was in a hole-in-the-wall bar in Higgin's Lake, helping us carry out our friend who was busy throwing up).

[Wait: I see a pattern]

I think there should be a statute of limitations for an argument. Fight about it, slam doors, knock each other out, have make-up sex, then GET OVER IT!

Apaches, Chinooks, Blackhawks, oh my!

A few others have written about Hurricane Katrina in much more depth and more eloquently than I, so while I'm amazed at the depths of this tragedy on many levels, I want to focus on one aspect: the mind-boggling ineptitude of the U.S. government regarding air support.

I try to avoid politics here because I realize there are two sides to every issue (and I really hate conflict). While I don't always agree with Michael Moore, I wondered, too, about the U.S. Army helicopters sitting idly here this week on the military base I work. An excerpt from his letter to the president:

Friday, September 2nd, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush: Any idea where all our helicopters are? It's Day 5 of Hurricane Katrina and thousands remain stranded in New Orleans and need to be airlifted. Where on earth could you have misplaced all our military choppers? Do you need help finding them? I once lost my car in a Sears parking lot. Man, was that a drag.

The Home of Army Aviation is located in Southeastern Alabama, about 300 miles east of New Orleans - less than three hours by air. To prepare for Hurricanes Ivan and Dennis, helicopters were evacuated to Georgia for safety within a day's notice (phew - thank goodness the equipment is always safe during nature's wrath).

With this same amount of advance notice, I don't understand why these helicopters weren't mobilized from here no later than day 2, at least until an organized relief effort could begin. Maybe the president needs a giant key alarm that will beep and make noise next time he misplaces his aviation units.

knock three times...

My dad and his eleven brothers and sisters all suffer, in varying degrees, from manic depression. They require solo time, calling it "going down to the basement" in honor of my uncle Paul (with a metal plate in his head from a mugging in Chicago), who would not leave his dark basement bedroom for days at a time. Eventually, he'd emerge, not necessarily better for the wear.

A few years ago I miscarried by taking St. John's Wort to help with my depression and working out 3 hours a day (6 mile run and weights in the morning, step aerobics and treadmill in the evening). I didn't see daylight for five days and played the same two cds - Sarah McLachlan's Surfacing and Cowboy Junkies over and over. I didn't think I could feel a bigger loss. I was wrong.

Homes in Alabama don't have basements because of the water table (or something). "Sitting in my dark closet looking at my shoes" isn't as poetic as heading for the basement, but that's where I'll be for awhile. I have a habit of ruining all good things in my life.

Wave goodbye - see my heart so blue. Wave goodbye - lost for you...

Apparently, a wonderful friend of mine thought I was on suicide watch yesterday and sent the sweeetest email telling me how fabulous I am (okay, he didn't use that word, but it would have fit - next time, 'k?). He told me things I said to him ten years ago still have an impact on his thinking and he values our friendship every waking moment (I'm paraphrasing)! If I could, I'd post his whole letter because it made me feel THAT good - I'm needy like that and a little bit of praise goes a long, long way - but that would probably just be for my benefit. Still, his timing was impeccable and I'M the fortunate one to have him in my life. Damn hillbilly.

I think our choices in friends says a lot about us...my son has befriended a great 16 year old named "D" (because J, P and D are entirely too cool for whole names). They played Halo here part of the weekend, and when I ordered pizza, he offered to go pick it up so I wouldn't have to tip the driver - this is beyond thoughtful by teen male standards. He spent the summer in Spain with relatives and can actually hold up his end of a conversation.

D. has a congenital heart defect, making his life expectancy around 25 years. There is a surgery he's elected to have next month - it's only been performed four hundred times or so, and the odds of surviving it are 50/50. I can't fathom having to make this decision...knowing I could die before graduating high school; that this could possibly be my last month alive...wondering if I'm making the right decision....if I'm sure I want to risk everything.

I have no answers. Instead, I gaze at his sweet, young face and ask him if he wants another Coke.

Don't just stand there, Dante - grab a box!

Hell: moving belongings packed in the cab of a pickup, to include three cats (two meowing incessantly), one panting/drooling dog and one angst-ridden teen boy freaking out over cat fur ("Omigod, I'll never be able to wear this black t-shirt again") and continually begging to drive. It's 102 degrees Fahrenheit. It must certainly get better, right?

Wrong. After the forty minute drive to my house, I discovered the tenants had completely trashed my carpet - who says Berber resists stains and hides dirt? It seems the spots they weren’t able to soil, they managed to tear. There’s a strange undercurrent of curry, decay and lemon, which is overpowered by the stench of cigarette smoke. It appears as though there might have been a small kitchen fire under one of the cupboards, my flower garden is buried under weeds AND a very hairy man must have been shedding daily to get his dark, curly locks in every nook and cranny.

I believe they took my cable modem, but left some direct satellite attachment/accessories, some computer head gear (?) and a big barbeque grill.

Other than that, I’m ready to move right in!

P.S. Thank you to one of my lovely neighbors for sharing their wireless signal - it is soooo much more practical than blueberry muffins.

Okay, so I don't travel lightly

Back in May, I bought out Lowe's Home and Garden Dept. and turned my ex-husbands's backyard into a purple/pink/everything-smells-great paradise. Wait, I live in Alabama...okay, it was a tropical, redneck oasis, but still...lots of sweat, tears and busted nails went into the effort.

I spent my afternoon today undigging my efforts to transplant here at my house. To be fair, I DID leave the saucer magnolia tree and some of the annuals, but I just couldn't leave my garden behind to be swallowed by weeds or ignored by new homeowners that would forget to water.

Tonight, as I was standing in my shorts and flip flops in my flower garden at my house, I was feeling quite clever gardening at night - not having to contend with gnats or the sun's burning rays - when it painfully occurred to me: red ants don't care what time it is (help!). I wonder if this ever happened to Martha Stewart ...

And I don't want ANY smartass comments about karma, got it?!

Um...no, I wasn't really looking for a "mof*ckin thug"

YES! I finally have my internet fix to satisfy my needs at home...work's another story and I don't want to discuss it because I get all worked up and decide I'm going to quit, which I can't afford to do without a practical Plan B. I owe 4,941 emails, I haven't slept since last Saturday, and I need a stiff drink, BUT...did I mention I have cable internet again?

Sometimes, though, funny things happen when you share a computer. I wasn't TRYING to snoop, but I discovered my teenage son's blog tonight. Burning questions: why the hell doesn't he know how to spell? Punctuation is optional nowadays? Do I want to know what Turkish Jades are? Vanilla ICE?! Would it be okay to turn HIM into social services?

By the way, the punk's entry had fifteen comments....

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

ANY LADIES LOOKIN FOR A MOFUCKIN THUG!?


well im updating lol


my history book says alabama edition on it and i was thinking what that meant......i guess it means they just basically took out all the civil rights movement and martin luther king shit out but who knows

well i wanted to buy the new vanilla ice cd that came out yesterday but they didnt have it so i bought soopa villianz lol. but that woulda been the shit if they had vanilla ice because he is awsome!!

got some turkish jades today after school im pretty excited

assleys boobs looked really good yesterday.

im horny

well i guess ima go

bye

Open wide for absolution

[preface: I'm drinking...no, this isn't necessarily a DRUNK BLOG entry...just more honest than usual? More real emotion, perhaps. Or maybe just beer emotion. Who knows - get off my ass, already. I want accolades for my typing, at the very least].

Dr. L: Did you pre-medicate?
Me: Yep.
Dr. L: Do you need more antibiotics? I'll leave another script with the receptionist for you.
Me: Mm hm. That'd be great.
Dr. L: My wife has an MVP, too...I take it very seriously. Long limbs and a slender build, just like you.
Me: No kidding.

Most people make a mad dash for the dental floss twice a year for their 6-month dental checkup. I lie to my dentist and say my goodbyes.

I have a mitral valve prolapse, which is a relatively common heart condition in which the valve doesn't close properly, plus electrical problems exaccerbated by years of dexatrim (and every other diet pill on the market) so I'm supposed to take antibiotics before dental work. Actually, not all the diet pills have been on the market - I illegally purchased my obese cousin's Redux prescription when I weighed all of 112 lbs (a definition for wacko means I can tell you my weight during any given month/year for the past 20 years). He didn't have the money to fill the prescription...fortunately I only had enough to fill it for two months.

For me, it's my chance to live on the edge...bungee jumping with sparkling, fluoridated teeth. It's not that I have anything against life...I just wonder: is this IT? So I sit and wait, wondering if this will be the time some plaque settles in my heart and kills me.

[post script: if I had a wicked sense of humour, this would be my last entry...]

Napalm in the morning - THREE MORE YEARS!

You give me fever, when you kiss me
Fever when you hold me tight ....

Fire signs: Aries, Leo and Sagittarius (me, my son, my ex-husband, my mother...geez, I could go on but I'm getting a glimpse through the gates to hell...). People of the fire element are spontaneous and impulsive, they apply their energies wholeheartedly. Their emotional response is quick and they have a lively imagination. Okay, yeah, that sounds like me. The not-so-positive traits might be a tendency to be a little bossy, selfish and have a slightly overdeveloped ego. Nothing hurts them more than being ignored. Yeah, that part would be everyone else.

So, my drama queen/fashion expert son starts school TODAY (I don't even want to talk about how long it takes him to get ready in the morning). I had no idea shopping for school clothes could be such a hellacious experience. This year was even worse because Oh! My! God! there are no cool shoes worthy of his big feet - believe me, I've been in 20 shoe stores this weekend. Two fire signs in the mall, when one of them hasn't eaten and is a tad bitchy...not a good idea. I finally agreed to order Union Jack flag skate shoes online just to shut him the hell up - yeah, I know, they beat confederate flag/shotgun sole tennies.

And I'm really not sure if it's a gender issue, but when I try on clothes, I take AS MANY as my grubby little hands can carry into the fitting room at a time (generally everything I like in 3 different sizes - just in case). My son? ONE THING AT A TIME...it's excruciating, seriously, waiting in PacSun as he tries on one pair of jeans (that don't fit because he continually thinks he wears a different size), brings them out, digs through the pile, then tries on ONE more pair.

A prayer for the school year: please let him keep his smartass comments and opinions to himself until January, at least, so the principal and I aren't on a first name basis. Well, unless he's cute...then BRING IT!

D.A.R.E. to keep cops off donuts

The last time I drove to Hartsfield International Airport in Atlanta:

• I forgot about the time difference (Eastern time zone, an hour later)
• I drove like a maniac
• ...when I noticed a state trooper coming in the opposite direction, so I headed for a service road then pulled into someone's driveway, hoping to evade him.
• I didn't - he took his sweet ass time and handed me a speeding ticket for 77 mph in a 55 mph zone ($220)
• I finally found a parking spot at the airport, juggled with all my luggage and found out I missed my flight anyway
• ....and had to reschedule for the moring ($50 fee)
• Then stayed at the Holiday Inn ($110)

The lesson: invest in a really good radar detector. Bastards.

[I'm hoping today's trip is a little less eventful].

The Last Supper (needs more butter)

My summer vacation is coming to an end as my prodigal son returns from six weeks spent with grandparents in Michigan. I'm excited to see him, of course, but realize this will probably be the last night for my dinner of choice: bud light and popcorn (uh, could you supersize that?). I don't know whether my ex- was happier to see me leave, or this monster bowl.

My son has flown solo since age seven, when he flew from Germany to Massachussetts, and has been doing it ever since. The airline keeps all the kids under fourteen in a room together, stewardesses help them find the next gate, and we've never had any problems. He's in a grey range age now, though...between 15-17 means I can still pay a little extra for supervision OR let him handle it himself. I booked a nonstop flight to Atlanta so he will officially be flying AS. AN. ADULT. (that's a new wrinkle between my eyes, isn't it? Argh).

Bad news for me: I'll be driving a little over four hours to pick his ass up, then turning around to come home. Note to self: pick up AAA batteries for his mp3 player. Yes, fine, I admit it...I missed him.

Four alarm picnic

Our fire alarm went off at work this morning, as I was in the middle of extremely important and urgent work (blogging). Our building is old, the alarms unpredictable, and last time the firemen were called out, they got so pissy to see us all sitting around ignoring the blasted noise. This time, we decided to grab some sodas and wait outside for their imminent arrival. I plopped open the tailgate on my truck, shook off some sandy towels and leftover chips from my trip to the beach last week, and we had a nice little picnic (the cooler held only empty bud lights - I checked).

The firemen took fifteen minutes to get there, then another 15 minutes to clear the building - all that equipment and heavy clothing in this heat - no wonder they're so crabby. I think I have a semi-redneck tan going on my neck and arms, though, suh-weet!

Sometimes I love my job.

A rolling stone gathers no effin' moss, or any damn thing else.

This rant is brought to you by the letter F.

I'm a laid back person, rarely get too upset or irrational, and try not to rely on a potty mouth, which is supposedly the sign of a poor vocabulary (my mom's idea of cursing? "SHOOT!") and upbringing. Today, I say: fuck that.

The thing I hate most in the world: M-O-V-I-N-G (!!). After 46 moves in THIS lifetime, I cannot take it. As a shy person that gets lost easily, it sucks giant, cellulite-ridden ass. I want stability, a garden to keep, a place where neigbors recognize my face!

Divorced 2 years ago and moved from a gorgeous house (location A) to a 3rd floor apartment (location B). I pinched my pennies, drank Bud Light instead of Corona, and bought a house (location C) and moved in last October. In December, when my ex- received orders to Iraq, we thought it would work out best if I moved BACK into his house (location A) so my son wouldn't have to change schools again.

When he had trouble in school in April, I pulled him out and started driving him to the school in the school district of MY house.

Fine, now it's time to start another school year. I was going to kick out my tenants and move back to MY house (location C), gradually taking boxes and stuff during the year [total: this will be 4 moves in 2 years]. My ex, though, has a two week break from Iraq and has decided to sell his motherfreakin' house. This means a FULL move, including furniture, separating dishes, etc. and for what? For him to go BACK to Iraq and leave his crap in storage. He pisses me off. No, my son pisses me off more. Pass the goddamn tape - I have boxes to pack!

P.S. I wouldn't be surprised if the damn post office refuses to forward any mail addressed to me...

Do Not Feed the Animals!

Are you going to eat those tots? [Getting tatted]

My sister convinced me to play hooky from work on Wednesday so we could spend the day at Panama City Beach bonding - okay, so she didn't have to try that hard to convince me...er, it might have been my idea. With our fifteen year age difference, I told her we'd stay until someone asked if I was her mother.

We lugged our big cooler, towels, paraphenalia and music down to the beach as a few clouds starting rolling in. [Sidenote: she's afraid of shark attacks, so she really wanted to lay out at one of the pools belonging to a beach hotel, which makes going to the beach seem rather ridiculous, if you ask me. I did manage to get her in the water up to her waist, though, before I started throwing chopped up fish guts around her]. By the end of the first hour, the sky had turned black and we were not nearly drunk enough to head home. Given my track record for all things impulsive, it should come as no surprise that we decided to get matching tattoos.

Our last name starts with a Q... as much pride as we have in it and our heritage, you would think it's a powerful, mystical name, that simultaneously inspires awe and fear. All my aunts (5 of them) and many female cousins have changed their middle names to our family name once they get married, just because we love it so much. My sister and I decided to get matching tattoos using a logo my graphic artist aunt Susie had designed years ago.

My chickenshit sister that I love, who already has a tattoo, told me it was the most excruciating pain imaginable (she might opt for adoption instead of childbirth) and made me go first. It honestly didn't hurt...much. Well, and when I was a medic in the army, we used to practice drawing blood and giving i.v.'s to one another so perhaps my perspective is slanted. She called me a badass...and I liked it. She whined a bit when it was her turn (shoulder location, but opposite sides) but Sean told her she wouldn't get a certificate unless she piped down. I'm seriously considering framing mine and sticking it up on the wall behind my desk.

We are gonna be SUCH a hit at our next family reunion.

Time off for good behaviour?

Because my son has been gone for 28 days, and I haven't been to the grocery store in...29 days, I couldn't take my sister home fast enough Sunday for a fried chicken dinner (my ex-stepmom is an amazing cook).

We ate and were looking at old photos when two big delivery trucks pulled up to the house. The driver of one told us they had a furniture overstock sale and were driving in the neighborhood with unbeatable prices. I'd never heard of a moving truck sale, but it seemed belieavable enough...I AM in the south now...so who knows. I fell in love with this bench to put at the end of my bed and wingback chair and loveseat that would go perfectly in my rental house, BUT the man was only set up to take cash or check. I decided I couldn't live without the bench, took it home, and was telling my dad what a great deal I got (sturdy, cherry legs, only $165). He asked me if I thought it was a bit suspicious...but it seemed like it was a good deal for stolen furniture (!!)

I asked my co-workers if that's common practice down here, and they all kind of looked at me like I only had 1/2 of a functioning brain cell. "Did you get a bill of sale?"

"Yes, of course, he also wrote his phone number on there in case I changed my mind about the other stuff I loved...and there's a two-year warranty if I have any problems..."

Needless to say, when we called the number, there was no such furniture store, just a perplexed woman at the other end of the line. Looks like I'm in the stolen bench business...but look how cute:

Outsourcing

The Plan: my dad and his new wife, both teachers with the Summer off, drove from Michigan to Alabama this weekend to take my 15 year old son back with them (yahooooooo!). My dad will have cheap labor for his canoe livery and my son will have money for more Insane Clown Posse cds. Win-win. It sure sounds a helluva lot more interesting than spending nights on AOL instant messenger and sleeping in 'til noon.

Revision: they think it will last for the summer - I'm hoping for two weeks (I'm a realist). Still, that's fourteen days without that drama queen AND I won't have to cook...I can have beer and popcorn for dinner EVERY night...go gambling in Biloxi. Well, er, actually nothing much will change, but I'm still looking forward to the break.

I will now be under the constant and diligent care of my therapist, Bud Light.

Dead Girls Don't Wear Plaid

Here I am demonstrating the proper stubborn ready-for-battle pose in plaid with slightly turned up collar:

Out of the closet

I can't figure out WHY I don't have a significant other...

...unless, of course, it's because I'm a FREAK!

Are you finished with the newspaper yet?

I generally leave all the doors in the house, including the one to the bathroom, open.

If I don't:

Odds and Tight Ends

CONGRATULATIONS! To my cousin Ryan for getting drafted by the New England Patriots (my favorite football team with my favorite quarter back). Surely, he'll be able to sneak me in the locker room!

Anger Management II

I have 16 years worth of "he's a controlling jerk" stories from my marriage. I was so relieved when that divorce was final and I had a chance to start over and gain control of my own life - FINALLY! Last summer, when he somehow successfully snagged a serious girlfriend, I went OUT OF MY MIND with rage - that hot girl was in MY house, petting MY dog and how could HE find someone to love when I couldn't and he's rich and I'm poor and life's not fair, wahhhhh! I drove by the house several times a day, used my garage door opener in the middle of the night, searched through the house when he wasn't there, called at half-hour increments, googled his girlfriend, then called and drove by HER house. My anger was consuming me.

After three weeks at this grueling pace of frantic behavior, I agreed to a pool party (yeah, 'cause even psychos need a day off). All day with lots of beer, splashing and sun, my pain and rage were temporarily numbed. I followed the advice in a Supertramp song, and took the long way home, driving by the ex's house out of habit by this time, when I had a brainstorm: I'll STEAL the dog out of the backyard! She loves me more, and he doesn't deserve her! Drama-filled phone calls followed when he noticed she was gone so he called to fight about dog custody (tell me: WHY argue with a drunk woman? Do you think I'm going to suddenly think like a rational human being?). I also vaguely remember calling his girlfriend and rambling on to her answering machine about the fact that she was white trash. I'm quite intimidating with a drunken slur, let me tell you.

The next morning, I was in bed (petting my dog, heh) when my heart started palpitating. No biggee, I'm used to it, it's happened all my life. My arms went numb and I started to worry a little but decided to give it another 10 minutes just to see if it would stop. It didn't. I drove myself to the hospital a few miles away (and repeatedly got bitched out about this, but I have crappy insurance) and could barely talk at this point. After an hour in the E.R. with a heart rate of over 240 bpm, they injected something to make my heart stop and start some sort of normal rhythym...twice! I'm in my THIRTIES!!

Maybe the events are unrelated. Maybe it was a coincidence. But until you're in my shoes, or my hospital gown with hangover hair and your heart stopped, crying with waterproof mascara clumping around your eyes, please don't ask me to hold onto anger any longer than I have to.

Parenting tip #37

If all else fails, use corn-on-the-cob:

Rub-a-dub-dub

Of all the LEAST likely places to nap...it's a good thing I looked before turning on the water.