The Dumb-ass Epidemic....Coming to a City Near You!

I'm not sure when it happened, but it seems like America's "dumbing down". Do you remember when common sense wasn't a precious commodity? People could use their sense of sight and inference and make an educated guess on what was going on around them. Nowadays, people aren't even listening to themselves. Or maybe it's that they aren't thinking before they speak. Stupid people make my list of "People Who Need A Forehead Punch (With Brass Knuckles)".

Now, I know you're saying that I'm a "Stupidist" (That's a racist for stupid people. C'mon, don't you people speak my language yet?) and that I'm unfairly judging people. This is untrue. I'm willing to give people the benefit of the doubt and assume they are semi-intelligent. Until they open their mouth. Then it's hard not to make snap judgments.  If I'm standing at the counter with the bag of flour, a mixing bowl, a cake pan, and measuring cups, please do not ask me if I'm changing the oil on my car. It's pretty obvious I'm baking. (It's even more obvious if you know me and know how much I bake.) When did our social skills disintegrate so much that stating the obvious became a conversation starter?

Sometimes, stating the obvious becomes a habit for people. I love my husband dearly, but he literally CANNOT help himself from making obvious comments. This man, the love of my life, once opened the fridge and, as he's staring at it's contents, asked me, "Is there anything else to drink other than milk, water, or juice?" Yes, honey, there is. It's called a store. It has all sorts of wonderful beverages that you can give the nice person at the cash register money for, and they will let you take them home with you. Oh, you mean in our actual fridge? Yes, there is a super secret compartment hidden in the glass shelves where I hide all the good stuff and you will never see it because I sprinkled the invisibility potion on it. Fortunately, because our spouses took that "for better or worse" thing, they get to see our stupid moments. Secretly, we're relieved that someone who's already promised to love us, warts and all, is the one that sees our brain drain moments rather than strangers. Sadly, we give our best to people we don't know and save our wartiness for our loved ones.

I understand that sometimes it's a social awkwardness thing. I get that. But sadly, it's more commonly Disconnected Tongue Syndrome. This, of course, is when your tongue does not connect to your brain, thereby making some of the dumbest thoughts in the universe string together and fall from your lips. You need to be warned: It's extremely contagious. 

Apparently, society frowns on survival of the fittest and just killing off the stupid ones before they procreate. (Damn society and their rules!) So we're stuck with them. For this scenario, I have come up with "Shauna's Self Help Guide to Dealing with Morons".

Tip 1: Take in deep, calming breaths while mentally counting to 5. Keep a paper bag handy in cases of extreme dumb ass-ness to help with hyperventilating.

Tip 2: Remember that prison jumpsuits are not flattering to a woman's figure.

Tip 3: No matter how dopey your boss/sister-in-law/cousin's husband is, telling them so will irrefutably have consequences that will haunt you for years. It's not worth being fired/poisoned/scratched out of the family bible for.

Tip 4: It's much harder to hide bodies than CSI makes it appear. (Not that I have experience with this, I'm just hazarding a guess. Yeah, that's it, a guess.)

Tip 5: No matter how much this person is annoying the crap out of you, the odds are they have a spouse/parent/roommate who wants to smack them much more than you do. Why begrudge them that?

Tip 6: All villages need an idiot. Otherwise, how would they know who the smart ones are?

If you have gone through all six steps and have not achieved the inner zen that you require to continue dealing with said moron, employ the Emergency Eject Procedures, specifically designed with the intention of ejecting this person from you immediate vicinity and, if you're lucky, the next vicinity after that.

Procedure 1: Grab your phone, feign an incoming call and politely say, "I'm sorry, I have to take this."

Procedure 2: At parties, employ the buddy system and have a safe word to let your partner in crime know that this conversation needs to be aborted. Make sure to use a word that cannot be misconstrued as actual conversation. "Wow, look how late the nectarine night has gotten." The safe word in that scenario would, of course, be night.

Procedure 3: If all other tips and procedures have failed, employ the duck and run, the feigned seizure, or the "I'm late for my colonoscopy" excuse. 

Hanging Out With My Good Pal Google

Have you ever been bored and needed something to do? I was trying to think of an interesting and witty blog for the day but instead spent some quality time with my friend Google. I found a slideshow on the "50 Stupidest Inventions".
Some of them are quite mundane and I'm not sure how they even qualify for a dumb inventions list. (A Steve Jobs pillow?) They should have gone on the "Money Thrown Away on Products That Most People Wouldn't Even Buy as a Gag Gift" list. But I did pick out a few of my favorites.

The first is Twitter toilet paper. (Shitter!) Apparently you can turn your twitter feed into the crap that it really is by wiping your ass on it and flushing it away. Perfect for the people who have money to burn and don't care what they spend it on.

Toilet paper that you can read? Now I know what my life has been missing.

"The Ex"

This is a knife holder shaped like a person. Take your frustrations of last year's bad romance out by storing a knife in the heart of a plastic person. Almost as good as stabbing the real thing. 

"The Face Butt Towel"

A two toned towel with the white side spelling "FACE" and the brown side spelling "BUTT". This would be a great towel for a bachelor who only does laundry every few weeks or for that moron in your life who's always wiping their face on their ass.

"The Pizza Fork"

It's a fork! No, it's a mini-pizza cutter! No, it's both! Now you can have your (pizza) pie and eat it too!

"The Royal Commemorative Refrigerator"

Yes, now you can have your very own Prince William and Princess Kate commemorative refrigerator. (Valid only in the UK) You can see the lovely royal couple every single time you get a drink or a snack! I'm thinking  they should give these away as Biggest Loser prizes....complete with the before picture on the fridge. If that wouldn't be an appetite deterrent, I don't know what would.

"The Toilet Mug"

Face it, you always were jealous that Fido gets to drink from the porcelain fountain and you can't. Until now! Drink coffee, milk, water, and other fine beverage in our fantastic Toilet Mug and make Fido jealous for once!

"The Toilet Monster" (What's with all the toilet themed inventions?)

For parents who think potty training isn't bad enough you can now traumatize your toddler with a green creature that hangs off the toilet seat. Just open the toilet lid and voila! Instant 10 years of therapy.

"The Beer Pager" and "The Beer Belt"

A beer cozy with an attached GPS function for those Alzheimer Alcoholics who set their beer down and can't remember where. Works so long as you don't lose the remote. Purchase the beer tool belt and you won't have that problem because it keeps 6 cans getting piss warm in a belt worn around your waist.

"The Bearded Beanie"

Head cold? Beard freshly shaven? Solve 2 problems in one by getting this innovative product which combines a hat and a crocheted beard that doubles as a chin cover. (Complete with space for lips to make it more realistic!)

"The Candwich"

Canned Sandwich. Words cannot even begin to describe my feelings on this. Dry heaves can though.

And finally, something my husband would appreciate: "Bacon Floss"

Because sometimes you want that smokey bacon taste and aren't in the mood to actually cook any. Satisfy your pork craving and, as a bonus, we'll throw in some freshly flossed teeth.

All the bacon taste without the guilt!

Quick side note: Bacon is apparently the fatty meat du jour since it made quite a few appearances on the list in the form of bacon soap, an adult bacon and eggs for two costume, Uncle Oinker's savory bacon mints, and bacon (pronounced bay-cone) perfume.

Other honorable mentions: 

Handerpants- Underpants for your hands!

Cat Duster Slippers- Because your cat doesn't hate you enough already!

Umbrella Rain Tube (AKA Umbrella with plastic wrap that surrounds you)- Because you don't look dorky enough yet!

To check out the list in it's moronic, yet funny, entirety:

http://www.nydailynews.com/life-style/world-stupidest-inventions-gallery-1.26294

After reading about the world's most idiotic inventions, I'm actually motivated to try and invent something even dumber. I think I can do better, er, uh, worse than a dust mop for your cat's feet. But it'll have to wait a minute, I have to go catch up on my twitter feed.... 

It's a Bird! It's a Plane! It's a....Flying Bra?

I feel, for the most part, that my readers (with the exception of my husband) more than likely are in possession of a set of ta-tas. But I'd like to take a moment and address the male readership. Guys, I know that you just saw the word ta-tas and got really excited. But I promise you, there's nothing good going on in this blog. Just some boring old chatter about boulder holders and old lady boobies. So why don't you just go get a quick snack and check back in tomorrow, k pumpkin?

So ladies, let me ask you this: When you come home from work, do you do the magic bra trick? This being, of course, when you remove your bra WITHOUT taking off your shirt. (Amaze your friends! Mystify your lover!) It seems to be a handy trick that every woman I personally know has mastered. After nine years, my husband is still amused (and really disappointed) that I can do this hat trick. (Disappointed because he's a man and he's hoping to see something nekkid. Since he's married now and that means he has forsaken all other nekkid ones, he's really hoping his wife will appreciate this sacrifice and play peep show.) As a mom, I've even learned how to remove it ONE HANDED (How talented am I?) while the other hand pours a glass of juice, answers a phone, or performs brain surgery. (Ok, I can't do that last one two handed, let alone one handed. Busted.)

The sad thing is my kids are probably so used to this phenomenon now that outsiders might suspect we live like hippies in a farming commune. My kids have probably seen more of my bra than my husband has. I could probably have a conversation with one of my kids and sneak that sucker off without them even knowing. And why do I feel the need to do this? Because bras are the DEVIL.

Now I'm sure you think I exaggerate, but I'm serious. I can count the number of women on one finger that don't have some sort of bra related issues. Most will agree that they hit the bedroom running after work, desperate to get that evil contraption away from their ladies. If bras are not the devil, then answer me this. What would you call something that constricts you, binds you, pinches you if you move the wrong way, has straps that never stay up if you've owned it for more than 5 minutes, and comes with the option of metal accessories to pierce tender skin? See? The devil.

As if that's not bad enough, they have a complex measurement scale whose sole purpose is to make you feel terrible about yourself, with BOTH numbers and letters. They needed two ways to make you feel insecure about your lady points, one wasn't enough. The numbers, of course, measure your girth. So you really only feel good about this if you're 14 and getting your first bra. You know, when your bra size is a negative number. THEN, they add the cup size which measures your actual boobage. Have you ever seen a woman be happy about finding a 38 DD bra? No, because she needs under wires to support those bodacious babies and they stab her all day long, not to mention the back problems she has from hauling those monsters around all day. On the other hand, you've probably never seen a 34 A do a cheer leading routine while bra shopping either. She's too busy envying the double D cups.

When you're 17, you can get one of those comfy, satiny feeling bras without wires that are so comfortable that you forget you have them on. (Although realistically, I don't think I've ever had that problem.) But after having kids, they make the transition from headlights to "Hey, what's so interesting that you're looking at on the floor?" So now you have to have support. (God forbid we aren't supportive of our magnificent mammaries.) So we add an under wire bra. (Because duct tape hurts when you take it off at night.) Which probably works OK until the first time you wash it. Then the wires are never the same again. So you buy a new one. Rinse, lather, repeat.

So for all the guys out there who think they have it so bad with jock straps, well, at least you don't have to wear it all day, every day. Although, it would be interesting to see if they could master the magic jock strap trick.

Stop Breathing Down My Neck Facebook!

I've come to a conclusion. Out of all the social media sites, Facebook has got to be the most obsessive compulsive, micro-managing one out there. No, seriously. I'm not sure who's in charge of layout changes, but they have some serious time on their hands.

Every time I log in to my Facebook page, they've added some ridiculous change. I now have a breakdown of friends on the left side. It shows them as family, people in my town, and the limited list (This is a special group I made for the people who post 6,000 status updates daily and clog my feed. Plus they annoy me.) Now, some of these things overlap. Some of my family lives in my town. Do I REALLY need my friends organized this anal retentively? Can I not figure out who lives in my town? If this is really a problem for people, perhaps they should think about editing their friends list.

Of course I have to click on each and every one of them because it gives you the little blue square next to the group signifying they've posted new updates. This drives me crazy for some reason. I can't stand to see those little blue squares. The only way to get them to go away is to click on the group. Many of the posts for them are the same. Redundant much Facebook? And do I really need to have the square telling me that there are new updates? Am I an idiot that cannot figure out how to use my mouse and SCROLL down my homepage and see what other people have posted? As for my limited list, I blocked their posts for a reason. And yet I still have to see them because you gave me the hellish blue square of notifications.

It seems like every time I turn around, Facebook has organized something else into groups. Or they changed the layout of the page. It took me 3 months to figure out what they did with the sorting of the feed on my mobile app after their last "update". And why do I even need this feature? Why do I have to choose the sorting as either top stories or most recent? Let's always assume that I want to see the most recent. I'm certainly not going to want to re-read the crap I already looked at. And who decides what constitutes "top stories"? Facebook? Why do they get to choose what they think is important to me? This should not even be an option. Get your crap together Facebook.

If they really wanted to be helpful, they should organize my list by people's posts. One for political crap, one for inspirational quotes, one for humor, and one for the drama queens who post every sordid detail of their lives for the world to see. This would actually be helpful to me. (FYI: I'd probably only click on the humor section. I've had my fill of politics, inspiration, and drama thank you very much.) I could skip all the posts that I don't want to see AND get my daily dose of medicinal laughter. Win win.

Apparently, the people at Facebook have never heard the phrase, "If it's not broke, don't fix it." You've gotten too big for your britches Facebook and I don't like it. That's right, I'm righteously standing on my soap box! Okay, I'm putting it away now.

Waking The Weekend Warrior

I love the weekends. There's something about the promise of two whole days filled with the promise of not having to get up with an alarm clock, of being able to relax. I always feel like a kid on Christmas morning. (By the same token, Sunday night always makes me feel like the day after Christmas. You've opened your presents, the anticipation is gone, and now it's back to the real world.)

Think about the possibility of a day where you could spend the whole day in pajamas. If you don't have anywhere to go, especially on these cold New York winter days, what's better than snuggling up with a movie or a book? (Quick sidebar: Think of how much workplace productivity could improve if they had a pajama day. Of course, there'd probably be that person who didn't participate and then you'd feel like a dummy. But they'd be wearing gut pinching panty hose and heels, so who's the dummy now?) I always have a pile of things I have been meaning to get to: Magazine subscriptions that I'm not sure why I signed up for because I never read them, a new book, a Netflix movie that's been sitting there for 6 months (We're really getting our money's worth there!), or my DVR which so thoughtfully holds my shows until I can get to them. Since I cannot possibly get to all of that in one weekend, I now have to eeny, meeny, miney, mo choose. (And you thought this was only for elementary school children. See how handy it is even now?)

The problem, however, is that the Weekend Warrior wants to come out. Since you don't have enough hours in a weekday, weekends are where you get everything else done. The Weekend Warrior is your inner ambitious self that wants to tackle these things that you don't get to. My inner warrior is now causing me a lot of conflict with my inner sluggish schlub. I can't be leisurely AND productive. I can usually smack her back into submission and continue on reading my book but there are sometimes she just won't be denied.

On those times when my inner warrior is stronger than my lazy self, I AM really productive. Which is a great feeling. But I know, no matter what I clean or organize today, it'll just need to be done again at some point. For instance, I really SHOULD clean under my stove. I'd probably find that's where the toilet paper troll has been living. This is the type of project my weekend warrior lives for. But I really don't want to tackle that so I distract her with cleaning under the microwave (How does a counter get so dirty when there's something covering it?) and doing copious amounts of laundry.

You'd think the easy solution would be to give your Weekend Warrior one day and keep the other for yourself. Which does happen sometimes. Other weeks are so busy that you are determined not to do anything other than the absolute necessary cleaning and spend the rest of the weekend relaxing. (Or it wasn't that busy but you WANT to do nothing the whole weekend and convince yourself you deserve it. I like this scenario.) Otherwise, you could spend your whole weekend being productive. You'd have a clean, organized house but come Monday morning, you'd wonder where your weekend went. It's like walking a tightrope to keep that balance.

I saw a t-shirt that was similar to how I feel about this. It said: Inside of me there's a skinny girl trying to get out. I usually shut the bitch up with chocolate. Mine would say: Inside of me there's a Weekend Warrior trying to get out. I usually shut her up by tying her to a chair and covering her mouth with duct tape so I can hear my movie. I'm not sure that would all fit on a t-shirt though.

There's a Critical Eye Looking at My House

Since we're in the process of fixing up the house to put it on the market, I've had a much more critical eye when looking at things. Have you ever done this? I mean, REALLY looked at your house and seen what needs to be fixed, cleaned, or tidied? (I really don't advise it unless you have a strong heart!) My God, we are are supreme pigs! I can't believe we've lived in this disgusting sty of a house this many years. I feel like I've brought down the reputation of domestic goddesses everywhere. Lest you think I'm exaggerating, let me tell you what I found:

The top of my refrigerator has an inch of dust. It looks like it hasn't been cleaned since we moved in. Which isn't true. I think it's caught my eye once at least twice before (when we painted the kitchen and it had to be moved). It doesn't help that it's white. (My next appliances will be black so I can fool myself into thinking I'm a better housekeeper.) Sadly, the dust has overtaken my house every where. It's gotten so that I have "dust blinders". It's there, but I'm immune to seeing it. Until we're having company and I'm doing the flight of the bumblebee manic run around my house, wiping and picking things up.

Cobwebs! Now, because they start from ceilings and corners, it can take me months to notice these. Usually only when one hangs down long enough to smack me in the face and I look up. It only takes me noticing one to make me a cobweb crazed creature, racing from room to room with the swiffer mop. Why the swiffer mop? Those dry pads suck those cobwebs to it like a magnet. (Well, that and it's long enough for me to reach the corners and ceilings.) I don't even know where these come from. I should ask one of the kids. They'll probably tell me it's the Cobweb Fairy.

Dirt, dirt, dirt. I don't know if white was the trend when they made this house or if it was an upgrade at some point, but everything in this house is white. White doors, white appliances, white trim. (Ok, we've put in white trim ourselves. We like it. But I was making a list for your consideration here.) Hello!? We have 3 kids and a dog. NOTHING stays white for longer than 3 minutes. And it seems like my kids don't wash their hands for a week, wait until they're good and grimy, and touch all the doors and wall casings. That's the only thing I can think of to explain the gray, grimy grossness. I need to buy a bottle of Clorox. Or ten.

Dog hair. Now I know I can't escape this since the hubby won't let me put the dog in a Shadow (that's his name) sized hamster ball. Besides, with my luck, the idiot dog would eat the hair that collects in the ball and then hack it back up. He's a good dog, but not always the brightest. And since he's a BLACK lab, his dog hair shows up really well on the laminate wood floors. Lucky us. We sweep and mop and 38 seconds later we have dog hair forming in corners again. I'm convinced that it's planning a coup and hasn't yet been successful because we thwart the attempts when we sweep and destroy their army.

So, if you ever feel like you're on top of the world and need something to bring you down to Earth again, take a good look at your house. It's enough to make me want to hire someone to power wash my house. The inside. With an industrial strength machine. Twice.

Who Are You and What Are You Doing in My House?

We have a small house. (You're saying, "Yes, yes, we KNOW. Enough already.") I've discovered (I continue, while scowling at the unwanted interruption) that my house might be a little larger if there weren't uninvited house guests staying with us. Who are these house guests you ask? Thank you for your inquiry. Let me begin with:

The Battery Behemoth. I've never seen him, but I know that he exists. Every time I go to get a battery, they are always gone. I know my kids haven't taken them because every time I angrily yell, "What happened to all the batteries?" they stop playing the Wii long enough to look at me with their angelic, innocent expressions and say, "I don't know." I'm sure they'd tell me if they really did know.

The second is the Toilet Paper Troll. I've never met him either. This one is stealthy and sneaky and tiptoes into the bathroom to devour all the toilet paper, leaving only the cardboard tube. Whenever I ask my family who used the last of the toilet paper and didn't change the roll they exclaim, "Not Me!". I can only guess that they have met him and are on a first name basis.

Another "guest" is The Milk Monster. This is one that I DO NOT want to meet. Judging from the amount of milk it consumes, I can only imagine it has super sharp, strong teeth and extremely healthy bones and muscle tissue. I'm pretty sure if I met him I'd be so scared I'd scream like a girl. (Which is better than screaming like a boy, due to a better range and more emotion in the high pitched frequency.) I think that The Milk Monster has a mean streak because he always leaves the milk carton with just a swallow of milk left in it, which really, isn't enough to do anything with.

We also have The Sock Seeker. This critter craves dryer fresh socks, comforting itself with the soothing fabric softener scent. It only wants one of each sock for there is an old superstition, passed down through generations of Sock Seekers, that says a mated pair of socks casts ill health on your family. No one in my family can ever catch this wily sock thief and we have tried. Many times.

Lastly, as any household with children knows, we have the standard Closet Monsters and Under the Bed Creepers.They are allergic to light and are nocturnal. My husband and I have yet to catch one of these offensive and foul beasts as they continue their reign of terror on our innocent little babes. Our children, however, are well acquainted with them and their brethren.

So, add that list to my family of 5 (and our 85 pound black lab) and you can see why we're a little squished. I just hope they don't invite their friends for a party while we're out of town. Have you ever cleaned up Behemoth snot or Troll fungus? Me either, but it doesn't sound like fun.

Forget Calgon, I Need a Tropical Beach to Take Me Away!

I'm laying on a beach. The sun is shining down on me, warming my skin. I have my kindle in one hand and a sea breeze in the other. That's my fantasy. In reality, I'm in Upstate New York and I'm FRICKEN' FREEZING HERE PEOPLE!  Mother Nature is bitch slapping us. I don't know who pissed in her corn flakes, but she's taking it out on us. The high for today is thirteen. We're barely into double digits. And the low tonight? Negative 16. Negative. Six. Teen. I've been cold for three weeks straight. I have Jack Frost nipping at my heels and no matter how hard I kick the bastard, he keeps coming back.

Normally, winter doesn't bother me overly much. I like having a white Christmas (when the weather cooperates) and having hot cocoa and watching the kids make snow forts. It's not my favorite season, sure. But we tolerate each other until Spring moves in and kicks it to the curb. But this negative degree crap has got to stop. I think my blood is turning to slush. I'm a fair weather Mom, I'm not built for this. You know why so many babies are conceived in the winter? Because the only warm place in your house is under the bedding store you currently call your bed. And being a woman, I have to shave my legs. Have you ever tried to shave your legs with goose bumps? By the time I'm done there are so many cuts it looks like I've used a rusty razor from 1973. 

Because we can't hibernate like those smart bears, that means we actually have to go outside in this weather. So we double, triple, quadruple layer until we look like Ralphie's little brother from The Christmas Story. (We'll be fine as long as we don't need to use the bathroom for the next three months.) Those smart marketing experts seized on this and sell thermal socks, long johns, wool socks, fingerless gloves (Keep your fingers warm and still be able to type that monthly report!). And Mother Nature takes that as a challenge. "Oh, you think 17 degrees is cold? How about 7 degrees? Like that punks?" No, no we do not. Please make it stop. You know you have it bad when you start envying the retirees that spend November through March in warmer climates.

If I think I have it bad, I feel sorry for my poor children. They get the neurotic mother who nags them every morning about wearing gloves and hats and has become the local weatherperson for the house. "Make sure you wear your warm gloves, not the thin ones. It's going to be a high of thirteen today and that's pretty cold!" Mentally, they're rolling their eyes and thinking, "Yes Mom, I know how cold 13 degrees is." (Once my powers of mental telepathy kick in I can smack them for their insubordination. But for now, they get credit for not sassing back to their whacko Mom.) My 15 year old especially loves it when I nag him about his outer gear because you KNOW high schoolers are too cool to wear proper clothing. (Insert maternal eye roll here.)

Just when you think you're going to stark raving bonkers from being cooped up inside your house, you get a blessing in the form of a heat wave. High of twenty two today folks! Yee haw! Bring out the shorts and tank tops! (Sadly, this would be funnier if twenty two WASN'T considered a heat wave right now.) I'm pathetic because I'm praying for 33 degrees. Just give me one degree above freezing so that I can delude myself into thinking that spring is right around the corner. Is that so much to ask?

So I'll use my beach fantasy to keep me warm. Even if it means I have to sit in the warmest room in the house (Oh wait, that's the bathroom. The second warmest room then.) with a bottle of sun tan oil and a Mai Tai. 

The Unbelievably, Horribly Bad Day

Have you ever had one of those unbelievably crappy, bad days? The kind that you know you're going to have to apologize to someone for? Yesterday I had one of those days. To make matters worse, it was the second crappy day IN A ROW. (The laws of the universe should not allow that!) Usually you can shrug off a bad day with an "Oh well, shit happens. Maybe tomorrow will be better." But I think I just hit that limit and said, "That's it. I quit this day. Thank you for calling. Try again tomorrow."

Now, had this happened a week later, I could blame it on that beautiful female scapegoat: PMS. But right now, I've got nothing. The most I can do is, "Sorry for my personality. I suck as a human being." (I should check Hallmark, they might actually make a card for that. It's in the "You suck as a person and need to apologize but it's still not good enough because, hello, you still suck as a person" section.)

Sometimes when you have these days, you just know that it's coming. It might start off with something small. Like you get out of the shower and come out to get a cup of coffee only to realize that you forgot to set the delay timer last night so there is no coffee. So you turn it on and stand there glaring at your coffee maker, as if by that very act it's going to be intimidated and brew faster. Now one random act of crappiness does not make a bad day and you can shrug it off, even though you are now running 10 minutes behind. But then you spill coffee on your light colored shirt and have to change it. Now you're starting to wonder if karma has sent out a hit man on you today. It could quite possibly be that by saying, "Oh great, this day is going to suck" out loud, you're calling all that bad, klutzy karma to your side and willing your day to go down the shitter. Or it could just be the universe's form of entertainment at your expense.

The WORST bad days are the ones you didn't see coming. You got up 10 minutes early, you somehow shaved 5 minutes off your morning grooming routine, the coffee was hot and ready, and you found $10 in your coat pocket that you didn't know was there. You're coming up roses, baby! Then you hit a traffic jam, spill coffee on your car seat (Which is a light gray so it shows up great!), get to work 10 minutes late, and realize you forgot your lunch. Bam! Instant bad day. And now you're even MORE ticked off because it started out so well. You just can't understand how things went wrong so quickly.

And it's always our families that seem to get the worst of it. Now we're in a bad mood, running late, and snapping at Johnny because he's putting his shoes on as slowly as possible, causing you to be even later and you snap, "Oh for cripes sake Johnny, just put the shoes on already. Let's go, go, go! NOW." So now your poor kid is probably going to have a bad day because his evil mom just heaped bad karma on HIS head. My poor husband is the one that usually gets the brunt of it, mostly because he's a "big boy" (or because he irritated me in the middle of my "leave me alone I'm having a bad day" fit) and then HE gets instant bad mood. See, it's like a virus. It just keeps spreading and contaminating anyone it comes into contact with.

So now I have to make my "amends" list. (I feel like I'm a recovering alcoholic in a 12 step program.) But first I have to run to the card shop. I need to see if they have any "Honey I'm sorry I was a mean jerk to you but I still love you and by the way can you fix the bathroom faucet, it's leaking" cards.

House Hunters Ain't Got Nothing on Me

As I mentioned, we've got a small house. We've really outgrown it. Actually, we outgrew it a few years ago but we're delusional and thought that we could make it work for us. Reality popped that happy little bubble so we've begun the arduous task of readying our house to put it on the market.

Since we'll be looking for a new house soon, we've done what any prospective home buyer does. Watch dozens of House Hunters episodes on HGTV. If you've never seen the show, the premise is this: They go to a city, find the pickiest couple with the most unrealistic expectations and show them 3 houses which they must choose from at the end of the half hour. This show not only feeds my virtual house hunting need, but greatly amuses me by some of the people's expectations about home buying. "Oh, carpet? We were really hoping for hardwood floors." Well, people in the desert are hoping for water. Get over yourself. "We really didn't like that the park is 5 minutes away. We really wanted to be able to roll out of bed and be IN the park." This is really a problem for you? Your kid is 18 months old, I'm sure he's awfully upset that the park isn't outside his bedroom window. Moron. "The house isn't as big as we would have liked, it's only 3,000 square feet." Okay, unless you're Kanye West trying to find a house big enough to fit your baby mama's ass, these words should NEVER come out of your mouth. ONLY 3,000 square feet? If we had a house that big, we'd lose family members. We could literally never see the youngest for months at a time. That is like 3 times the size of our current house. Only 3,000 square feet. Amazing.

I can only think that the people on this show MUST be first time home buyers. When you think that your dream house is going to fall into your lap at the price you can pay and you live happily ever after. We thought that too but in the end had to compromise a little. Almost 9 years later and we're seeing we compromised in the wrong areas. If I was on house hunters, my criteria for a house would be: 4 bedrooms or 3 with a livable basement area. AT LEAST 1 1/2 bathrooms. I don't even need two showers, just two crappers. There's always someone in the single bathroom we have, and they usually just took a crap that stinks to high hell. Yeah, THAT's fun, trying to pee and hold your breath at the same time so the noxious poop fumes don't make you pass out. Storage space, preferably in the form of a basement. We seriously lack closet space and have no basement. There's crap everywhere in this house. A kitchen with more than 4 square feet of counter space. Okay, we probably have 8 square feet but with the toaster, microwave, coffee maker etc, it really means that I have to move things to roll out cookie dough. Which is irritating and time consuming.

The other thing we've done is go to lots of open houses. I always feel a little guilty about this because basically, you're going through a house someone's living in and pointing out all the things YOU don't like about it. And you'd be amazed at what people think they can get away with. We saw one yesterday that the person must be a chain smoker and the stench in there was just horrible. And if that wasn't bad enough, every single room needed new flooring, new paint, and a few walls looked like there was some water/termite damage, the front cement steps were crumbling, and the kitchen needed about a gallon of Clorox  Listen, if you have this much wrong with a house, don't think you can price it above market value and actually sell it. That house needs almost a complete gutting. It was terrible. But we also saw a lovely house with a fantastic finished basement and a beautiful room that was an addition to the original structure. THESE people knew how to show a house. There was a scented candle burning, it was warm and inviting, and the lights just made those hardwood floors gleam. Best of all, the real estate agent was not a "hoverer". (We saw one with a real estate agent so close on our heels that if we stopped suddenly, she probably would have bumped into us. Annoying. Don't hover while I'm trying to pick out bad things about a house.)

I have to go check HGTV. It's a holiday. If I'm lucky,  maybe they're having a House Hunters marathon. At least, this girl can hope!

Refreshing My Knowledge Of Greek Mythology

The other day my oldest son had a friend over. (His "bestie". I'm not sure teenage boys use this term as much as teenage girls but you get the picture.) He had a birthday the day before. Because it was a January birthday, I wondered if that made him a year older than my son. So I asked him how old he was now. "I'm sixteen. I'll be driving soon!" I jokingly commented, "That's a scary thought.". Then I truly had a scary thought. MY son will be sixteen this year.

Now I do't know how much you remember about Greek mythology. There were 3 goddesses of Fate. Clotho, who spins the thread, Lachesis who measures the length of the thread, and Atropos, who cuts the thread. These ladies were so feared (they were the bad asses of their day) that not even the rest of the Greek gods would mess with them. I don't know what I did to piss these chicks off. Maybe I kicked a puppy in my past life? I'm trying to figure out what I did to deserve a pubescent teenage girl AND a brand new driver in the same year.

Now, maybe these ladies, being THOUSANDS of years old, just get bored. I mean, if I had lived that long, I'm pretty sure seeing and doing it all would leave me pretty burned out. They probably didn't even get that excited about the iPad being invented. Mostly because of that whole, "I'm omnipotent" thing. They probably can't even play angry birds on their smart phones. I'm not sure their reception would be that great on Mount Olympus. So maybe they get their kicks throwing a little adversity at us mere mortals.

Clotho: "OMG Lachesis, look at this new human. She totally looks like she would be fun. What should we do? Give her a foot fungus? Or maybe a birth defect?

Atropos: "I could make her die in a fiery car crash on her wedding day."

Clotho: "Ugh. Atropos, why are you so morbid? I swear you are totally adopted."

Atropos: "Hello? Whole Fate who cuts the thread thing?"

Clotho: "Whatevs. Lachesis, what do you think?

Lachesis: "Let's give her a boy child, then a girl child and make them three years apart. Then when the boy child starts driving, the girl child will be hitting puberty. She'll be pulling her hair out inside of 6 months."

Clotho: "Oooh, Lachesis, you're so evil. I love it!"

There's probably a giant family room in Mount Olympus with a 60 inch flat screen. When the gods get bored they turn on THTN (The Human Television Network) and watch all the people screw up their lives. They'll bring a big bowl of popcorn and just laugh at our antics of trying to get a 3 year old to use the potty or going on first dates that end in disaster. Ares (god of war) will always get ticked off at the amount of weddings before troop deployment because it's taking the focus off the bloodshed and Aphrodite (goddess of love) would tell him he has no romance in his soul. (Now that I think about it, how fun would it be to have a show that depicts these mythological creatures in a modern setting?)

So the next time you say that fate's a bitch, well you're partially right. She's three of them. And if you make them mad, they'll send Atropos after you.

T Minus 255 Days Until D-Day

Remember way back on December 21, 2012? When the end of the Mayan calendar meant the end of the world? Little did the Mayans know that the end of the world is actually October 1, 2013. That's the day my daughter turns 13.

Recently my daughter commented that she was excited about her birthday because she'll be a teenager. She might be excited but I felt like I was punched in the stomach. I'm sure had I not been driving, she would have seen the look of abject terror on my face. I'm pretty sure that I'm not ready for a teen aged daughter. No, I'm positive.

My daughter has always been my most difficult child. (I say most difficult because my youngest has "Third Child Syndrome" and has his moments. But he's a story for another day.) She's the only child I have that looks exactly like me. Which is probably part of the problem. She acts like me too. Only, not the good child that I was at her age, but the pain in the ass adult that I am now. And that was BEFORE hormones. I shudder to think how those fabulous chemical combinations are going to add to her charm.

For the last year I've seen her start to get girl parts. Girl parts! No, I know she had them but not REAL ones. The kind that come with monthly menstrual misery. We haven't had that particular fun yet. And lest I draw a relieved breath too soon, her doctor squelched that at her last check up. Apparently menses begin about a year and a half after the onset of puberty. She's basically a ticking time bomb. I've considered checking out real estate for a safe haven for my boys when our cycles sync up. 

Don't get me wrong, signs were there that big change is coming. She's starting to take an interest in the clothes she wears rather than just anything she grabs out of the closet. She's following fashion trends. (Boy did that apple fall far from my tree!) She purposely wears wild socks that often don't match her outfit. Apparently this is a cool middle school thing. I just know it drives the anal retentive matcher in me crazy. But you learn to pick your battles and socks are really just not an important squabble. 

Another sign was her bedroom. She was always my neat and tidy one. Always made her bed, everything put away in it's place. She really made the organizational freak in me proud. The last few months, though, her room is making the transition from clean, normal young girl room to sloppy teenager room. One that shouts, "I'll pick this up when Mom starts nagging me and not a moment sooner!"

Because I had this wonderful (interject heavy sarcasm there) transition myself before I was her age, we've prepared her for the eventuality. She has a small makeup case in her backpack with a change of undies and panty liners in case it happens at school. We've discussed what she'd say to excuse herself from class. I have 4 different kinds of feminine products under the bathroom sink. Outwardly, I'm a doomsday prepper. Mentally, I'm a 4 year old who refuses to believe this change is imminent.

So if you don't hear from me on October 2, send someone to check on me. If we spend too much time in a hostile environment, we'll become feral creatures who hate light and hiss at strangers. They'd make a lifetime movie of the week about us. And I'd hate all the flashing cameras and strangers. 

Breaking It Down, Friends Style

Have you ever just let your mind wander and see where it takes you? I do. Often. Now granted, most times it's the mundane mental reminder: Johnny's orthodontist appointment, buy shampoo, write angry letter to psychotic neighbor who's Pomeranian keeps crapping in your flower bed. But other times, you start thinking something and by the time you're done, you honestly start wondering if you were raised by baboons because no rational person thinks of this kind of stupid s**t.

For instance: Today I'm sitting here thinking about a girl I know. I would call her a friend. Not the girls night out kind of friend, or the talk for hours on the phone bitching about your spouses kind of friend, but the kind of friend you would be able to sit and chat pleasantly with and is on your Facebook friends page. Which then makes me think, maybe she's an acquaintance then? But that term applies more to people you only know casually or have met a few times, right? So now I'm thinking there should be a better friends rating system. (See, who thinks of this crap?)

At any given moment, you have probably half a dozen types of friends. And that's what you call them. But I know that there are definitely some people I wouldn't want to hang out with for more than 20 minutes while others I could live with and never be sick of them. So of course, for your reading pleasure, here is my brand new and improved "Friends Breakdown".

1. Hiya friends. These are people that you would say hi to if you saw them (or at least a smile and a nod). You have no desire to spend any of your precious time getting to know them because your day is already too busy to waste. Besides, Jane is a little creepy.....

2. How are you friends. These are the ones you would stop and allow a 5 minute conversation with. "Hi. How have you been? I can't believe your son is getting so big! Wow, look at the time, I've got a root canal in 20 minutes. It was so nice to see you!"

3. Switzerland friends. You would hang out in public for a few hours with these people. They're more than acquaintances but not close friends. You'd lend them a cup of sugar, but probably not your car.

4. Playdate friends. Now that you're a mom, you know junior needs some socialization. How else is he going to make the cut at that hoity toighty private school? So you find parents with other kids his age and gather at parks. This fulfills the mom need to brag about her children with other moms who understand because as soon as you shut up about junior's potty training achievements she's going to tell you about her kid.

5. Work friends. Yes, you may occasionally hang out outside of work, but mostly, these are the people you spend 40 hours a week with. Personally, these girls are more family than my actual family sometimes since we spend so much time together. (And they don't hog the bathroom or leave empty milk cartons in the fridge.) I can be my strange and quirky self with them and they have accepted that I am a few fries short of a happy meal.

6. Close friends. These are people who know your husband's name, your favorite color, and what type of books you like to read. You hang out sometimes and may communicate by telephone or email. You can have long talks and not get bored with each other. You'd let them borrow your car but not a kidney.

7. Best Friends. (Capital letters and everything) This person probably knows more about you than you do. You'd lend them a car, your house, maybe even a child if they needed it enough. You talk often and they're the first person you call when you need sympathetic commiseration.

8. Frenemies. These are the people who you pretend to like but are silently thinking need the biggest bitch slap in the world. They would stab you in the back quicker than you could blink but you're still polite in public because you were raised to be a decent human being. There's probably not enough margaritas in the world to get you to have a 20 minute conversation with them and you never let yourself have your back turned if they're in the room. Just in case.

Keep in mind that this is the friend breakdown for women. Guys are another story altogether. Now that you've gotten the breakdown, you know you're totally categorizing your own friends! Which is useful information should you ever need to borrow a car....or a kidney.

So Many Channels, So Little Time

We live in a great technological age, don't we? We have mp3 players, digital cameras, and smart cars. (Which frankly freaks me out a bit as it makes me think of a bad sci fi movie about automotive world domination.) But one of our greatest inventions now is cable. We have hundreds of channels to choose from. There are so many, that they started specializing them. There's hgtv, the food network, the gameshow channel, cartoon network, the "So You're 40 and Live in Your Parent's Basement" channel. (Ok, I made that one up. I think. I've never actually made it through my entire channel directory.)

Now, I watch some weird crap on television. It's just so easy to do. I think the best "worst" show I ever watched was VH1's Tool Academy. Now this is a show about men who are "tools" that are brought on a behavior makeover reality show by their girlfriends/wives/partners. It's basically watching a bunch of men who have treated their women like dog crap try to kiss butt and make it up to these women. Now, as a woman, you'd think I'd find this show extremely offensive. Instead I found it hilarious. (Probably because my sense of humor is a little twisted.) Too bad it's not on anymore.

Luckily my husband, bless him, watches some way stranger things. (Luckily because now I don't feel so bad for the junk that catches my attention!) Last week I'm cooking dinner and I'm listening to the dialog of his show and it's about "wrasslin' gators". Really? How did someone come up with this? Did someone say, "You know, there's really a void in the gator wrestling world of entertainment. Maybe we should make a show about THAT." He also likes those pawn shop shows. Now, I've seen some of them and they can be slightly amusing. But to me, it's basically COPS meets Jerry Springer in a pawn shop.

And because there are too many shows to choose from and we can't watch them all: Ta da! DVR! (Which is probably the greatest invention ever! I actually get upset at watching live tv now because I can't fast forward the commercials.) It's gotten to the point where managing my DVR list is like a chore. I'm actually praying some shows would just be cancelled already. Grey's Anatomy only has me as a viewer out of loyalty. (I've watched it from the beginning.) But all the main characters have slept with everyone now. So then they think, "Well, let's do something new and marry them off." Okay, now most married people are boring. I know, I AM a married people. When the highlight of your day is finding the mate to the sock that you thought had been eaten by the dryer 3 months ago, you know you need to get out more. So why do I want to watch a show about these fuddy duddies? (And yet, I am. So what's that say about me?)

So the next time you sit down to watch tv, take a quick look through your channel guide. t's probably worth a good laugh when you see shows like Amish Mafia, Confessions: Animal Hoarding, and CELEBRITY CAMEL TRAINING?!?!? Hold on, let me just set my dvr.......

Captain Clutter and his Messy Menegerie

We have a small house. It's something like 1,000 square feet. With 5 people and an 85 pound black lab squashed in together. So space is at a premium. Uncluttered space is like precious gold. Since I have a deep need for organization, the lack thereof drives me crazy. It seriously turns me into the Clutter Nazi. At any point I'm barking orders to my kids, "You, pick up that backpack. You, get your toys off the table. And for goodness sake will someone please take care of the shoes in the middle of the floor before someone trips?"

I actually worry that I'm traumatizing my kids with my "use it or lose it because I'll get rid of it so it's not taking up space in my house" stance that they swing to the opposite side of the spectrum. Years from now, one of them will be on that show Hoarders and when they're doing the back story it'll sound something like: "Well, when I was a kid, Mama done get rid of everything that was clutterin' up her house. (My kid developed a Southern yokel accent for this somehow.) So when I moved out, I got to keep all my stuff. So I kept on keeping until I just done filled up my house." And they'll interview me and I'll be tearfully exclaiming, "I don't know how they got like this! I always kept such a clean house when they were kids!"

And kids are great when you ask them to put their stuff away because they'll grab it and just walk by their bedroom door and chuck the item into their room. That's it. They now have MORE crap to clean up in their room but it's ok because Mom isn't yelling at them to take care of it anymore. Until she walks by their room later and sees the teen aged tornado that hit it. So.... "You need to clean this room. NOW." And you know they're probably wishing they had a less neurotic mother, but they got stuck with you instead so they sigh and start cleaning (A.K.A. shoving stuff in places Mom won't see unless she comes into the room).

Sadly, I seem to be my own worst enemy in the clutter wars. Did you know if you set something somewhere for a week (or 12), you actually begin to think that's where its home is? Until one day you're looking at your house and see 25 different things that never got put away and you just snap. Colonel Clutteraway comes out and starts marching around, putting everything back in their normal places. And it's usually something innocent. For instance: See flashlight on kitchen counter. Put it back in the garage. On the way back, see nail clippers on dresser. Bring them back to bathroom, on the way grabbing daughter's sweatshirt on the couch. Put sweatshirt in daughter's room, grab game case. Put game case back on shelf. See movie case mixed in with games, return to movie closet etc. Until an hour and a half later, you've run 36 laps around your house and feel like you've completed the Boston marathon. But there's a sense of pride now because you have finally PUT EVERYTHING AWAY. Which lasts for about 3 days, until you look for the nail clippers on your dresser, and remember that you have to trek ALL THE WAY to the bathroom because you put them back.

Why I'll Never Be a Fashionista

Remember in high school when fashion was super important? There were always the "IT" girls who wore the top of the line clothing thus setting the standard for your school. (These were the cheerleaders of course.) Then the popular "sporty" girls. And beneath them, the "nerdlettes". Lastly, there were the weird girls. (Don't tell me your school didn't have them because EVERY school has them. These are the girls who ate paste in kindergarten, did a science project in the 6th grade on boogers, and wore moon boots 8 out of the 10 months.) Since I was a "nerdlette", and never having a good fashion influence at home, (Sorry Mom, but no woman should ever have THAT much leopard print in their closet at one time.) I didn't really fit into the fashionably aware category. (Fashionable clueless maybe.) BUT, I was young and skinny, with shiny, bouncy hair and smooth skin. What the hell did I care what I wore? Jeans and a shirt made sure I wasn't naked and made me happy because I was comfortable. I was probably more worried about my next science test anyway.

Add a few (plus a few more) years and three kids to the picture. I'm not skinny anymore since I've added some baby weight. (This is said with extreme sarcasm since my first "baby" will be 16 this year.) I can't get away with the cute fashions designed for the young hip crowd anymore, and honestly, who would want to? Have you seen some of these designs? If I'm ever bored, plunk me down in front of a fashion show and I will be entertained for hours. Do people really WEAR feathers and garbage bags together? Is that the hottest fashion? Really? And what's up with the dresses that have 16 feet of material pooled at the model's feet? It looks like someone forgot to hem it after Andre the Giant tried it on. But I digress.

Three kids later and I've found I want to wear clothes for comfort. Yes, I understand that this is a novel idea in a world where woman suffer for their beauty. I just can't find it within myself to care if I'm wearing the latest trends. Give me cords and a turtleneck sweater and I'm happy as a pig in mud. It's not like I need to look like Cindy Crawford when I'm whipping up spaghetti and meatballs and throwing a load of laundry in the washer. I'm pretty sure no one has ever worn Versaci while scrubbing the tile grout. And not one of my kids have ever seen me come through the door after work and said, "And who are you wearing?" This probably stems from the fact that, unless I have somewhere to go in the evening, my pajama pants and I are reunited without fail. Seriously, if the world made it okay to be in public (without ridicule) in pajama pants, I'd probably throw out every other single pair of pants I own. I mean, these things are fantastic. Elastic waist, comfortable material, and a look that says I'd rather be lounging than cooking dinner.

So if you ever see me out and I'm all "girled up" with heels and a dress, don't pity me. I'll be dreaming of the moment when I can strip off those gut pinching pantyhose and cozy up in some thick socks, pajama pants, and a cozy sweatshirt. After all, no one said I was a fashionista.

Livin' La Vida Lotto

Does anyone else have the Lotto Life Fantasy? You know, the one where you meticulously plan all the things you would buy if you won the lottery. A bigger house. A new car. An au pair. Lately my Lotto Life Fantasy involves a cook. (I wouldn't knock having a maid either. Let's face it, no one jumps out of bed saying, "Oh goody, I get to clean my toilet today!")

Dinner seems to be my arch nemesis lately. If I were a comic book heroine, (I'd be Super Mom! Able to detangle hair with a single comb. Bake cookies and help with homework simultaneously. Leap piles of laundry in a single bound!) the big evil villain in my story would be Dr. Dinner. Sadly, I would not vanquish this evil foe but rather be downtrodden and defeated by his constant presence. Ever reminded that he might be gone for now, but he WILL be back tomorrow. And not only will he be back, but he will bring mealtime tedium and picky eaters and lack of creative ideas to the table. (Get it? Table? Yes, it was a bad pun. Get over it.)

If it were just me and my husband, I'd be quite content to subsist on cereal, hot pockets, and Marie Callendar's pot pies for weeks at a time. However, my husband's lack of attention span to anything not sports related (Love you honey!) means that he can handle two, possibly three times of eating the same meal within a short time span before he begins to require more creative food outlets. Unless I made him tacos or Kraft mac and cheese. But that would require cooking and defeat the purpose of my anti-cook-unless-by-cooking-you-mean-microwaving stand.

However, there are these kids. And now I have to think of fun ways to get them to eat their vegetables AND provide a balanced meal. And it's constant. These kids think they need to eat THREE TIMES A DAY. Breakfast and lunch are easy. Slap together some cereal or a sandwich. But dinner? Turns me into a cave woman.  Big family eat time around round wood thing in house. Most parents have similar situations too. Bobby won't eat turkey, Jane won't eat celery, and Sam will only eat foods that start with the letter L. So you either end up making the same meals all the time because, hey, everyone eats them and there are no arguments. Or you make a meal for 4 out of 5 and that last one gets peanut butter and jelly. (If you have a picky eater like I do, that last scenario happens A LOT.) And if you DO have a picky eater, then you get to decide if you want to be the jerk mom forcing their kid to try new foods and then turning dinner into a battle of the wills between you and your 5 year old, or running the risk of someday having a 27 year old who only eats macaroni and cheese, chicken nuggets, and lasagna.

So I stick with the tried and true and 7 years later, after cooking the same 15 meals, I go a little crazy and try a "new" recipe. Only to have my kids (and sometimes my husband) look at me like I've sprouted a second head with a look that clearly says, "If you think I'm eating THAT, you have another thing coming." So yes, my Lotto Life Fantasy involves a cook. And during that time I would have spent cooking, I'll whine about having to eat my vegetables and tell her I only eat foods that start with the letter S.

Don't Make Me Put You on THE LIST

I'm starting a list. This list is going to comprise of all the people who are in desperate need of a punch in the forehead. With brass knuckles. Hmm. Now that I think about it, that sounds like the very definition of a s**t list. Well, henceforth my list shall only be known as "THE LIST". It will be our little secret.

Vying for the top spot on this list is technology and my local internet provider. (Names have been omitted to protect the clueless idiots that give me my internet service.) I don't have a lot of patience. I have three kids so all the patience I DO have, they pretty much get it. That means you should probably be wary of a "stink eye of death" should you tick me off. So today, I'm trying to enjoy some mindless internet time wasting trying to figure out Pintrest. (For those of you who are pros at Pintrest, substitute "trying to figure out" with "brilliantly pinning exciting intellectually stimulating art deco pictures on my pinning thingy".) And every time I click on something I'm getting the blue spinning circle of hell. That's where the browser is THINKING about processing the page change. It's not quite sure it wants to redirect me so much as it wants to give me a gleeful message that the shock wave app has crashed, complete with the sad little "Oh no, how could this have happened?" smirk.

Now to be fair, the wireless router we have is not new. Since technology upgrades every 27 and a half minutes, this thing is probably the great-great-great-great grandfather of all the newer, hipper, faster routers. But I'm using the "home" station. Ground zero. Main computer. Why do I have to wait 3 minutes for a page to load? So now I'm ticked off that I have to get a new router because OF COURSE we've been keeping up with the Joneses and getting iPhones and laptops and all sorts of other crap that uses wi-fi. But that little devil on my shoulder is sitting there saying, "Why put all the blame on your router? Surely your internet provider could have faster service." Sure, for a fee. I could probably have the fastest internet service in the world if I gave up my first born. But we're keeping him. We've gotten fond of him. Plus he's the one who's closest to moving out of the house.