When birthday cake stops being fun and starts being a fire hazard

cake on fireWelcome to yet another inaugural post. I’m trying to win a blog award in the catagory of most blog services used. Next is LiveJournal and then maybe Diaryland. I haven’t decided yet.

Actually, I’m hoping to make WordPress my permanent home. So far, everything works great and looks great and is dumbed down just enough for me to understand. Which, by the way, was on that list of potential suitor must-have qualities. Pookie aced that one!

Anyway, I really appreciate y’all coming over with me. I would understand if you got tired of following me around. I mean, it would crush me and I would likely go into a deep depression and eat myself into a coma, but that’s not your problem (sob). By the way, this is what we call a pre-emptive guilt trip.

So, it’s my birthday. I’m 38. Thirty eight. Thiiiiiirty-eiiiiiight. Sounds funny if you say it over and over. Still doesn’t feel funny though.

I think the best birthday gift I ever got was when Pookie drove 4 hours round trip to bring me flowers and take me to lunch, when he had to be back home to go to work at 4pm. This was back when we lived 2 hours apart and he certainly could have got by with having flowers sent. In fact, it was a mere two weeks before our wedding (our anniversary is on Vanlentine’s Day). I mean, he had me. The dress was bought, I was packing up my house and my life. He didn’t have to impress me anymore. But he did. And he still does.

In fact, he is taking me to see the Lippazaner Stallions this weekend. I have always, always wanted to see them. When I say always, I mean I don’t remember a time when I didn’t know about them and want to see them.

To say that he has impressed me yet again would be an understatement.

What was your best ever birthday gift?



This is just a test post. Lynnster made me this awesome new blog and I’m just taking it out for a test spin. So..let’s talk about you for a minute. Your ass looks fantastic in those pants.

I wonder what the hell a post slug is. I shall have to find out, but I am afraid to click on things I do not understand. I am a puss. But that’s not news to anybody.

The panties weren’t very cooperative either

I’ve had an exciting last few days. If by exciting I mean painful and exhausting.

I woke up Thursday morning feeling like someone had kicked in my ribcage. Since Pookie has promised to stop assaulting me in my sleep, I assumed that I had simply slept too long in one position and was just stiff. Yes, I have reached the age where a simple good night’s sleep will render me stiff and sore and kinda bitchy.

However, as the day wore on (and on and on), the soreness didn’t go away. In fact, it got progressively worse. By the end of the day, it was difficult to breathe deeply, move freely, or sneeze without screaming ‘fuck’ right afterwards.

I got up the next morning, got dressed (fuck you socks, you sadistic bastards**) and went to work. Where I was promptly told to go home. As an aside, they could have fired me on the spot and I would have only felt relief that I could go home. That’s how much I hurt.

So I came home, hopped in the shower ( Ha. ‘Hopped’. Good one), and then woke Pookie and asked him to take me to the doctor. ( I told him the hilarious, yet fraught with peril story of me shaving my legs in the shower. He expressed disbelief that I was able to. I told him that only complete unconsciousness would justify taking hairy legs to the doctor, even if there’s no chance the Doc will see your legs. Back me up on this, fellow girl type people!)

The waiting room at the local ER was a funfest. I think the lady who kept telling her little girl that the policeman (actually a security guard) was going to spank her if she didn’t act right was my favorite. The young couple who were playfully wrestling and threatening to whip each other’s ass while jarring my chair ran a close second.

After a miserable 45 minutes of waiting to be triaged (so that I could tell SOMEONE that I was dying and to please make it stop now), Pookie went and got a pop from the machine. I took the smallest sip that has ever been taken of a beverage since the beginning of time and a nurse (?) popped up at my elbow to tell me to please not eat or drink anything in case my distress stemmed from my tummy.

Which made me cry. Apparently, I can take most anything, but if you tell me that I can’t have a sip of Diet Dr. Pepper while I am dying, I get a little upset about it.

I was called to triage not 2 minutes later, where another nurse apologized to me and explained that she had noticed my physical distress and without knowing what was wrong with me, wanted to make sure that I could be assessed and treated as quickly as possible, so she had sent the other nurse out to talk to me.

I then felt compelled to explain (in a very sexy ‘lungs can’t expand without killing me’ kind of way) that it wasn’t really being told not to have a drink that made me cry. She said, ‘I know. Broken camel. It’s ok.’. Which was exactly right and why I now love her.

Anyway, I had many x-rays, during which I was repeatedly asked to take a deep breath and hold it, which would have made me laugh if I wasn’t too busy DYING.

Turns out that Pookie did not, in fact, give me a good elbow shot to the ribs while I was sleeping.

I have Pleurisy. Which sounds like that nastiest little old disease in the world, but it’s actually pretty benign, unless, you know, it turns into pneumonia.

So I got a big shot of something very thick and painful in my hip (read: ass) and a prescription for some Naproxen.

I’m doing much better now (as evidenced by the fact that I’m on the computer. When your lungs are caved in there is simply no comfortable way to sit up straight and type.) and I go back to work tomorrow. Where I will be essentially useless since bending over still makes me see stars and prolonged time on my feet makes me really breathless and kind of faint. But I will Be There, by God. Unless they send me home again.

** At least the socks and panties only kicked my ass long enough for me to get them on. The bra kidnapped me, transported me across state lines, ravaged me and then left me at a rest stop after telling me it knew where I lived and would burn my house down if I didn’t keep my piehole shut.

$ 415.60

By way of The Lynnster, I found this meme, which is both cool and kind of embarrassing all at the same time. Which makes it perfect for me!

How it works is, you look at the list below, make a note of the ‘fines’ for each ‘infraction’ and tally up how much you would have to pay if it was real. You don’t count per incident, which is fortunate, because I’d have carpal tunnel from counting on my fingers by now.

*** Edited*** Because y’all have to hear this shit. Pookie just called me from work (where he usually reads my posts) and said, ‘You just scared the shit out of me! I thought this was a list of shit you’d actually done and all I could think was, ‘Had sex in church? Had sex for money?!’ Myspace?? Myspace hasn’t even been around that long!.”

Then, after I finished snickering like Mr. Magoo, he asked if I had had sex in a pool and I had to tell him that I wasn’t going to go through the entire list with him. Because there has to be some mystery in a relationship.

So before you read furthur the list below is most assuredly not a list of shit I have done. ***Edit over ***

Here’s the list of infractions and fines:

Smoked pot — $10
Did acid — $5
Ever had sex at church — $25
Woke up in the morning and did not know the person who was next to you — $40
Had sex with someone on MySpace — $25
Had sex for money — $100
Vandalized something — $20
Had sex on your parents’ bed — $10
Beat up someone — $20
Been jumped — $10
Crossed dressed — $10
Given money to stripper — $25
Been in love with a stripper — $20
Kissed some one who’s name you didn’t know — $0.10
Hit on some one of the same sex while at work — $15
Ever drive drunk — $20
Ever got drunk at work, or went to work while still drunk — $50
Used toys while having sex — $30
Got drunk, passed out and don’t remember the night before — $20
Went skinny dipping — $5
Had sex in a pool — $20
Kissed someone of the same sex — $10
Had sex with someone of the same sex — $20
Cheated on your significant other — $10
Masturbated — $10
Cheated on your significant other with their relative or close friend — $20
Done oral — $5
Got oral — $5
Done / got oral in a car while it was moving — $25
Stole something — $10
Had sex with someone in jail — $25
Made a nasty home video — $15
Had a threesome — $50
Had sex in the wild — $20
Been in the same room while someone was having sex — $25
Stole something worth over more than a hundred dollars — $20
Had sex with someone 10 years older — $20
Had sex with someone under 21 and you are over 27 — $25
Been in love with two people or more at the same time — $50
Said you love someone but didn’t mean it — $25
Went streaking — $5
Went streaking in broad daylight — $15
Been arrested — $5
Spent time in jail — $15
Peed in the pool — $0.50
Played spin the bottle — $5
Done something you regret — $20
Had sex with your best friend — $20
Had sex with someone you work with at work — $25
Had anal sex — $80
Lied to your mate — $5
Lied to your mate about the sex being good — $25

My total fine is $415.60. From that amount, if you’ve been paying attention, you can at least infer that I have kissed a stranger AND peed in a pool. I’m not telling you fuckers any more specifics. I have my pride, you know. (except, if you could see my list, you’d know the pride thing is bullshit)

If you’re so inclined, I’d love to see some amounts in the comments. Just think, it’s just like confessing, only not as bad because no one will really know the shit you pulled.

Unless, you know, you kissed a stranger or peed in the pool.

Together again at last

I suppose it makes sense that there are almost no pictures of Dr. and Mrs. King together available for the public to view. After all, he was the famous one.

At least until she had to take over his work after someone murdered him in cold blood.

I hope their kids have more pictures of their parents together.

Rest in Peace, Dr. and Mrs. King.

The ‘I Have a Dream’ speech in it’s entirety. It’s quite long, over 17 minutes. But what’s 17 minutes in the 24 hours we set aside in a year to honor this man and his work?

I still prefer Spike

BabyGirl and I were watching another stellar Buffy the Vampire Slayer rerun this evening. Yes, I watch Buffy. Yes, I am still kind of upset and maybe a little bitter that it was cancelled. That’s right, I’m a grown ass woman and I loves me some Buffy.

So, anyway, it was the episode with Dracula in it. Not one of those namby pamby regular vamps, but the real honest to goodness(or evil, bwahahaha) Dracula. My favorite line in the episode comes from our reliably goofy friend Xander. He says (and I’m totally paraphrasing here because I already deleted the episode and even if I hadn’t, chances are my laziness would overcome my need for accuracy and I would decline to fast forward), “Where’d you pick up that accent? Sesame Street? ‘One, two, three. Three victims, bwhahaha!’ ”

So, anyway, for some reason, I started thinking about what kind of underwear Dracula might wear. I know. That’s weird, right? I’ll just add it to the list.

So I tried picturing Dracula in tighty-whiteys, boxers, boxer briefs, and those icky little Speedo type drawers, and I couldn’t picture him in any of them.

Neither could I picture Dracula going commando.

I mean, really. Vlad the Impaler and his dangly bits. I think not. Although, that would be a good name for a rock band. Vlad and His Bits, for short. Coming soon to an auditorium near you.

Shit Dear Abby won’t tell you

I have decided to start an advice column. It’s going to be a little different than your usual advice column. Instead of readers sending me questions and me answering them, I’m going to accidently do really stupid shit and then tell y’all not to do it. That way, I’m learning and educating all at the same time. Great idea, right? Ok, then, let’s get to it.


Dear Contrary,

Should I apply toxic hair color to the old noggin and then take a nice long walk on the treadmill. thus risking a light sweat since my idea of exercise is to take a bath instead of a shower, making me have to heave my ass up out of the tub when I’m done? Not that I’m opposed to a light sweat, but I’m afraid the sweat might mix with the hair color and make it run down my face in stripes, making me look like Tammy Faye before she got Jose Eber to hook her up.

Thanks in advance! (Only not, because I already did it)

Your bestest friend,


Dear Contrary,

Yeah. Um. Don’t do that again. Seriously. Also, not for nothing, but I heard milk will get that out of your skin. You dumb bitch.

Love, Contrary

I think I could probably manage at least one column a week if I get picked up for syndication. I mean, one stupid thing a week is really aiming low for me.