Aw, you miss me.

No, I have not abandoned my blog, fools. You can stop with the text messages and emails and cookie baskets begging me to return for to the benefit of all U.S. Americans. Perhaps I can offer you and the Iraq and the South Africa some maps to sate your incessant need for e-entertainment.

The reality is that I have been held captive. Captive by this:


"Once (that they know of), I tried to eat my own poop!"


"My name is Brodie. But usually they just call me the BrodieMonster. I have no idea why. Oooh, is that a pair of Mommy's panties I see?"

Oh, how cute, you think. Go ahead, fawn all over him. Those giant ears! That scruffy beard! He will suck you in with that questioning head cock, that wag that shakes his whole butt, those bounding hops he takes through tall grass. But you will get past all that when it slowly begins to dawn on you that in reality, you are living with equivalent of a senile, incontinent old man. E.g.s: Your heart will cease beating the first time you see him tottering perilously next to the garden wall (his hips!). You will want to bang your head against the breakfast bar when he starts whimpering (again) and looks up all wide-eyed and confused at you like you know what the hell is upsetting him and how to fix it. No, this is not 1964 and no, you don't work at the plant anymore. I don't know what happened to Elsie. PLEASE STOP CRYING. And then he will poop. And pee. All over your pretty hardwood floors. He will march off into another room and then you will walk in there later and upon seeing a giant, often slimy, turd, you will feel like he just crapped all over all the hard work you've put in to try to get him to be a functional member of society. And by then, you can't even scold him because he will be off in another room, hungrily chewing on your panties or perhaps the molding at the base of your wall because apparently, he is that gd insane.

Sometimes you think that if he doesn't shape up, you will have to send him to "the home." But then you pull up the driveway in the evening and he spots you as you enter the house -- those giant ears plastered down on his head, excitement making all 11 lbs of him shake like a polaroid picture.. even the submissive piddling across your pretty hardwood floors (again) seems forgiveable. And you realize that even though you are living with a debatably fuzzier version of Walter Mathau, you wouldn't have it any other way.

Except maybe less poop. Do you hear me, Walter? We poop OUTSIDE, not inside.

Ways in Which I Plan to Emasculate Our Dog

These ain't the cat's pajamas. They're better.



Care for a cocktail? Maybe some l'il smokies to get the night started?



Mommy thinks Daddy will turn this red when he sees me in this getup. Out of love and pride, of course.



First, I will make Ichabod Crane poop himself. Next, I will poop all over your house.



Buffy told me you girls were making hot cocoa and s'mores at the lodge! Sounds like an occasion for argyle!



Aren't I so EMO? I'm going to go listen to Evanescence and cut myself. Later, poseurs.

Welcome to Tackyville. Population: 2

There's nothing like coming home from a jog to your man blasting, "Queen of My Double-Wide Trailer," while attempting to put up the gazebo-tent-contraption he hustled from Home Depot.

We were there buying paint supplies a couple of weeks ago and we walk outside and see one of these shrines to the wife-beater (the shirt, not the person -- actually, who knows, now that I think about it) that R has been coveting since we bought the house. Seriously, every time I see one all I can think of is a sweaty guy with a belly and a farmer's tan slapping some poor girl on the ass and telling her to "go bring Daddy another High Life" and the whole time she's thinking how much better her life would've been if she'd just gone home with the manager of Krystal that time he brushed up against her by the shake machine. Tragic, right? But I see my boyfriend beaming at this thing, to the point where I can just about make out the visions swimming through his head of him kicking back beneath its cheaply-constructed metal frame and flesh-colored mesh panels with nothing but a cheap beer, his iPod, his lady friend, and his cairn terrier-german shepherd mutt (more on that later) at his feet. For him, this is heaven. I know... I know how to pick 'em.

Being the kind of girl who played "fort" in the backyard until I was like 10 (ok, like 15), I truly understand the desire to have a ridiculous pretend house out in the yard, even though you have a perfectly good real house for the doings of real life things. But I'm also not an idiot. And am well aware of the fact that a bedroom set, for instance, maybe could be slightly more useful than a glorified patio umbrella as our first real home purchase.

So I say, "Ok, you can have it if it's less than a hundred bucks."

He lights up like a gd sparkler.

So we go inside to ask and they say it's $149. I win! I look sympathetic, yet practical! The contraption does not have to come home with us and I still get props for being open-minded, rather than one of those bitches who throws out her dude's collection of ashtrays. (Oh, wait. Oops.) But apparently, I'm not so clever as I think because rather than walking out the door like a normal person would at hearing the price is too high, he asks if they will take $99. My boyfriend is trying to wheel and deal with the Home Depot. He thinks he can bargain with The Man. And apparently, he can. Some joker tells us we can have it for $99 if we take it down ourselves. R is elated. I put on a brave face and go gangk a screwdriver.

Fast forward to today. We decide to finally put it up in the yard. We notice we are missing:

- a least one screw and a nut
- one of the poles to clip the netting business to
- any indication we had previously given our neighbors of having "good taste"

And here it is in all its amazingly tacky glory:



My God, what have we done.

Hot Syrup

Sorry, kids, but I'm busier than the lady who refills the french toast sticks bin at Shoney's on a Sunday morning. Will return when I can sneak in a smoke break with the bus-boys.

Everybody's got a dream! What's your dream?

I would apologize for the lack of posts, but really, I don't owe you anything, internets.

So anyway, remember Philip Stuckey? Edward/Richard Gere's scheistery douchebag of a lawyer in Pretty Woman? We stayed in his apartment over the weekend:





It may be difficult to discern from these pictures, but if you were in the market for lucite furniture, lacquered cabinets, French bordello-esque bathroom lighting fixtures and velvet velvet everywhere, you would be IN LUCK! Sometimes a place just screams, "Who wants to be sexually assaulted by a balding egomaniac?"

I shouldn't complain because our little haven of ostentation was provided free of charge by a generous benefactor to whom we are very tenuously connected. It was in a fantastic midtown Manhattan location and there's no denying the hours of entertainment that mirror-on-mirror walls can provide you. But seriously, I spent the whole time wondering what color silk jumpsuit said benefactor's wife was wearing when she decided that metallic window panels were a good idea. I'm gonna guess gold. Just a hunch.

A brief respite

Tomorrow we head to Connecticut for a visit with my fam, where we'll end up having the inevitable "but you grew up in such a beautiful, serene slice of New England wilderness. How did you end up so crazy?" conversation. Well, chickadee, this is what happens when you spend your adolescence going "camping" with a sleeping bag from 1974 and a tupperware container full of gin. And maybe some Twizzlers. And maybe once you fell in the fire and forgot how to stop-drop-and-roll in your drunken terror, but luckily it was so gd cold out, they just pushed you into some partially frozen leaves and everything ended up ok except for having to hide a slightly singed London Fog coat. Sorry, Bob Biscuits.

Reno is going to pick us up in her Jeep Wrangler. I'm gonna see if I can get her to blast Metallica and do donuts in the airport parking lot. Doubtful, but one can dream.

But seriously, I know lots of people like to imagine that where they grew up is some sort of utopia because of their great memories with family and friends, blah blah, but hi, who are you kidding? You grew up in a split ranch in a subdivision, not here:



I can't wait to be there.

Milestone!

Just spreading the amazing news that someone found this blog by searching for the phrase "slutes in panty house." The only thing that could make this better is if the person were really searching for "sluts in pantyhose" and was just that bad at spelling. Come back, mentally challenged dude with the nylon fetish! We welcome everyone here.