Happy July 1st, bloggies!  The first always means one thing - Blog Exchange time!!  This month, I'm doing the ol' switcheroo with Jerri Ann from A Crack In Life.  That means she's posting here (below!) and I'm waaaaaay over there.  This month's theme was "Freedom".  Keep reading to see what Jerri has to say...and stop by and see what I'm saying at her blog.

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

I've axed several attempts at Freedom…I've tried a few fruity waters to get the creative juices flowing, I've banged my head on the keyboard, I fell asleep proofing 2 attempts and figured they were no- go's…now what?  I am being held captive by freedom.  No, really I am.  Freedom is driving me to drink….somehow the thought of some Bacardi Breezers makes me think I'll be more free!  Let's give it a whirl.

Once when I was in high school and we had to do journals, I was given the topic "Swan Song".  I was clueless what that meant and I wrote something terribly foolish.  I know what "freedom" means and I'm still writing something foolish.  That in itself should be enough to send you running! 

So, what better way to jumpstart my brain…other than Bacardi?  Google.  I came to wikipedia and got this definition. 

Freedom is the absence of restraints upon our ability to think and act (except those restraints that are of natural cause).

Now, that is something I can work with.  It took me back to the reason I started a blog.  I like to talk, I like to give my opinion, and I like to talk.  Restraints are few and far between.  I talk about everything, even my family…and it gets me in trouble sometimes.  For some reason, the older I get, the thinner my filter on my mouth (or fingers) gets.  I just take stuff in through my eyes and ears and words start coming out of my mouth (or fingers).  That's freedom people, the freedom to write what I want, when I want and enjoy it.  No one telling me that I have to be politically correct or that I have to be nice to people, heck I'm sure part of the time I'm just a glorified mommy-blogger.  But that is ok, I like it that way. 

My life is fairly restrained in most ways.  I have lots of rules to follow in the world, in my home, in my marriage, in my quest to be the great mom of all time, but on my blog, I have no rules.  Freedom!  I might be wrong but I believe that a majority of all bloggers feel the same way…..I blog so I can be free.  Freedom of speech, that was a big one wasn't it! 

P.S.  I took an odd route on this one regarding my own bouts of freedom, lest we forget the Freedom of our nation to be celebrated on July 4^th, Independence Day.  That and the freedom of speech, which brought about all these great blogs we are allowed to read daily to the credit of our forefathers.  I hope you have a wonderful 4^th, filled with lots of food, family and fun…fireworks and grilled burgers to boot!  Enjoy!

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

The other amazing blog exchangers this month are : Cape Buffalo, Chelle, Soul Gardening, Another Mommy Moment, Mommy's Dirty Secret, Chicken n Cheese, A Mommy Story, Divine Calm, Knitting Spells, Binkytown, Motherhood Uncensored, Zach's Day, Her Bad Mother, Chaos Theory, Clueless In Carolina, Izzy Mom, Mother Goose Mouse, and Bethiclaus. Go check out all the talent we have participating this month!

If you'd like to participate next month, please drop Kristen an email at kmei26 (at) yahoo.com!

Today is the day that the Perfect Post Awards were announced, so I'm getting hella traffic.  Which, of course, in Chase language means "not only did you not post at ALL yesterday, ha ha, you can't think of anything remotely interesting to talk about today either, you freaking loser!"

So, yeah.  Welcome to my blog, I'm sorry I suck, see ya around on the blogs that have real posts.

In other news, I did get a google search yesterday for "what does flicked the bean mean?"

I must be doing something right.  Heh.

My phone rings while I'm at work this morning.

Me : Hello?

Shellie : Whatcha doin?

Me : Putting my caulk in some lady's cracks.

Shellie : You're such a slut.

Me : Well, she's paying me for it, so I'm technically a whore.

Aaaaaaaaaaand, scene.

Thank you.  I'm here all week.

The older I get, the more sissyfied I become.  Especially with bugs.

When I was younger, I didn't mind bugs.  As a matter of fact, I had more bug friendships than I did people ones.  I had an entire colony of roley poley bugs under a log that I played with and studied and let crawl all over my arms.  I would pick up locusts by their backs and giggle as they vibrated and hummed in my fingers.  I let grandaddy longlegs inch their way across my hands and wouldn't mind one little bit. I filled my Barbie spa to the brim and tirelessly tried to teach grasshoppers how to swim. 

Oh, yes.  I did.

(They never learned a damn thing, the lazy fuckers)

We had a tree in our front yard that had an infestation of 2-inch long Asian Longhorn Beetles (picture).  Absolutely no fear with those suckers, even though they had very LARGE pinchers, they squeaked quite loudly, and they could fly a zillion miles per hour if they wanted to.  Instead of running like a little bitch (like I would do now), I would catch them and play scientist.

How, you ask? Well, let me tell ya. It was another brilliant idea by yours truly.  I can't believe I never won an award for my big fat brain.

I would get a plastic cup...anything I could see through.  I'd douse a cotton ball with rubbing alcohol, stick it and the bug under the cup, and wait for the bug to pass out.  Then, while he was out cold, I would cut him open with an exacto knife, thinking I was doing exploratory surgery.  I don't remember making any stunning discoveries, but I did have an operation journal.  I would jot down my findings, tie a piece of dental floss around him (you know, to heal the enormous gash I'd sliced into his stomach) and wait for him to wake up.

The majority of the time, they woke up.  When he began to rouse, I would paint a number on his back with fingernail polish and set him free.  I would keep tabs on the bug, assuming I ever saw him again.  Most of the entries were similar to this:

Bug #5 : (2in. 3cm.)

• 10/5/84 : Surgery went well.  He will feel better by tomorrow.
• 10/6/84 : No sign of #5 today.  He may be helping build a nest in the tree.
• 10/5/84 : Found #5 in the yard dead. Maybe a bird killed him.

Now?  Not so freakin' much.

I had to work outside today at a house in the country.  Bugs. Everywhere.  Chase no likey.  I fell off my ladder twice...once because a tiny (tiny!) wasp was flying semi-near my face, and the other time because the rag in my pocket brushed up against my leg and I thought it could possibly be a spider.  Yeah.  And I can't count the number of times I dropped the f-bomb and ran screaming because I heard something fly within a 2-foot radius of my head.

That makes me think...maybe all these bugs really want is a little attention. They didn't bother me while I was doin' my thing back in the 80s.  Maybe if I care enough to teach some of them how to swim, they won't hunt me down to crawl in my ear so they can breed in there.  Maybe if I try to learn more about their guts, they won't fly at my face and try to stab my eyes out with their pointy fangs.

Maybe they just need someone to care about them.  So, I'm gonna give it a shot.  I have a big ol' can of flying inscet killer bug lovin' that I'd like to share with them.  Com'ere, wittle cutey wooty wittle waspy.  I have something for you.

(Sorry Dave)

Watch this. 

Ask me what I want to be when I grow up and I'll point to David Sedaris.

Not so much the short, slightly-balding gay guy part, but the brilliant, hysterical, and did I mention brilliant?, writer part.  This is the kind of talent I fawn over.  This is what I dream about nightly. 

When I was in 7th grade, I ran for Student Council.  I wanted more than anything to be the Vice President.  Why, I have no idea, as I'd never ran for office before, I certainly wasn't a popular kid, I didn't like being in control of anything, and I honestly didn't even know what a Student Council did.

But, by god, I put my heart and soul into the campaign; I made signs, passed out notes to my friends, vote for Chase! please?, and wrote one heck of a campaign speech - which I had to deliver in front of the entire middle school. 

I wrote a big ol' speech, telling of how I'd help improve the system...how I'd fight for the little man...how I'd try to get more functions going because, honestly, why the hell isn't there a Groundhog's Day dance??  You know, typical politician B.S.   I couldn't have cared less - it's not like I'd have been invited to any dances anyway.  (Did I mention I didn't have any boobs?)

The night before the assembly, I read the speech to my father.  He looked up over his glasses at me, wrinkled his nose, and told me it was horrible.  He reminded me that I'm a goofball...that I don't take anything seriously : why should I take the speech so?  He said I needed to be myself, to write like I am - not like I think people want me to be.  He said to be stupid and silly and laugh at myself because that's how I really was.

A light went off in my head and I got it.  It was enlightenment.  Well, about as much enlightenment as a 7th-grader could handle, anyway.  I ran back into my room and wrote a gut-busting, silly, flop-on-the-floor speech.  I read it to him and he smiled and nodded.  I'd done it.  I'd written the winning speech and I was STOKED.

The next day?  I chickened out.  I couldn't read a silly speech - what if people thought I was silly?!  This was a serious office with serious responsibilities...who would vote for someone who was a big ol' goofball?   So I read the serious speech.  And I won.  I won!

But I always wondered what they would have thought about my me speech.

Last night, I was given the opportunity to try it again - to give my me speech - to be....Chase.  Lisa over at Niihaus (one of the most brilliant bloggers there is, by the way) presented the Perfect Post Award to me last night. 

She wanted to honor my Puberty Is Awesome! post....one that ended up being so long and drawn out, I didn't think anyone would read it.  But she did.  And she liked it!  And I WON!  So here's my speech.

Dear blog world,

I'd like to thank you for the opportuni.....eh, screw it. 

I FREAKIN' WON, YO!!!!  Now, where's the tequila?!

Love,

Chase

ps. Thank you, Lisa.  The money I bribed you with will be sent this week.

From the new BBQ place up the street from my house.

Heh. Hah. Hehe. Hehehah! Hehe. Heh. Heh. Hooo.

*snort*

Going right along the same lines as my lack of training bra, I was the only girl left in my grade who had never shaved her legs (or so I assumed).  And, at 11-years-old, I wanted to so desperately.  It was another symbol of womanhood that I was begging for.

I suppose I just could have done it, but I didn't.  I wasn't a troublemaker (at least not at that age).  Instead, I would sit in the bath, get the razor and pretend.  I'd hold it a few inches above my skin and shave the air, tilting my head to the side, lifting my leg up all sexy-like, just like they did on the commercials.

One day, as I was sitting there playing with the razor, I wanted to see what it felt like.  I couldn't possibly shave my legs, that would be wrong.  So I lightly dragged the sharp razor against the back of my left hand.

Oooooh, neat! 

I lightly shaved the back of my hand a few strokes....but, yeah, that got boring pretty quickly.  Then I got an idea.  A brilliant idea, by jove!   (I'm full of 'em, I know)  I had a little hair above my wrist - I could just shave that off! 

EUREKA!!

So I did just that.  Shave, shave, shave....no hair!  Ooooh, smooth.  I giggled at my cleverness and thought to myself that they would never know of my deed.  I mean, it wasn't like I'd gone and shaved my legs, for god's sake.  So I shaved a little more.

And a little more.  Shave, shave, shave...yay!

Before I realized it, I'd shaved all the hair off my left arm up to the elbow.  I fawned over its silky smoothness...until I realized...oh crap, my right arm doesn't match now!  That, my friends, would be noticed by the parents.  And we couldn't have non-matching arms, now, could we?

So I steadied my left hand and shaved all the hair off my right arm, too.  Poifect!

Then I realized - damn - I didn't have any hair on my arms.  How could they not notice that?? So, after drying off and getting dressed, I took to walking with my arms crossed or behind my back.  Yeah.  Like that wasn't noticeable. It took a whole 2 hours before my stepmom saw my arms.  I got in lots of trouble for that one.  And she pointed out that I looked like a moron.

Who knew?!

Thank god I don't remember the growing-out process.  I can only imagine the horror of hearing "ewwwww! Stubble Arms!!!" (because you KNOW someone had to have said it!) And the itching, god almighty, the itching!?  People probably thought I had fleas.  Or cooties.  Or lice.

Or worse - that I'd shaved all the hair off my arms like a retard and was in process of growing it back out.

I know. 

I never said I was the smartest kid out there.   Eh.  At least I thought I was.

I got the ol' tag-a-roo from Meg over at Three Sunsets....so click below to read more about Chase (because, honestly, who doesn't want to know more about me?)...

5 Things I Hate

• People chewing with their mouth open
• Noise/talking when I'm trying to read
• Barking dogs - and the owners who never tell them to shut up
• That my sweet Malachi died so young
• The Brad and friggin' Angelina hooplah

5 Things I Love

• Savannah, GA
• Sleeping with the window open during a thunderstorm
• My Moxie
• Possibility
• The first crunch of a creme brulee cup

5 Items I Can't Live Without

• My cell phone
• My camera
• Books
• A good pen
• A cd player of some sort

5 TV Characters You Would Want To Be For A Day

• Claire Fisher (Six Feet Under)
• Buster Bluth (Arrested Development)
• Phoebe (Friends)
• Sarah Sidle (CSI : Las Vegas)
• Lisa Simpson (The Simpsons)

5 Favorite Clothing Items

• The new Zombie Dave tshirt!
• Loose-fitting gray short shorts
• Any one of my many Blue October shirts
• My new asian-looking shirt I bought for Vegas
• Black skirt I wear to salsa dance in

5 Things In My Purse

• My camera (I don't leave home without it!)
• Chapstick
• Credit Cards / Cash
• Paper so I can write down stuff
• Lots of loose change I never get around to emptying out

5 Favorite Stores

• Border's
• Bed, Bath & Beyond
• Home Depot
• Target
• Pottery Barn

5 Nicknames I've Had In The Past

• Slimeball
• Banners
• Gert
• Curly Top
• Chase

I read an entry by GGC recently about puberty, and that made all those fantastic memories come rushing back to me, so I thought I'd share.  If you don't want to hear about boobs and periods, you might want to move on about now.

*cough*Bubba*cough*

When I entered 8th grade, I was about 5'5", and weighed 94 pounds.  Ninety-four. I remember that number because I had stopped growing altogether and was 94 freaking skinny pounds for what seemed like FOR.EVER.  I bought size 12 pants.  TWELVE.  In kids.

I was little and scrawny. I had chicken legs and NO boobs. None. Not even a bump's worth.  The boy I liked called me "Bird" because my chest was as flat as a bird's.  I couldn't look at a redbreast robin without being jealous because at least she had pretty feathers there, the bitch.

I was terrified of bathing suits and tube tops. I didn't like wearing tank tops because helllooo!? I looked like a little boy.  And forget about even buying a training bra...I had nothing to train.

As a matter of fact, I went to the doctor one day to check out a mole I had on my back.  I remember it clearly : the doc told my stepmom, "for now, it's just fine...but it might bother her once she's starts wearing a bra."   Simple, yeah?  It may as well have been a dagger through my puberty-stricken heart.

Later, when my stepmom repeated the diagnosis to my father in Dillards, I freaked out, crossed my arms over my non-existent chest and squealed like a banshee, "THAT'S MY PROBLEM!!!!" and stormed through the mall like a boobless psychopath. No one knew what I was even talking about.  I assume they chalked it up to teen angst and put it way up on a shelf so they wouldn't have to ask me about it...because they never did.  Probably a good call on their part.

All my girlfriends at school had started their periods.  We were all 14, of course everyone had started by then.  Except the freakish bird girl.  My best friend kept asking me throughout the year "did you start yet? Do you need to borrow a tampon? Are you SURE you haven't started yet? What is wrong with you??"  

One day, after basketball practice, my best friend grabbed my purse and saw a stockpile of pads in there.  She squealed and whipped one of the pink-plastic-wrapped torture devices out and said in front of God and all the basketball team members, "YOU STARTED YOUR PERIOD!! YOU DID!! YOU'RE FINALLY ALL GROWN UP!!!!!!!!"  

Um. Kill me now, God. Thanks.

I hadn't started yet...I just carried them around in my stupid purse so I could feign stupid embarrassment when someone saw into my stupid purse and saw the stupid pad that I wasn't stupid using yet.

Stupid.

I snached the pad from her and smiled and shrugged all coy-like.  Then I rushed into the stall to pretend change my pad because my pretend period was pretending to get a little worse.  I even took the pad out of the wrapper so she'd never know the difference.  And I don't think she ever did.

The summer between 8th and 9th grades?  Yeah. I grew like a freaking rhino.

I started my period (yay for bleeding!) and got big boobs (yay for stretchmarks!) and got new skin (yay for blackheads!) and gained, like, 60 pounds (yay for a new fat ass!).  I kept growing and growing and growing.  And so did those damn boobs.  Every week, I'd look down and they were another size up. 

Fuck! 

I went from being petrified of no boobs to petrified of the big mounds of fat that had settled on my chest and that everyone had to freaking stare at.

The next year at school, the boys stopped calling me Bird.  They had a new-found respect for me and my grand chestal area. 

They called me Breasteses. 

As if having none wasn't bad enough. Thankyouverymuch, boys. Way to boost back up my already trampled self-esteem.

I've since overcome the whole 'Bird' thing.  I've gotten over the 'Breasteses' name-calling.  I can look back on my early teen years with a sense of pride and accomplishment. 

*twitch*

I can proudly say 'I survived unscathed!'

*twitchtwitch*

I can hold my breasts head up high and be proud to be the woman I am today.  And I couldn't have done it without you, high school boys.  So, thank you.  Thank you all.

*cleans gun*

*twitch*

No, not those two things.  You perverts.

• I've put more Vegas pics up on my brand spankin' new Flickr account.  Here is the link to the pictures.  Enjoy!

(Though, please note...everything is in reverse order.  So the plane trouble is at the beginning.  I'm brilliant, and don't you forget it.)

• Also, please welcome my new renter!! YAY!  I'd never seen this blog around and, after reading all 6 of my bidders, chose him because his stuff is so unique.  He posts regular things but then corresponds each post with an eBay auction.  Some are freaking hilarious (I mean, the Jesus on a pregnancy test post? hahahha!) and some are "oh my god!" (the ugly doll...ack!)

 Go see for yourself!

I got a text message from my brother today that said something about me meeting Penn Jillette.  Now,there are only two ways he would know this : 1) I told him or 2) he reads my blog.

Let me tell ya a little secret.... 

I. Didn't. Tell. Him.

(!!!!!!!)

Yeah. So. My oldest brother reads my blog.  (Hi, Bubba)  As soon as that fact clicked in my little brain, I immediately began searching my memory for things I've said on here that could possibly destroy my existence.  Older brother = overly protective.  This means I'm still a virgin, I've never done any drugs and I'm a sweetheart angel that doesn't say words like fuck shit poop.

So, if you see him lurking around, that's exactly who I am.  Right?  Right. 

I try not to censor myself on here, and so far I've done pretty well.  So I won't change anything on account of my (sweet, wonderful, super freaking awesome) brother reading this.  So, Bubba....be warned, yo.

In honor of this revelation, I'll tell a heartwarming story about my brother and I.

I was about 14.  My brother was in the army and I would write to him, updating him on school, family, whatnot.  As if you can't tell by my blog entries, I can be a bit long-winded in my writing...and this is with editing, so you should see my handwritten letters.  They're 'please god, let her jump off a cliff' long.

I wrote one particular letter to my brother wherein I told him I loved him...I missed him...and that I was pregnant.  At 14.  The letter went on and on about the reaction of my parents, what I would do in the future, how I was going to keep the baby and love it and I was scared but ready to have this child.  This storyline went on for a couple of pages.

Well, of course, at the very end, I said I was just kidding ha ha.  I thought I was freaking hilarious. This was before "LOL" was invented, but if it were, I would have written it in big fat capital letters and highlighted it with pink marker.

Unfortunately, once brother read the pregnancy news, he got upset and stopped reading.

HE. STOPPED. READING.

He put down the letter and didn't finish it for days.  He marched around his army base thinking his poor, stupid sister was knocked up at 14 and was keeping the baby.  I'm surprised he didn't fly his ass home and kill the little bastard who porked his little sister.

Ah...good time, good times.

Here we are about the time I wrote that letter.  This is one of my favorite pictures of us together.

Look.  See how he's clinging to me, begging me to teach him how to be cool?  Oh, how he loves me.  He's so lucky to have such a beautiful, perfect sister.  Too bad he's a gaybo ugly loser.

(Who I love more than anyone in the world)

First of all, if you read my blog via Bloglines, you should click through and check out my new template.  Megan at Webundance did this one for me.  Yay!

I just got home from Vegas a couple of hours ago, whereas I was SUPPOSED to get home yesterday.  We had flight delays, weather issues, the plane ran out of gas, we missed our connecting flight, we had to stay in Denver all night, we still have no luggage...

Wait. Did you people catch that?  The plane.  It ran out of gas.

We were circling Denver, trying to land before the storm there hit and the pilot came over the intercom saying he didn't have enough fuel to circle anymore and we'd fly to Colorado Springs to fill up and then try again.

Umm. Say what?  You didn't think to do this whole "put gas in the plane" thing BEFORE we took off? 

I have loads of pictures, but WAY too many to post here. I'll get a Flickr album or something for all your curiosities.  Here are a few, though.

(where I spent most of my time...on the beach outside of Mandalay Bay!)

(my favorite hotel...NYNY)

(me and the freakishly tall Penn Jillette!)

• Sometimes it's ok to have a drink at 9:30am
• To turn off the stupid annoying closet light...shut the door all the way
• Black lipliner and no lipstick?  Not so much a good look
• A $5 mojito in Texas is MUCH better than a $11 mojito in Vegas
  
• It's possible to sunburn a sunburn
• Four girls in a room = assload of stuff on the floor
• All girls try to walk around Vegas in hoochie shoes...and end up limping
• My luck still suuuuucks and I need to stay away from slots
• J-Lo wants nothing to do with me, apparently.  The bitch.
  

...for I'm about to sin, biotch!

We're leaving for Vegas at 6am.  I'll already be on the plane by the time most of you read this, so BON VOYAGEY, YO!!

The next time you hear from me, it may be me in a drunken stupor, posting from our Mandalay Bay hotel room.  Or, it could be me posting from the computer in jail asking if I can borrow money for bail.  Then again, it could be me with my trashy new wife, Britney Spears, in another whirlwind marriage that will last about 47 seconds.  Or maybe, just maybe, it will be me in the penthouse of Caesar's Palace with my new bestest friend, J-Lo, because she saw me dancing at Rum Jungle and HAD to bring us back to her room so we could meet her posse, because who wouldn't want to meet some red-haired chicky from Oklahoma who can shake her booty like nobody's business (and might I add, J-Lo is a little jealous of my earth-shattering ass) and who just won $56,201,482 on the progressive slots?

Most likely, though, it'll be me a little hungover and on my way out the door to breakfast where I'll shovel down as many lukewarm $2.95 scrambled eggs and hashbrowns as my stomach will allow.

But, hey, it's Vegas, baby.  The J-Lo thing COULD happen.

See y'all in Sin City.

Seacrest Chase out.

I'm a friggin' redhead, baby!

(If you missed the pics, my hair changed here and here)

You folks going to BlogHer?  Read this post from Mothergoosemouse.  Participate if you want to join in the info sharing. 

45 days until the big conference, people.  45!  Oh my lord, time is ticking down quickly.  Seems like just yesterday I was squealing "only 128 days!"

I keep getting surprised with who all is going.  And, with each realization, I get a little more nervous.  Today I saw the "I'm going to BlogHer" badge on Mom101's blog and my first thought was 'OH YEAH!!'...my next thought was "oh. my. god." 

My bad-complexion, no-friends, weird-girl, high school self is starting to come back into focus where I thought I'd kicked her to the curb.  I'm great on the internet - I can push my way right in there and give virtual hugs to even the popular kids like the Amalahs and the Dooces. But in person?  Mmmm, yeah, not so brave and put-together. 

Citymama will be there.  I will probably meet Kristen.  At some point, I'll see Sweetney walk by.

Aaaccccckkkkk!!!  It's all too much for my little brain to handle - my head might explode before I actually reach San Jose.  I mean, is it weird that, 45 days out, I'm already stressed out about what I'm going to pack??  What does one wear when one is meeting a Mom101?  A skirt or slacks?  How does one do one's hair when one meets a NinjaPoodle?  Tucked behind the ears or flat-ironed and choppy? 

If I were any more any more psychotic, I'd probably make up an accent.

(Don't worry - I'm not making up an accent)

I'm staying with Deb.  DEB!!!!!  Poor, poor Deb.  I'm glad she's my BFF, otherwise I'd not have a roommate.  And, I'll be hanging with Karl!  I get to run up to him and scream WOOT! as I jump into his arms. 

I can't believe I will be meeting all these people who (who?whom? AAACCCK!) I drool over their brilliance everyday.  I don't get to meet too many people who inspire me, so I'm going to be on "oh my god I freaking love you and your blog and can I take a picture with you because I totally wanna write like you" overdrive from July 27 - July 31.

Jesus H. Christ, keep me away from the tequila.  Seriously.  I don't wanna hump anyone's leg.

At least not until I get back into the hotel room, that is.  

Sorry Deb.

I grew up with two brothers, 9 and 10 years older than I am.  So, by the time I could understand english and put together a sentence, what I was hearing around me was nothing but fart jokes, booby talk and double entendre.  In turn, I had the sense of humor of a teenage boy instilled deep into my psyche.  Needless to say, I still can't hear a carpenter say they have wood to hammer.

Heh. Wood. You're gonna go hammer your wood. Heh. Heh. Heh.

Not only will I never laugh at intelligent jokes the way I laugh at crude ones, I will also always make fun of you and call you mean names.  I'm quite a lady, yeah?

I grew up with terms of endearment like "tard monkey" and "uber slimeball".  My brothers, to me, are "gayer than jesus" and "fugly like yo momma".  If I hear someone call me a freak, or retard, or assface, I get a tingly in my heart and love them bunches.  You really can do no wrong in referring to me as an ugly freak of nature.  I'd probably give you a big, fat hug and call you a buttlicker. 

I still have a postcard that my brother sent me years ago.  On it, he calls me an "ugly, spastic, retarded, disfigured mongoloid."   Not politically correct, you say?  What. Ever.  There ain't no such thing...those are all lovely words, in my opinion.

When I've gotten comfortable with someone, I usually start to poke fun.  Some people take this the wrong way - I even had one girl think I didn't like her and said I was mean.  ME!  Mean!   All I did was tell her she was stupid and make fun of her hat. I think I might have even pushed her.  I mean, that's LOVE, right there, folks.

So, for all you people going to BlogHer or who I may meet in the future...I apologize in advance.  If I laugh and call you a moron, it's only because I think you're great.   And if I pinch you on your arm and giggle about it?  I just wanna be your friend.  And if I trip you and step on your face and call you a pig?   Well, then stop touching my boobiess that way because I really don't like when you do that.

Heh. I said boobies.

Dear people who found me via Google,

Some of you people are a little strange. I probably would invite you to a party, but only to see what I could get you to eat for $1 :

• farts - what do they look like?
• video because that's what jesus would freakin' do
• Terri Hatcher makes wee

Some of you are a just a tad misdirected.  I'd have to draw you a detailed map so you could get there :

• Deb's blog - are you looking for this?
• beaver time - I think you meant to find this.
• tornado procedures - god help you if you follow this advice.

Some of you scare me just a little and if I knew you were showing up to my house, I'd call the cops...just in case things went awry.  And I'd have a feeling they WOULD go awry :

• man fart in lady's mouth video
• daughter dating black guy help
• peed my panties
• making vagina taste better

And the rest of you?  You could totally be my BFF and we'd have a big slumber party and talk about pigtails and Britney Spears and stuff :

• Oprah bullshit
• Oprah is a bitch
• my beagle's nipples
• I'm a ho

So, thanks for stopping by.  I hope you found what you were looking for.  And I do hope you come back.  (Except maybe the racist ass up there - I hope your daughter marries that fine black man, you jerk). 

Much love,

Chase

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

Everyone, go take a look at my new renter, the woman with the most recognizalbe header in the blogosphere, Cat.  She's another one I have in my Bloglines.  She's an interesting read - I mean, she has multiple personalities, how couldn't she be??  Plus, um, she's a hottie.  So go check her out.  If you comment (and you should), tell her I sent ya!! Clickypoo.

In honor of flying out to Dallas in several hours, I thought I'd share the memory of my first plane ride.

I was 12.  I was flying from Oklahoma to Denver to stay a couple of weeks with my grandma.  (In other words, I was going away so my parents could get a break from fighting with me to go outside and be a real child for once, fortheloveofgod)

This was still when people dressed up for plane rides, so I got all prettied-up for my trip.  I still remember the outfit - a brand new gray, knee-length skirt, a pink top with a picture of a koala reading a book (how fitting), and black shoes.  And tights...can't forget that freak of fashion nature.

Side note : why is it tights were always about 4 inches below your crotch area so you felt like you have a big turd in your drawers?  And you're supposed to wear these things to church?  Something just ain't right, there. 

I carried my first purse on the plane with me.  It was gray with a bow on it and I had a dangly, yellow, plastic toy slot machine clipped on the outside of it.  Classy, I know.  Don't be jealous.  What I could have possibly had in that purse, I have no idea...maybe lip balm and a note from my BFF telling me 'LYLAS' and 'TTYL' and 'Tracy + Jared = 4EVER!' 

But whatever...I felt grown up.  I was going on an airplane.  By myself.

The first thing I remember in flight is the guy sitting next to me ordering a drink : bourbon and milk.  I cringed when I heard that, even though I didn't know what bourbon even was. He drank them all through the flight, repeatedly asking me to have some with him.  Errrrm, I was 12.  I don't want to know why he kept offering me liquor. 

The flight itself was uneventful, save the scary guy trying to get me drunk.  I mostly stared out the window at the clouds.  When we began the descent, the lady across the aisle from me took full use of her barf bag.  Repeatedly.  I think she filled the thing up to the brim.  I couldn't help but giggle, but I kept it quiet so barfo lady wouldn't see me making fun of her.  I mean, I wasn't rude about it.

When I got off the plane and I met my grandparents at the gate, the first thing I did was tell them an animated story of the lady throwing up next to me and how totally sicko gross she was.  I didn't realize she was walking in front of me until she turned around and gave me a dirty look.  I was scared of her, and I thought she might even try to make me carry her full bag-o-goodies.  To this day, I make sure to look ALL around if I'm going to talk about someone that was on my plane...and I think of scary barfbag woman everytime.

My dear bloggees, I believe in karma.  And now that my barfbag lady story is out there in the universe, I will probably get vomity on tomorrow's flight and have to make use of my own leftovers bag.  And there will be some little snot-faced girl sitting across from me in her new outfit and her first purse and her saggy-crotch tights laughing at me, just waiting to tell the story to her stupid family.

But, ya know what?  That's ok.  

That rude little bitch is gonna get hers one day, too.

YOU HEAR THAT, YOU LITTLE TWIT??  That's right.  Laugh it up while you can. 

Laugh. It. Up. 

And, for the love of god, order me another bourbon.

I feel like a genius when I answer a Jeopardy! question that none of the other contestants know.

Yes, even despite the embarrassing fact that the answer was "Isaac Mizrahi" and I knew it so quickly, I had time to say it out loud 5 times before time ran out. 

One thing I've always known about myself is that I'm a good liar. I try not to do that too often, of course, but when I have in the past, I'm so convincing I even start to believe myself.  Scary enough to seek medical attention? Sure!  Handy when it comes to writing?  Hells yeah!

I realized recently that I inherited that ability from my father.  He used to tell me things when I was little that I believed with all my heart...most of them until I was WAY too old to still believe those things.

For instance, I always thought my first word was "Budweiser."  That is, until I was reliving that fake memory several years ago with my brothers, who, after slapping me on the head and calling me a moron, told me my ACTUAL first word was 'mama'.  Much better fit.  Though, I have to admit, I was always proud of myself that my first word was 3 syllables AND a tasty beverage. 

I have a tiny scar on my forehead.  I remember being about 9 and asking what it was from.  The explanation I got from my father was that when I was a toddler, he was working in the garage and I came up and asked what he was doing, sticking my face all up in his business - where he accidentally struck me in the head with his hammer.  To ask how I reached up that high, why he didn't see me coming, and why I stuck my head in there - face UP - never occurred to me.  But I told everyone (with pride) for years that I had a scar on my head where my father whacked me in the face with a hammer.  I learned when I was quite older that it was, instead, a chicken pox scar. Not as glamorous, but at least makes me look less stupid.

I also have a little mole on the back of my neck.  The first time I felt it, when I was about 10, I asked my father to tell me what it was.  He told me it was cancer and I would probably die from it. I walked around moping for a LONG time, waiting to lose my hair and die from the growth on my neck. 

When my mom was pregnant with me, they thought I was going to be a boy.  Well, because of the story my father told me, I also thought I was supposed to be born mentally retarded.  I believed that for years and told many, many people how I was only supposed to have the mental capacity of a 4-year-old and how I overcame those odds. 

Good god.  Just telling that story makes it sound true, huh?

I wonder how many stories I was told that I still have no idea they were lies?  Was I really found under a rock? Did I really fall out of the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down? Should I really go take a long walk off a short cliff?

I'm thinking all signs point to TRUE on those.

And, don't worry, my little internets, I have never lied to you. I love you all too much.

*snicker*

For real.

*snort*

No....really.

I was just reading over at my renter's place about deciding on a tattoo and how big of a decision it really is.  There are so many people who regret their ink - it sucks.  I thought I'd tell the stories about my tats.

When I was 17, I wanted a tattoo on my forearm.  It was a raver guy with his hat pulled down over his eyes, wearing a Mickey Mouse tshirt - I drew it myself.  Yeah...exactly.  I went to get it and while I was sitting outside of the guy's house (I know!), I chickened out.  Thank. God.

Then, when I was 20, I wanted an angel, kneeling, holding the world and crying.  I was big into 'people are killing the planet' and such, so it was a good thought.  Well, the artist who drew it made it anime-looking, half naked, wearing heels.  It was tacky, but I was like "ok, cool, that works."   The guy wanted to go have lunch before we started and I chickened out while he was off eating. Thank. God.

Around that same time, I started studying Zen Buddhism and became very "aaaaaaaaaaah" in my life.  Practicing mindful meditation changed the way I viewed life and was one of those dramatic shifts in my life.  So a few years later, when I was 25, I decided to get the kanji symbol for "Zen".  I got it on the top of my foot near the ankle. The colors I chose were red, orange and yellow, symbolizing a sunrise - a new beginning - firey change. Here it is:

I started dating Shellie a little over 3 years ago.  We would always talk about how we gave each other butterflies in our stomach, so she started calling me Butterfly.  I wanted to get a butterfly tattoo to always remind me that 100% pure happiness exists, and that I've been there.  So I got this one on my lower back.  It's about 4"x4".  It hurt like a bitch, but I love it.

I want 2 more.  I want one on my other ankle with the kanji for "serenity". It goes along with the meditation and that change in my life.  I want the colors to be green, blue, and purple, symbolizing calming water - balancing out the fire colors and symbolization of the other tat.   The other I want will have something to do with my Malachi...but I'm not sure how I want to go about that yet.

So - tell me about yours if you have 'em.  Show me pictures. Especially if it's in a naughty place. *giggle*

I wanted SO badly to go to Chicago this last weekend with the cool bloggers, but it just wasn't in the cards for me.  I have too much travelling coming up soon.  And I'm already broke.  Egads.

In 4 days : Dallas!  Shellie and I are going down there to hang out, look at the new house stuff, and get a feel for the new town we're moving to. We're only going to spend a couple of days there...but I can't wait!

In 10 days : Vegas!!  A friend is having her birthday party there, so we're off to Sin City for 4 days. Woooohoooo!!  So purty. So much to do. So many lights and bells and stuff and things and junk.  Fun for the whole family getting drunk and dancing!  We're staying at Mandalay Bay.  I'll be blogging from there, I'm sure.  I can't promise sobriety.

In 53 days : San Jose, CA! Ok, yeah, that one isn't as close.  But it's BlogHer!  I get to meet Deb and Karl and Belinda and Queen of Spain and Kristen...and...and SOOOO many people!  I might faint. And not just from all the tequila.

In 149 days : Moving to Texas!  Ok, not really positive on the day count...but it's close.

Anyone else doing some summer travel for fun? 

I wrote a post recently about not having children.  It got the attention of Teri over at Purple Women™, a website with the childfree in mind, and she asked me to be a contributing writer to their blog.  I, of course, said yes.

My first post is up there today, if you'd like to visit me over there and say hi.

To all my parent readers - Purple Women™ is NOT an anti-child site.  I'm not anti-child or anti-parent.  The site is meant as a gathering for people who don't have/want children, to talk about the choice to remain childfree, the pressures of making this choice, and how to change society's view of people who don't want kids.  It's much like the community Mommybloggers and Dotmoms is - just without all the kids. :)  It's a child- and family-friendly site. Otherwise, I wouldn't want to be a part of it.

And, yes, I remain my goofball self over there, too.  So come say hi.  We promise we won't eat your children.  (Unless they taste like cheesecake...then I might have to break that promise - sorry.)

Let me introduce you to my newest blogger of the week : Mar.

Apparently, we have lots in common.  She likes appletinis, thinks spending $90,000 on a wedding is completely INSANE (look at the Trump-owned place her niece got recently!!), is addicted to coffee, and is dating a beautiful woman.

She works for a skincare company, so don't tell her I don't wash my face everynight before bed.  I guess that's where my wrinkles come in, huh?  Arrrgh.  Go see First, The Bad News and tell Mar I sent you. 

Seriously, sometimes people just need to tell me to stop talking.  On the phone with Cox Cable :

Tech : Cox Cable, how can I help you?

Me : Hi!  Ok, so I had cable internet and a digital phone.  They both ran through the same modem.  Well, a few weeks ago - probably 2 or 3 - I decided I didn't need the digital phone anymore because I only had it hooked up to my fax machine for one specific reason and I don't have that reason anymore...so I called and cancelled the phone.  Well, today, I saw a Cox Cable truck come by the house and then my internet went out.  So I assumed, since it was the first of the month, they're just now shutting off the phone.  I also forgot that I needed to switch the modem to the old modem that didn't have the phone into it, just the cable internet, so after the Cox truck left, I switched my modem over and now it's still not working. I still have the CD and it said it was installed, and all the lights are on, but it's just not connecting.  I was wondering if you could tell me if this is a me problem or a you problem or my internet is just out and what I need to do from here.

Tech : Umm.....what?

Me : Hmm.  Ok.  So...I had cable internet and.....

Tech : Wait. So you're saying you changed your modem out?

Me : Yes.

Tech : Ok. That's really all the information I needed.  I'll get that information changed for you.

Heh. Well color me chatty.  That SO could have gone more smoothly if she would have just told me to shut the hell up.

It was rainy and quiet today.  I was goofing around on the internet, taking a break from washing dishes, and in between loads of laundry.  The tv was on, but I wasn't paying attention - I was just tired of the quiet.

I was home alone, the dogs were outside, it was my personal time.  So I decided I'd just...ya know...do it.  I mean, no one would see me.  And women do it all the time, right?

I drew the blinds.  I locked the door.  I leaned back in my chair.

I groaned a little.  I giggled a little.  I couldn't believe I was doing it - in the middle of the day, no less.  It's usually something I do only at night, so it was a little awkward for me.  I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and was a little ashamed.  But I didn't stop. I have to admit - I actually liked it. 

After about 45 minutes, it was over.  I sighed.  Who knew that would have been so enjoyable?  I still feel guilty about it, though, so I'm confessing.  Maybe if I have your understanding - and your forgiveness - I can live with myself for doing it.

Bloggies, internets, loyal readers, stalkers...I ask you...will you forgive me for watching a whole episode of Dr. Phil today?

I'm sorry.  I'm really, truly sorry.  I promise won't do it again.

It's that time again - guest blogger!  This is Tammie from Soul Gardening - a wonderful writer and one of my favorite daily reads.  I'm hanging out at her place today, so go check it out.  For more posts like this one, also check out Binkytown and Motherhood Uncensored!

Taxonomy

by Tammie @ Soul Gardening

Human beings have an innate need to classify and name things. We’ve been doing it since the beginning of time. It is how we order our world and make sense of all of the information that surrounds us. Unfortunately, more often than not, we take the naming of things too far.

It starts out with the scientific. Take me for instance. I am a homo sapien. I am a female, Caucasian.

Then it becomes more rooted in sociology. I am married, with no children. From here we get more descriptive. I have red hair and hazel eyes. I am 5’4” and weigh 120 pounds. I like live music and scuba diving. And then the real fun begins.

In my lifetime I have been called many more descriptive names that have not been so innocuous, sometimes even by people I love. I have said the same or worse about other people often boldly, right to their face, other times only behind their back where the ugliness hurts me more than anyone else.

I have called myself many names as well, thanks to the little voice in my head that’s always so happy to tell me negative things when I need to hear them the least.

So I’ve started something recently. I want to combat some of the negativity that each of us encounters every day from others and from ourselves.

I’ve been making a point to tell the people in my life who I love and admire why they are special to me and what inspires me about them. Hopefully, I can make someone feel a little better from time to time. I’m also finding it really makes me feel great to focus on the positive.

It’s sad that people are so often surprised to hear nice things about themselves. Sometimes they wonder about my motives for saying such things. Those negative voices inside all of us must be working overtime these days.

As for my own little voice, I’ve been trying to tune her out, but it’s not easy.

She’s a real bitch.