Ok, yeah, I know I already pimped the lovely Kristen at Motherhood Uncensored a little bit recently, but now she's my tenant for the week, so you must click.  Besides, if you haven't viewed her site since I linked her last, you've missed a few killer things:

• Her sweet new (holy-crap-there's-three-columns!) design
• A hilarious comparison between models and real, stubbly women
• Her talking about ME - hello?! MUCHO important
• Beavers.  Lots and lots of beavers.  (STOP - it's beaver time!)

click-------->      <--------click

If you go see my renter, you may notice that I'm HER renter right now too.  If you click my renter, you can click her renter, then click my renter, then click her renter.....if you wanted, you could probably do that all day.  Of course, I'd call you a loser for doing nothing but clicking on our thingies all day, but whatever, dude, your choice.

So yeah.  Go see her.  Tell her C.M.Chase sent ya. 

Oh, thank god the olympics are finally over!  Is it unAmerican for me to say that?

While I'm all for people being good at jumping around in the snow and sliding down hills, I was just bored to tears this time around.  I avoided NBC like the plague for fear of seeing yet another freaking snowflake or hearing yet another freaking trumpet.  And you guys know how I am about sports in general. 

You see, my nightly routine is going to bed and watching Leno and then Conan.  The olympics just jacked this little routine all up.  When I went to bed, I had to flip channels - not because there wasn't anything on, but because I just can't go to sleep without my regular tv.  I'm a creature of habit.  Ya know, like how I have a habit of sitting on my computer too long in the mornings and being late for work?  Yeah, it's kinda like that.

Of course, when those shows are on and I get to revel in my habitude, I grumble about how they always use the same jokes and have boring guests, and about how I'm just plain sick of shitty late night tv. 

Now that the olympics are finally over, I can yell at the tv and then fall asleep mad like I'm used to.  And that makes me happy.

But first, my tenant is leaving tomorrow, so please go click on her site (to your right) before she goes.  She's been a wonderful renter - no late-night keggers, no loud music past midnight, and she smells wonderful!  Go bid her adieu by clicking, please.

• • • • • • •

Who says that animals can't feel or show emotion?  Well, whoever 'they' are, they're just dead wrong.  They should have seen Malachi's face today when the lady at the bank forgot to give him his drive-thru treat.   He was sitting on my lap, arms perched on the open window, wagging his tail in a drool-covered pose, waiting patiently for his crunchy bone. 

The tube came - no treat.   He was devastated.  After a frantic search, his ears drooped and he sat, facing away from me, staring out the passenger window until we got home.

I made sure to cuddle him and give his poor wounded ego two treats when we got back.  Not only does he show emotion, he holds grudges.  I imagine next time we go to the bank, he'll kindly flip the teller the bird.

• • • • • • •

This story needs a little background.  If you haven't read my fart story, please go read it now - you'll appreciate this one much more if you do.

Every morning, I wake up and let the babies (Moxie and Bo) outside.  The other two (Malachi and Abbie) sleep with me, so I leave them in the bedroom until they knock on the door to be let out.  Spoiled much?  Why, yes - yes they are.

Today, after my third cup of coffee and my first round of blog-reading, I decided to go check on the sleeping beauties.  I opened the bedroom door and it smelled like I'd stepped in a massive pile of crap.  I knew immediately what it was.  Malachi has epilepsy, and everytime he has a seizure, he takes a dump right then and there.  It's his body's way of telling him it no likey.   So, I find Malachi curled up on the floor, ashamed that he'd pottied in the house.  I cuddle him and tell him it's ok, ashamed I missed protecting him from another seizure.

So I go on the search, careful of where I step, but I can't seem to find any sign of crappage.  Then I realize : he was sleeping in bed when it hit him.   I throw back the covers and there, on my side of the bed, is a perfect pile of doo.  It was laying in the perfect position as if I, myself had crapped the bed.  

I nearly ran from the room to grab my camera so I could blog it.  It was too perfect considering the fart story (and the assumption that I pooped in the bed aftermath).  I went back and forth with the camera, saying to myself both "no one wants to see a pile of poop in my bed" and "my god, this is the funniest thing EVER".   The former won and I didn't take a picture.  Darn it.

If you ever wonder how much I love you all, just know that I was thinking of each and every one of you when I was looking at a pile of crap this morning.

• • • • • • •

Finally, I promised Divine Calm today that I would post some pictures of the beagles.  So, without further delay, here are a few.  Mouse over to find out names.  :)

As many of you know, Shellie works for Budweiser.  So, of course, I know all the Bud folks up there pretty well.  They are the most competitive and product-loyal people I've ever met in my life.  They will only drink Bud products, will only hang around people who drink Bud products, and will chastise anyone who doesn't drink Bud products.  I once heard someone from there say, "I can't believe anyone would drink Coors in front of me.  That's just rude."  They don't care about personal taste - they care about being the THE beer people are drinking.  Anyone else is an idiot, it seems.

For example, competitor's products (Miller, Coors, Smirnoff Ice, etc) are NOT allowed in this house.  Shellie would flip her lid if someone brought a 6-pack of Miller to a cookout.  It's just a no-way, no-how type of situation.  Me, I couldn't care less what people drink.   If I worked for Pepsi, I wouldn't want anyone to stop drinking Coke on account of it.  I just  don't get it, I guess. 

And yes, Budweiser puts food on our table.  I know.  Please don't yell at me and beat me with beer <ahem> Budweiser bottles.

Anyway.  One of Shellie's good friends at work got fired recently for...for something I shouldn't post about on the internet.  (Hi, Budweiser spies!)  Well, his wife just had a baby, so she's not working, and he is therefore in dire need of a job.   Guess where he just applied?   THE COMPETITOR.   *gasp*   When I heard this, I LOST it.  I can't stop laughing about the sweeeeeeeet irony of this. 

See, a couple of years ago, another employee lost his job at Bud and went to work for the competition.  All the Bud people threw a fit about it, calling this guy names and making a big stink about how he switched sides.   Now?  Yep...now look.   Karma's a bitch, yo.   

Moral of the story : don't mess with the King of Beers.  You'll get a golden crown stuck right up your ass.

p.s. please drink Bud.

My grandfather was given one of the worst names I've ever heard : Hayward Issel.  Thankfully, everyone called him H.I.  Well, except for me - I called him Papa. 

He was one of those wrinkly, bald old men who always wore brown zip-up coveralls like mechanics wear.  He was a locksmith by trade, but an outstanding fisherman and grandfather by design.  There are a few things that always come to mind when I think about him, most of them make me laugh and shake my head.  Quite a character he was.

One of my earliest memories with him was when he bought me my first (and only ever!) pair of cowboy boots.  I was about 5-years-old.  I remember him handing me the box; I was thrilled.  I put the boots on and gleamed with pride, kissing him on the cheek.  They were tight on my feet, but I didn't mention it.  After about half of the day walking around in the boots, I was in so much pain I couldn't hold back anymore - I started to cry, embarrassed that his gift caused me so much pain.  Even at a young age, I knew I didn't want to hurt his feelings.  After much coaxing, I explained my pain, and he was quick about removing the boots.  Inside, he found the wadded pieces of paper the store puts in shoes so they retain their shape.  I'd been walking around with 3 inches of wadded paper curling my toes.  I remember his face as he tried to hide his laughter. 

When I was about 12, I got a package from him.  I remember grabbing it from the mailbox and running into the house, overjoyed that Papa had surely sent me something amazing.  I opened the box and found a roll of toilet paper.  Attached was a note that said "I thought you might need this one day."  It was one of my favorite gifts I'd ever gotten - so very him.  I kept that toilet paper roll on my dresser for years. 

When I was 14, after a series of heart attacks, he ended up in the hospital. By the time I was able to visit him, he was on a breathing machine and couldn't speak, but he'd wink at me when I was there.  He was also able to scribble notes to us.  He would write "want watermelon" and "fried chicken please", showing us that his appetite was still healthy despite the fact he could only eat from a tube.  

He's buried in a cemetary that's right next to a neighborhood.  He picked his plot out before he died.  Why that particular plot?  Because it was next to a house with a grill.  He said, "I'll always be able to smell when they barbeque."  And so his healthy appetite lives on.

Before he got sick, I would go fishing with him a lot.  When he was teaching me how to fish, he showed me how to bait a hook, cast the line, and watch the bobber.  He said when a fish nibbled the bait, it would feel "like this" and he pinched me lightly on the arm.  For some reason, it made complete sense to me and was a sort of infinite wisdom. 

Everytime I think about him now, I feel a little twinge in my chest.  It's hard to explain.  It feels kinda "like this."

Good reading for a Saturday at home:

Chanakin Ricesteamer - the funniest Korean dude I know. Spins the news and has the best Photoshopped crap ever.  (Don't you love how "Photoshopped" has become a verb?)  Now go take a gander.

Motherhood Uncensored - one of my favorite new finds.  She's hilarious and NOT just all about the mommy.  She talks about boobs and poop, and she's another black-with-white-font-layout-person that I so adore.  (All you naysayers out there, kiss my butt!)  Right now she has a post up about putting out.  She's pretty easy, I hear. Go check her out!

Barnes & Noble Online Classes - I got this link from Reluctant Housewife today.  Lots of free online classes : everything from reading groups to learning French.  Pretty neat stuff!

PostSecret - If you haven't seen it, you must.  It's just one of those things everyone in the world should read.  Go.  Now.

Because all the blogs are doin' it these days.  How are you defined in the dictionary? 

Mine is pretty fitting, seeing as how I just posted about this.  Hmph.

What is YOUR definition?

I often make it a point to embarrass people I'm with.  Most people who would hang around me obviously don't get embarrassed easily (I mean, it is me, afterall), so I have to try a little harder.   Shellie, on the other hand, is VERY easily red-faced.  She doesn't like any unnecessary attention drawn to her.  So, of course, I try to make sure people are staring.

I got this need for glaring what-the-hell-is-she-doing attention from my father and brothers - they would do anything to make me blush.  My brothers' thing is farting very loudly in public and then yelling my name while looking at me in disgust.  They've done it to me everywhere, from restaurants to airport elevators.  Don't get me wrong, my brothers aren't 12.  They are 38 and 40.  Old enough to know better - though not too old to get punched in the stomach when they pull it.  And yes, they still pull it.  My oldest brother did it at the mall in Dallas last summer.  He got punched.

My father, while he does try to get me on occasion, is an embarassment without even trying.  For instance, he LOVES garage sales and flea markets.  In other words, he likes junk.  (Remember the dinosaur shit?)  Well, in his never-ending quest for junk, he would sometimes randomly pull up to a house, make me walk to the door with him, and he would ask them, "I like your house...can I come in and see your stuff?"  

Seriously?  Yeah, random people.  Someone let him in one time.  Another time, he got chased off with a shotgun.  The majority of his answers were "sorry, guy" with a side of slammed and quickly-locked door.  He still does it and sees nothing strange about it at all.

Another thing he does is sort of a CSI for roadkill.  If he's driving along and sees a dead animal that is unidentifyable from the car, he will pull over, get out of the car, and go poke around on it with a stick until he can tell what it may have been.  While this was quite interesting for me when I was 10, I have long since outgrown it and become disgusted by it.  He hasn't.  My poor step mother.

Sure, I inherited the 'have to embarrass everyone' gene, but I'm thinking (a.k.a. hoping/praying/wishing/pleading) that the total ass crazy gene skipped me.  I mean, come on.  At least mine don't get me gunned down or playing with guts.  I think Shellie is lucky to have that quality in a partner.  Right, babydoll?

Because this is one thing that just chaps the hell out of it...and not in the good way : Oklahoma's religious fruitiness.  Let me first say that religion as a whole is a wonderful thing - if you're not insane.  And, sorry, but a lot of things people do and say in the name of religion is just plain stupid.  Oklahoma is full of them lately - this is an example.

We have had a serial rapist we've been looking for since 2003.  They caught a guy recently who is allegedly linked to eleven cases so far.  The headline for the capture of this prick?  "Suspect's Arrest A Result of Answered Prayers".  Wha?  Really?  After three years, God decided that it was finally time to answer the prayers?  How quaint. 

This goes right along with our governor's recent declaration of an official state-wide Day of Prayer for rain.  Our houses were burning down and the air was filled with smoke and ash for months.  Then, when it rained 3 months later, it was because they prayed for it on The Day of Prayer.

What, are all these deities on vacation during actual prayer time?  Who do they think they are, President Bush?

Make sure to go see Mystickal's blog today (THURSDAY) - it's her weekly contest day!  You might just win some yummy stuffs!!

Click.  Right over....no...not there.   Right THERE.  :points:   ---------------------------->

Meet Gus.  She belongs to the people who I'm painting for right now.  She just had ear surgery and now has to wear this enormous cone.  She's clumsy anyway, so watching her get that thing caught on everything just made my work day so much better. 

I just can't help but laugh.  I know she's in pain and uncomfortable and depressed...but dammit, that's pure comedy.  She kept trying to get into the room I was working on, but the cone was so huge, she'd get stuck between the wall and the door.  Awwwww.

Her owners have a 7-year-old (whose room I'm painting) and, as I was told, last night he was throwing popcorn at Gus.  When she'd miss, the popcorn would get trapped and roll around in the cone.  She would search and search for it. It was apparently good family fun.  I wish I could have been there to see it.  Poor, poor Gus.  Can't you just see the shame in her eyes?  Still - I laugh. 

She's laughing too, see?

On another note, here is the room I got to paint today.  It's always SUCH fun to paint actual colors!  (Off white is NOT a color, people.)

I actually had to make a decision today - I hate that! This week's renter is Mystickal Incense.  Go visit her site - her link is right over there ---------->

I had two other bids and it was hard to choose between them, but I ended up picking Mystickal because she handmakes the neatest stuff!  I wish I was talented like that.  Bah.  She makes and sells her own incense, candles and bath stuffs.   On her blog she gives tarot readings, has weekly contests (where you win actual PRIZES!!), and, helllllo? she celebrates 'Random Acts of Kindness Week'.   How could I not choose her?

So go click on her thumbnail and check out her stuffs!

Because the other two bids were great too (and because I don't have to choose just one if I don't want to and you can't make me), here are their links:

Pajama Mama & One Man Bandwidth

A chat with a dear friend of mine this morning prompted this blog.  Well, when I say dear friend, I mean insane stalker.  As he was warning me with eating my internal organs with a glass of Boone's Farm, it made me remember some of the more strange things I've called dinner.  Let's explore that, shall we?

One thing I used to love was a big ol' plate of chicken gizzards covered with cream gravy.  While anything covered with cream gravy sounds like heaven to an Oklahoman, do you know what a gizzard is??  If not, let me enlighten you.  It's an organ in birds (and earthworms, of all things) that acts as a grinder.  The bird will swallow grit and rocks, among other random objects, and those things will roll around in the gizzard to help break down the food for digestion.  Then KFC goes in there, rips out those organs, deep fries them, and we call it food.  Yummy, eh?

Another Oklahoma treat I only ate when I was young.  Because I didn't know better.  I swear!  When I would stay with my grandfather, his everyday breakfast would consist of pork brains and scrambled eggs.  I ate it up like a good little carnivore.  Had no idea.  Honestly.  I still gag when I think about it.  Though...I do feel a little smarter...

When I was almost 17, I left home, got emancipated, and got my own apartment. I was working at KFC (of all places) and barely scraping by.  I would buy those gi-normous packages of store-brand bologna, a jar of grape jelly, and that would last me awhile.  Put the jelly on a slice of bologna, pop that baby in the microwave for 20 seconds, and chow down.  Breakfast (and lunch) (and dinner) of champions. 

Besides having all the leftover KFC I could handle, a friend of mine worked at a donut shop down the street.  We would trade trash food often.  There was one week that I lived off of stale donuts.  The only thing I had in my fridge was a huge black garbage bag full of random, crushed, cold pastries.  Though, pastry is kinda too a fancy word for what I was eating.  It was more like...well...garbage.

I did eat a whole meal of cat food once, but I was really little and it wasn't meant for me.  I remember seeing that the neighbor had poured his cat a big pile of food on their driveway.  So I toodled on over there (lord knows where my parents were), sat down in front of it, and started eating.  I'm fairly sure I ate the whole thing.  Thank god they didn't also put out a bowl of antifreeze.

Ya know, all this food talk has me starving.  Is it wrong that I'm now craving a plate of gizzards and gravy?  *gasp*   Well, thankfully, I don't have any of those handy.  I do, however, have a brand new bag of Meow Mix.  Hmmmmmm....

I got this idea from Motherhood Uncensored and thought I might ought to put mine up because she said to - and I think she could beat me up.

The idea is to find your 80s likeness in an icon from the time.  

<--------  This is me.

All my childhood, I was made to get horrible perms exactly like  good ol' Richard's.  I, sadly, looked very much like this picture - minus all the chest hair and lip gloss.  When you have a mop like this one, there's not much variety in the style.  Maybe one day I'll find all my school pictures and post them. 

Or I won't.

Find your 80s likeness and let me know when you post it!  Come on - I can't be the only one who looked like a flaming man in shorty shorts.   

I couldn't help myself!

I'd heard about Yoga Booty Ballet a little bit here and there and thought it sounded like the dumbest idea in the world.  I thought it was just another way to get us out-of-shape girls to spend our dough on dust collectors. 

Then I saw the infomercial! 

It was about 2:30 in the morning when I saw it, and I almost broke my legs getting out of bed to go order it online. It was such a fun little infomercial, I was almost dancing in bed.  And I'm NOT normally one to watch, let alone BUY from those things.  But I just couldn't control the urge with this one.  Now I'm stalking the mailman waiting for my DVDs to arrive.

Yeah, give it a week, I know.  At least I'll get off my ass for that one week.  And who doesn't like to say "booty"?  I mean, come on.  Those two things alone are worth the $45.

Sung to the Wizard of Oz tune, of course.

Well, if I had nards yesterday, I would have frozen them off today.  The last time I checked, the termperature was 13 degrees.  I think it may have warmed up to a balmy 15 by now.  Oooh.  And, before you start saying how you live in Wisconsin and I don't know what cold is, you just go ahead and shut your yap.  I don't live in Wisconsin for a reason. 

Two days ago, it was 70 degrees.  I was wearing tshirts and flip-flops and giving my swimming pool the 'how you doin' nod.  Today I'm wearing cuddly pants, thick socks, and fuzzy slippers, and making out with Lulu, the best coffee maker in the universe.  I even ran out of Diet Coke and I'm refusing to leave the house.  If it weren't for Lulu, one of the dogs might be dead right now.

It started sleeting last night and then, about an hour later, started snowing.  We got 3-inches by morning.  Again, Wisconsin folks, zip it.  My house is old, drafy, and underinsullated.  So, in short, I'm. Fucking. Cold.  I just wanted to share that with everyone.  And I don't care if you got 8-inches last night.  (I also don't care if you got snow either. Yeah, baby!)

On another note, check out Stella at Finding Zen.  She's one damn funny broad.

A side of me no one knows.  (Shellie, you might not want to read this one.)

I go through these phases fairly often where I just don't care about anything at all and I have to force myself to even function.  The last couple of days have been this way, where I'm in a sour mood and would rather just sit alone in a closet with my eyes closed and my hands over my ears than to deal with everyday life.  During these times, I am put off by anyone and anything.  I scream a lot - and loudly - while I'm in my car alone.  I have a pit of rage in my chest, physically pressing against my flesh.  I don't want to work or go to school or see the animals or talk on the phone ever again.  When I'm in these moods, I don't feel like I can deal with one other single person or I'll explode.  I feel I'm stupid and ugly and fat and mean.  I feel like it's my last straw, like I will never care about anything again and I need to just crawl into a hole and be alone for the rest of my life.  I become lost with no direction and no desire.

When I feel better, I look back and think about all those thoughts and think how dramatic it is, that I don't feel that way at all.  I end up playing it off as a normal bad mood and never end up saying anything about how I really feel.  I think it's just my overactive mind making seem worse than it was, and I can't imagine actually feeling those things.   But then the next time it hits me, it's just as real and just as thick.

I'm in one of my funks right now.  I did just get some bad news last night, but it's nothing to do with that - I was feeling shitty before that phone call.  Nothing in particular sets it off - it just sneaks up on me and pounces like a pissed-off cat.  It starts out with feeling a little sad and then accumulates.  Then, just like it came on, it leaves and I'm normal again.

I recently admitted to a group of friends that something might be wrong with me because I have no brain function - I forget everything.  These moods are another reason I think something is amiss in la cabeza.   I still always think I'm overreacting to the way my mind feels.  But, seriously, is this normal to feel this way?  People sure don't talk about it if it is. 

What say you readers?

When I think of me as a child, I often think that I was pretty darn well-behaved.  But, ya know what? Yeah, not so much.

I got swats in kindergarten.  I mean, really, who does that?  All you have to do in kindergarten is play with blocks, make sparkly notes to your mom, and take naps on little rugs.  It's not that demanding.  Well, apparently, that wasn't enough for me.  I had to make it interesting.

I remember sitting at a round table with several other kids.  We were doing some sort of craft thing that involved glue and shredded bits of colored construction paper.  I don't know why, but the teacher had to leave the room and she told us all to STAY.SITTING.NO.ONE.GET.UP.UNTIL.I.GET.BACK.   Okie dokie.  Why she thought it was ok to leave a room full of 6-year-olds all alone is still a mystery.

So, as soon as she left I looked over to the kid next to me and said "dare me to drink this glue?"  The kids laughed.  They were taunting me!  They didn't think I'd do it.  Oooh, but I'd show them. The little girls gasped and the little boys stared wide-eyed as I guzzled the little bottle of Elmer's. 

I wiped my mouth all dramatic-like at the end and said "YUM!", proud of the best accomplishment of my life.  I then realized it tasted...well...like glue.  I said, "watch this!" and got up and marched myself out into the hall to get a drink of water from the fountain.  Against the teacher's wishes. The kids chattered and said 'awwwwmm' behind me as the door closed.

When I got back, the teacher was there and she glared at me.  I told her I just needed some water and informed her it was no big deal.  She then informed me that I would be getting swats for my disobedience.  Fan.Tastic.  She gave me three little swats in front of the classroom and told me to go sit back down in my seat, which I did.  And I promptly turned to the girl next to me and said, "hah! That didn't hurt!"

I was old enough to know defiance, but unfortunately wasn't old enough to know voices carried.  The teacher said, "What. Was. That??"   I shook my head like I didn't know what she was talking about.  She repeated it. "What.  Was. That?!?"  So I told her.

I got more swats.  And those DID hurt.  And I cried like a baby.  The teacher, in her act of defiance and show of power asked me "now....how about those?  Did they hurt?"  She grinned when I nodded my pouting little head.   She'd shown me.

Hey.  Whatever, man.  I got some respect from those kids.  I will always be the girl who drank glue.  Because, drinking glue and then having to go get water because it was icky and then getting swats, I mean, you can't get tougher than that. Yo.

I hereby dedicate this Valentine's Day to two of my ex-boyfriends, Brady and Jerel.  I use the term boyfriends very, very loosely because we were in the 3rd grade.  But I thought I was in love.  With both of them.  Yes, even at that young an age, I was "boy crazy", as my parents say.

I would have Jerel as my boyfriend, let him buy me things - necklaces, candy, plastic toys, wear his "Coweta Tigers" jacket with his name embroidered on the front, let him walk me home from school.  Then, I suppose Brady would pique my interest and I'd push Jerel to the side and let Brady do all those things for me.  I would switch back and forth between them on a monthly basis.  They were both my boyfriends and I saw nothing wrong with that.

One Valentine's Day, I got a big frilly box of Whitman's chocolates from Jerel.  I was thrilled!  About an hour later, I got another big frilly box of Whitman's chocolates from Brady.   Instead of being thrilled again, for some reason, I told him, "oh, no thanks. I already have one of those."

He cried.

And then he told his mom, who promptly called my parents and I got in trouble for breaking his little heart.  My parents drove over and picked him up, took him to dinner with us, and I accepted his chocolates.  I held his hand in the back seat.  Then my parents yelled at me for being too fresh, so I stopped doing that.

After about 5th grade, I never spoke to Brady or Jerel again.  They were becoming the cool kids while I was becoming the "oh-my-god-look-at-her-hair-let's-ignore-her" kid.  It was that way all through high school, too...but that's another blog.

I saw Jerel at the 10-year reunion and he mentioned our 3rd grade relationship.  He called me a little player.  Then he pushed his date to the side and told me how good I looked all grown up.

That's right. Eat your heart out, boys.  Oh, and did I introduce you to my girlfriend?

In the song, Another Brick in the Wall by Pink Floyd, you know the part that says 'no dark sarcasm in the classroom'?  Well, until a few years ago, I had no idea what it said...at one point even thinking it might say 'no dukes of hazzard in the classroom'.

Now that would have been lyrical genius.

I don't know if this is part of my womanly instinct or my rusty biological clock or what...but today at the grocery store, I was Uber-Female Shopper.  The only thing missing from this experience was a paper-clipped stack of coupons and a baby strapped to my chest, drooling on my Blue October shirt.

After years of making a regular old grocery list and marking off items as I go, often missing at least one item and having to travel all.the.way. back to the other side of the store, I developed my own "speed map list".  This is a computer-printed layout of the store, each aisle having its own box where I can write in what I need to get out of each aisle.  As geeky as that sounds, this cuts WAY down on the time I have to spend in that horrid place.  I have a specific route I take everytime, and I know exactly where on each shelf and in which aisle most things are.  I can do $200 worth of shopping in 15 minutes; it never ceases to amaze Shellie.

Today, as I'm swerving my squeaky-wheeled basket of terror through the aisles, I find myself stopped in the magazine section, absently gazing at the parenting magazines.  I honestly don't remember pulling into that section or searching out those specific magazines - I just sort of woke up and was there.  Once I realized it, though, I couldn't stop looking...the covers drew me in and it was all I could do to keep my hands on my basket and flee.

I considered this as I was standing in the checkout lane.  What did it mean?  Was this the first ever tick of my biological clock?  Was it that almost every blog I read right now is a mommy blog and it's just rubbing off?  As I thought it, the vision of myself being pregnant wasn't necessarily a bad thing - pregnant women are just SO adorable - but when I realized that it would be my child in there, and that it would have to come out of me eventually, I shuddered and knew that surely was not it.  It's gotta be the blog thing.  I've been surrounding myself with so much mommy news lately, that my mind automatically desired it further. At least that's the story I'm sticking with. 

But don't tell Shellie about this.  She'd much rather it be the clock thing.

Please send me your email address again.  I have no way of getting ahold of you!

Thank you!

chase@tastetheworld.org 

I fear after tonight's post that I will lose the respect of at least one person.  But that's ok - I don't expect my readers hold too much respect for me anyway.  And that's the way I want it...I'm street, man.

You all know of my stomach problems as of late.  I was in so much pain, I stayed in my jammies on the couch for almost 3 days.  I'm still in my jammies but now it's just me being lazy - the pain is all gone.  In the middle of the night last night, my body decided to <<ahem>> release the gas.  About a minute later, the deep-sleeping Shellie sat straight up in the bed, looked around, and went to the bathroom.  She came back with toilet paper in her hand and started inching through the room.

Me:  What are you doing?

Her:  I think the dog pooped on the floor. 

Me:  Yeah.  That was me.

Her:  Oh.  Well, do you need this toilet paper? 

We laughed until we both passed out.  Then we woke up laughing.  And we're still laughing about it.  I said I wouldn't be blogging about this one, but dammit, it was just too funny not to.  And, if nothing else, you guys at least know I feel better today.

*sigh*  

And, speaking of all things stinkified...Bo (the youngest beagle) started eating poop again.  Time to start the pills again.  Talk about stinky burps.

Now - who wants to visit my house?  Brunch, anyone? 

((edited to add: i was told that this post implied that i actually pooped in the bed.  i totally didn't.  it was all gas, my pretties.  carry on.))

It's Friday!  In blog language that means I can write down random, meaningless blurbs and it's ok.  Actually, that's what "blog" means, but, whatever.  Enjoy my non-sensical ramblings.  There's no running theme between the posts, so don't hurt yourself trying to see one.

----------

• Lately, I see a lot commercials toting that so-and-so should be governor/mayor/congressman, and then at the end of the commercial, they show so-and-so walking through a park and they shrug and say "I'm a _________, not a politician."   Errr....  Really?  You're running for office and you're proud that you don't know anything about holding an office?  Sadly, not long ago we elected one of these so-and-sos to be our senator.  Good thinkin' Oklahoma.  Proud. Proud. Proud.

• I'm addicted to Project Runway.  I always bitch about reality shows and how they're crap, but here I am, loving the hell outta this crap.  I have my DVR set to record the entire season...and that includes the special with the guy who won last season, Jay McCarroll. 

I want Daniel to win this season, by the way.

• When I was younger, one of the few times my family would gather in the same room was to watch America's Funniest Home Videos.  Of course, at that time, it was hosted by one Bob Saget - who I feel sorry for now because I know his writers should have been beaten to death for ruining any possible career outside of Full House.

Anyway.  We all hated him, but it was my father who took it a bit further.  After about 5 minutes, he would mute the tv so he didn't have to hear him speak.  He would then put down the remote and forget to UNmute it once the chatter was over. We spent the entire 30 minutes either sitting in silence, yelling at him to turn the sound back on, or catching the last half of clip commentary.  I hated it with a passion and swore I'd never be so unforgiving.

Recently, when watching old reruns of the show, I instinctively reached for the remote to push the mute button.  I got scared, laughed a little, and threw the remote down, determined once again to not be my father. 

 

• By the way, Mandajuice, after the burrito incident I spoke of yesterday, had to be taken to the ER because of her poor stomach.   No wonder my karma was so relentless.  I made fun of a lady in the hospital!   Not only that - a PREGNANT lady in the hospital. 

Here's to you, Manda.  I hope you're farting like a pro now.  I promise not to say anything about it.

If you don't believe in karma, well, you should.

A couple of days ago, as I was reading my list of blogs (I have about 35 that I read daily now), I found a post by Mandajuice called "When Burritos Attack."  She always makes me laugh, so I dove in, ready to giggle away.  Her post talked about the crippling gas pains she had been having after enjoying a late-night burrito.  She asked her readers NOT to laugh because of her ailment, but I couldn't help it - it was already boiling up in me, because, really, when is girls farting not funny??  I even commented to her that I laughed at her pain.

So I moved on to the next blog of the day, unaware of the terror that would soon ensue.

The next day, I made some YUMMY pizza casserole and ate like it was nobody's business.  A few hours later, I felt a little....bubbly.  I didn't think much of it, as we're a pretty gassy household.  By the end of the night, I was curled up in a ball on the floor, trying to lay in JUST the right position that not only would the pain go away, but the gas might find its way out of my body.  This wasn't stomach pain - it was nice and deep in there.  I could even HEAR it attacking me - and, fittingly enough, it sounded like someone was making an animal balloon with my intestines. 

I woke up all through the night and had to crunch into a ball.  I violently poked myself in the stomach, hoping to maybe dislodge the gas enough that it'd retreat and leave me the hell alone.  This morning, as I blog, I'm sitting in a messy, pajama-clad ball, ready for my karma to run out of steam and go take a nap.  Or something. 

Damn you, karma.   Damn you, pizza casserole.  Damn you, Mandajuice.  How can you post telling me to not laugh and then have the next line be "the farts are killing me, softly" ?   

That just ain't right. 

I already posted once tonight, but then found a meme that I thought would be fun.  It's my first one.  *sniffle*  Baby's growing up.

This meme was made by NinjaPoodles. 

 The point is : think of a few movies that make you cry.  Like boo-hoo-snot-on-the-lip cry.  Then, go Google a still from that movie (one that doesn't just give it away totally).  If you have a blog, repost the meme on yours so we can get a big boatload ring of participation.

Here are my movies.  Click on the pictures to visit the movie's IMDB site.  But don't cheat!!  What movies do you know?  (I'm easy, I know....)

I'm taking Spanish right now.  I'm doing really well (making a 97%...so I'm kicking some espanol butt!) and I actually like it.  Initially, I was upset that my college didn't offer Italian as a foreign language option, but in all honesty, when would I EVER use Italian in Oklahoma?  The most Italian culture we have in Tulsa is the Zio's up the street, and the zit-faced kids who work there probably think "buon giorno" is an 80's hair band.  But, I digress.

I'm only in Spanish I right now, so just learning the basics.  I can now effectively ask how you're doing, find out how many dogs you have, ask what your brother is like, and tell you what color your pants are.  Bravo, right?   In class we're all like really tall, less confident 2-year-olds, bumping into each other, saying, in essence, "Hello, good morning.  How are you?  I am fine, thank you.  You have brown hair and green eyes.  How much does the clock cost?"   It's painful, really, especially when you hear the yee-haw Oklahoma accent when you're supposed to hear the romantic flow of the latin tongue.  We slaughter their "mi amica" with our "may ameeka" and their "pequeno" with our "pee-keen-o".

Last night, I went to a tex-mex restaurant and a mexican gentleman came to refill my tea.  I thanked him in English, but in my mind I was saying "gracias, gracias, gracias".   I wanted to show off my 97% talents SO badly.  Right behind those thoughts were the ones that shut me up, and rightly so:  I would say "gracias", he would say "habla espanol?" all excited-like, I would say "un poco!", he would say some big, long sentence about his family history and how long he's been working in the food industry and all I'd be able to do is shrug.  At that point, he'd think I was an asshole, he'd hit me with his tea jug, I'd poke him in the eye with a chip, I'd get sued...it'd be a big mess.   And all because I wanted to say "gracias" to show him I know a TINY bit of his language.

It's just not worth it, man.  I'm sticking with speaking me some English.

This is it - my first blog at my new home.  I feel like I need to decorate!  (Though last time I tried that, I screwed up my index file - I think I'll wait until I learn how. Heh.)

So, my babies, welcome to TasteTheWorld.org.   This is your new home, too - bookmark it and come back everyday.  No smoking inside.  Keep your feet off the furniture.  And please, someone do my dishes for me...they're starting to pile up.

Welcome. 

My dad called tonight which isn't an often occurrance. I reluctantly answered. Here's how the conversation went:

Dad: HEY!
Me: Hey...what are you doing?
Dad: Just calling my daughter.
Me: Ahhh.
Dad: Did I tell you about my dinosaur shit?
Me: Uhhh. Huh?
Dad: YEAAAAH! I bought some petrified dinosaur shit on eBay.
Me: You're completely psychotic - you know that, right?
Dad: Haha! Ain't that neat?? I got it for fourteen bucks, which is cheaper than the last guy I tried to buy some from.
Me: So, what...does it just look like a rock?
Dad: NOOOOOO!! It looks like a turd. It has like plants and stuff in it. It's all different colors. But, I mean, it just looks like a hunk of crap.
Me: And...you're going to what? Put this on your mantle?
Dad: Where else would I put it??


And people wonder why I turned out the way I did.

Ok. Not so much a mommy. But I would love to be a "mommy blogger" right now. Those ladies are totally raking it in (if not the money, the praise and promotion)! They're quick, intelligent, witty, business-savvy mothers who are all the rage in the blogosphere right now. They have smart blogs with a dedicated readership and growing sponsorship. Very cool deal for them. Not saying they got it easily - most of them have been doing it for awhile. And they certainly have the writing talent to deserve it.

I won't go into the whole list here, but I'll share a few of my favorites - a handful of blogs I read everyday.

Dooce
Finslippy
Fussy
City Mama
Mandajuice
Suburban Bliss
Mighty Girl
Three Kid Circus

And there are many more!

I'm not a mother and have no desire to be. I don't like hearing about diapers and bottles and teething. I try not to be in the room when a screaming child is near. And these ladies still crack me up daily with their tales - I never tire of it! They ain't your regular "moms". Don't click on these links because you're into 'mom' writing because that's not what it's about. Click on these links because you're into brilliant writing.

Maybe I should be in the "good-looking 30-something and unmarried with no rugrats" blog ring. We're out here, too!! We are a demographic! People want to hear us, too, advertisers!!

Then again, I'd sell my child for a free trip to Amsterdam. Suppose it's a good thing I don't have any. Dammit.

originally at Blogspot

Just curious - since when is Rock Paper Scissors a sport?

Right now, in a bar near you, there are RPS tournaments going on. What, you say? That's madness! That's right, folks. Rock Paper Scissors: the same contest you used in fourth grade to see who would touch the squished frog first. There are honest-to-god tournaments. From what I understand, the finals will held in Vegas this year.

According to Rock Paper Scissors Champs, Canadian Andrew Bergel was the 2005 winner. He apparently beat out 495 other RPRers from 27 US states, Canada, Norway, Northern Ireland, the Cayman Islands, Australia, New Zealand, and the UK. Congrats to you, guy. Nice rock you have there. Sure beat the hell out of that American's scissors!

Whodathunk?!

Am I the only one who didn't realize there was a WORLD CHAMPIONSHIP of this...sport...game...thingy going on? How does one practice for such an event? Does one brag about being a champion of RPS? And if one does brag, does one get hit in the face a lot by REAL sports players? Ya know - just curious.

Granted, there were less than 500 people in the whole world who showed up to the finals - but that's about 500 people that surprised the hell out of me when I found out about them.

I'm going to start my own tournament of champions. I shall call it the Hopscotch Trials. Or, wait...the Spitball Showdown. Ooooh, what about the Flipping the Bird Finals?

I'm going to be a champ. You just wait.

*flips you the bird* I win. See?

originally posted at Blogspot

You remember my coffee maker. Ok, so I've had her in high gear today. By the way, she's become so important to me that I've decided she's a 'her'. To that extent, I've also decided to name her LuLu.

So, I'm on my 4th cup and I decide that the beagles might like a sip. They had been sniffing at me for awhile. What could it hurt? So I find a straw and do the "finger on the end so the stuff doesn't come out" trick and give each of them a few straw-fulls of sweet morning crack. They love it! I gleam with pride that I just made my dogs adore me that much more.

About 15 minutes later, I find myself yelling at them about everything. Moxie and Bo are chasing each other around the couch as fast as their little legs can carry them. I let them go because, for once, they aren't into something. I look up and see that Malachi has climbed to the top of the chaise and leapt onto the filing cabinet. I scold him and tell him to get down - just in time for Bo to start attacking the kitty. I get her to safety and Moxie has eaten something yellow and plastic (still can't tell what it is) and she has remains of it all over her face. So I'm cleaning that up and look up to find Malachi back on top of the filing cabinet. I get him down by using the "eh eh!" scold that sounds like a rabid parrot. By then, Bo is coming after me and launches into my chest, almost knocking me over.

As if I couldn't be more psycho this morning (I've had 4 cups of coffee, man!), I look up and see that *oops* I've missed class. So I do what any internet-loving girl would do. I blame it on my friends at the message board. But, since I'm posting here, I'll also blame it on the dog-children. They all made me do it, profesora!

Afterall, I can't take responsibility for my OWN actions. That would be all...mature...and stuff.

originally posted at Blogspot

Children are so dang funny. I don't have any and don't want any, but still - they're a riot when they're someone else's.

A friend of mine has a 9-year-old son named Oliver. I can't honestly say I remembered his real name because we all call him Omlette. Horrible nickname for a kid, you're saying? Cruel and unusual? Well, he gave the name to himself and thinks it's the coolest thing ever. So that's what we call him.

I know his mother from an internet message board. She lives a couple of hours from me so one day we decided we would meet up and have dinner. She brought her son along for our first meeting. Charming kid - cute as a bug, and such a sweetheart. And quite chatty, too, we found out.

We were sitting around having a nice, friendly conversation when Omlette spoke up. "Hey mom! You remember the time when I went to the doctor and he pulled on my privates really hard? That hurt pretty bad." He chuckled at the painful memory he'd just shared with us.

I'm sure all of our jaws dropped. I'm also pretty sure his mother juuust about swallowed her tongue. She looked at him, gasping, and said "what??" He said, so matter-of-factly, "You know. When they thought I had three balls."

We were dumbfounded. Surprisingly, we weren't laughing. His mother wasn't because she was probably mortified that her son was talking about his three balls in front of her new friends...we weren't laughing because we didn't know if the child has some crazy malformation or what. We just looked at each other.

She leaned forward. "WHAT on earth are you talking about??"

"YOU KNOW...you took me to the doctor. They thought I had three balls. He pulled on my privates. Right?" Everytime he said it, he got a little more quiet...like maybe he wasn't so sure. But he certainly remembered the pain of the pulling, you could tell.

His mother's eyes lit up as she remembered. Laughing, she said, "OH. MY. GOD. They never thought you had three balls!! You were just getting a physical!" She turned to us and explained the hernia check.

We laughed about that for quite some time. Actually, a few months later, we're still telling the story every chance we get. Sweet, precious Omlette. May you one day have to live this down in front of your kids. Mom, please call me when that time comes.

originally posted at Blogspot

This man:



Why Snoop Dogg, you ask? Let me explain.

First of all, he named his three kids Corde, Cordell, and Cori. That's almost as disgusting as making twins dress exactly the same. He may as well have named them kid1, kid2, and kid3. Yeah, yeah, he was using his middle name (Cordozar) as inspiration, but come on, that's just plain ol' pot-induced laziness. (Remind me to send this to The Lazy Asian)

Secondly, he was on Jay Leno tonight talking about all his children and the topic of 'the talk' came up. Snoop said he has had the sex conversation with the boys (Corde and Cordell), but when Jay said "what about your daughter?", Snoop said there was no way anyone would ever talk to her about those things. I believe it was more of a "ah no way, man, we ain't never goin' there." Apparently, according to Snoop, if girls don't hear about things, sex just doesn't happen for them. Fantastic, Snoop. Good job.

Snoop went on to say that not only has he had the "protection sex" talk with his sons, he's also had the "first date sex" talk. Jay asked what all that entailed, assuming it was the 'you don't have sex on a first date' thing. Ahhh, naive Jay. Snoop said, "nah, man, for girls it's not ok, but for the guys, you gotta do it."

Snoop answered the crowd's gasping and moaning with "that's life, man."

Bravo, Snoop, bravo. Just what we need in this world. More doggs.

Fo shizzle.

originally posted on Blogspot

I've always been fascinated by words. I find it amazing that a sound coming out of someone's mouth can cause others around him/her to feel a certain way or recall certain memories.

For instance, what happens to you when you see me type the word: tsunami? Did you feel a twinge of sadness in your gut? (If you didn't, you watch too many shows with the words "World's Most..." in the titles)

What about the words: baby got back? Did you smile? Hell yeah, you did! I think my booty even twitched a little when I typed it.


Ok. What about the word: cock? Did you blush? You should have, you pervert...that was sick.


I ask this because this is why I love language - the image and feeling and depth that these little things make us go through...just amazing. If you said "cock" in a crowded place, a dinner party perhaps, how many people do you think would look at you and gasp? Probably most of them. And all you did was breathe out a puff of air with the back of your tongue at roof of your mouth.

(You're saying it out loud, aren't you? Pervert! See, I know my readers.)


Now, listen - this doesn't give you license to go to a dinner party and loudly say that word to see who gasps. I was just making conversation. That's what I do.

(but if you happen to try this at a dinner party, please let me know what names you get called - that should be quite interesting.)

originally posted on Blogspot

• Fill cup half-full with coffee.
• Take a swig off the H&H carton.
• Fill cup the rest of the way with H&H.
• Take a swig off the H&H carton.
• Put 5 scoops of sugar in cup.
• Stir.
• Put 5 more scoops of sugar in cup (quietly, now - you don't want them to hear you getting fatter)
• Take a swig off the H&H carton.
• Drink "coffee" mixture.
• Stay up all night giggling with your invisible friends

As I grew older, I stopped even that. Every once in awhile, I'd have the random cup (still had to be sweet and creamy), but for the most part, I stuck to Diet Coke as my morning wake-up crack. Mmmm. Crack.

I recently stumbled upon (and purchased) the best invention EVER. The Keurig B60 Special Edition. WOW. It keeps water hot 24/7 so it brews single servings in about 30 seconds. You open it, put in a K-Cup, push start, and 30 seconds later, you're buzzing around the livingroom/office.

Now, I drink about 4 cups a day. Which isn't much for the pros, I know, but for a non-coffee-drinker, it's quite a bit. And I just LOVE it. In my coffee bar (which used to be called my liquor bar!) right now I have Butter Toffee, Chai Tea, Mudslide, Hazelnut, and Chamomile.

No wonder my blogs are getting longer. My fingers are moving faster and my brain is so fried, I can't comprehend any sense of time.

Screw the wine. I need coffee.

originally posted on Blogspot

Well, I'll just tell you - he'd smack him some Christians.

I was in Barnes & Noble the other day at the customer service desk. A middle-aged semi-hillbilly couple walked up and slapped a piece of paper down on the counter. They started to read off names of books they needed, all Christian books (which is a-ok in my book - no pun intended).

The last one was called  The "What Would Jesus Eat?" Cookbook I chuckled and shook my head. And then I realized that someone out there is totally thinking they need to eat like Jesus did in order to be both healthy AND holy. My first question is, honestly, who knows what Jesus ate? Maybe he was a really picky eater. Maybe good ol' Mary had to make him sit at the table and finish all his peas before dessert.

Curiosity got the best of me and I looked into the book a little further (you know, because I'm a professional writer and all). Let me share a recipe with you (from the book by Don Colbert, M.D.).
-----------------------
Edamame

1 (10-ounce) package frozen unshelled soybeans, thawed
Celtic salt to taste

Place the soybeans in a medium microwave-safe bowl. Cover with water. Microwave on High for 2 to 3 minutes; drain. Remove soybeans from pods and sprinkle with Celtic salt.

Yield: 3 or 4 servings
-------------------------

While the sentiment is all fine and dandy and the niche market is GENIUS (good job, Dr.Colbert), I'm rather disappointed in the whole thing. One section of the book says we should "follow Jesus' example and eat the way He ate". Yeah, well, that's great and all, but it makes me wonder : which corner store did he get his frozen soybeans at? are we sure he had a medium sized bowl handy? and most importantly, where did Jesus keep his microwave?

Come on, Christians, if you're going to be this nutso about your religion, the least you can do is cook over a pile of rocks. I got excited for a second and thought maybe the author also slipped up on making the King of Jews have a nice bacon breakfast - but I guess his editor caught that one.

originally posted on Blogspot