Bin Laden is dead! I'm still not voting for Obama next year.

So we *finally* found and killed Osama Bin Laden. Am I the only person in the free world who thinks it is awfully coincidental that the United States is always the country to find (and snuff out) the bad guys? Like, the REALLY bad guys? Hmmm. But I'll buy it if they're selling it. One less bad guy works for me...I just wish they wouldn't wuss out about the proof. Come on, Obama Administration, show us the pictures! After the first Trade Center bombing and then the 9/11 tragedy, I think the moment of "decency" has passed. I don't necessarily think Dead Bin Laden pics will create any more animosity or violence against us ~ he's dead. End of story. Our enemies are pissed either way, so what harm is there in showing them to the world? Here's an idea: You want to kick start this economy? Show us proof that for once, our tax dollars actually accomplished something. That's enough to get me to buy a hybrid. A Chevy. And insure it with AIG. (I will now put my soapbox away)

In other news, my boyfriend has been leaving shit all over the house. This is a recent development; normally he picks up after himself. Lately, though, I've been finding empty soda cans, empty glasses and disgarded candy wrappers all over: in the bedroom, the livingroom, the office... and it's been pissing me off, to be honest. Since I'm not really one to nag and I've perfected the art of passive aggression, I figured I'd get my point across in other ways - by "setting him up." Last week I left a potato peeler on his nightstand. The other day I left an ice cube tray in the front seat of his truck. Then yesterday I left 3 tampons and a C-clamp on his desk. FINALLY he said something. He called me at work, freaked out enough to give me that warm, fuzzy feeling of satisfaction. He had a clue, but wasn't entirely sure as to what was going on. When I explained to him why I was leaving randomness around his areas (and why I needed him to start cleaning up after himself, because last I checked, I wasn't Mexican), he apologized and agreed to be more aware. Then he admitted that he was nervous that perhaps my 'hints' meant more than "don't be a slob," but instead meant, "Meet me tonight at 10pm, and bring Vaseline and a LOT of bandaids. A LOT."

"The flowers were supposed to say, 'We're sorry for your loss, we love you,' not, 'You're dead let's disco!' " (Sorry, that was a random TV moment that popped into my head.)

And finally, I thought you should all know that my company is holding a writing contest. In 25 words or less, we need to explain how our company 'pays us back,' so to speak. I am thinking about entering it, but let's face it, being short and to the point isn't exactly my writing style. The cool thing about the contest is that the winner(s) gets to accompany the CEO of the company to NASDAQ, where he (the CEO) will ring the bell. THAT got me thinking...if I could win this contest and position myself at the NASDAQ podium, I could throw some well-placed (and well-timed) elbows and ring that bell myself. Yeah, I would probably lose my job over that, but it would make one hell of Check Off on my Bucket List. And don't people always tell us it's not the things we do in life that we regret, it's the things we DON'T do?

So that being said, I am totally voting for Donald Trump if he runs for President. I like his style and the fact he thinks we're entitled to "own" Iraq. HA!

Raising a kid is part joy and part guerilla warfare - Ed Asner

Well, it happened. My sister came to town with the kids. They stayed with my folks (who live two hours away from me). I got to town Friday evening after work. The first thing I saw were all kinds of chalk drawings in the driveway. Not hopscotch boards and smiling suns (which is what you normally see), but body outlines and notes to aliens. I see a little bit of counseling in my nephew's future.

I walked into the house I grew up in, and it was eerily quiet. "Hello?" I called out. SILENCE. Hmmm. As I walked into the livingroom, I was stunned. My mom is a tidy woman, but her house was wrecked. It looked like it was ransacked by a gang of 4 year olds. There were toys everywhere. I noticed pieces of cut up banana on the couch, some on the coffee table...there was a teeny sock abandoned in the middle of the kitchen floor. I saw the TV remote on top of the baker's rack and a half eaten granola bar shoved into the flower centerpiece on the coffee table. If I didn't know better, I would have thought a group of children came in, trashed the house, kidnapped my parents and dragged them to Chuck E. Cheese.

Right about then I heard a car pull up outside and what sounded like 15 car doors close. The front door opened and it was a whirlwind of my parents, my sister, two pizzas, and at least 27 kids. Or just my two nephews. But it all happened so fast, with the screams and the hugs and the kisses, I wasn't really sure what was going on. I remember taking my watch off and throwing it at someone, thinking I was being mugged. Turns out, it was just my 6 year old nephew, giving me some rib tickles.

Things eventually calmed down and I have to say, Easter was a success this year. My dad, in his ultimate craziness, made two types of meat. Thankfully, neither meat-type was rabbit, and if you knew how redneck my dad could be, you would realize what a blessing that was. By 9am Easter morning, both kids had gone through their wall-climbing sugar highs and had crashed. Bits of tin foil wrappings were all over the floor like confetti. At 2pm, everyone started showing up for the early dinner. My stepbrother stunk like grease and a gym locker (stuffed with a dead hooker). I don't know how I picked the short straw, but I got stuck sitting next to him at the table. It really sucked, especially the part when he ripped a SBD (silent but deadly). I'm not sure I can describe how raunchy that fart was, but I'll try. If you could imagine a homeless man's fart, the kind of homeless man who only eats 3-day old hamburgers and poop, that pretty much sums it up. Thankfully, we had finished the meal by that time but it was still enough to make me want to punch him in the throat. I think a little bit of stank got in my mouth. I left the table.

But now it's all over and my sister is back in Arizona with her crazy little kids. I have to admit, I miss the little buggers. And it got me thinking about having children myself. I don't know, maybe I'll buy a kid and see how it works out. If it clashes with my lifestyle, I'll take it out into the country and set it free. In the meantime, though, I am keeping a close watch on myself and making sure I'm not "collecting" two or more of anything.

Old age isn't so bad when you consider the alternative.

Today I turn 33 years old. Pretty uneventful, I know. I'm at that awkward age where I'm old enough to have some hefty baggage, but not quite old enough to stop giving a shit. Aside from my earth-shaking birth 33 years ago, let me share what else happened on this glorious day...

2010 - BP Oil spill eruption in the Gulf of Mexico
1999 - Columbine Shooting
2002 - My grandmother died. ** To this day, I'm convinced it was out of spite because I used to kick her ass in cards when I was a kid.
1889 - Adolf Hitler was born. You have to admit though, the man had ambition.

Not every year had a tragedy. In 2003, my birthday fell on the same day as Easter Sunday. That was a fun dinner. In the middle of carving the ham, my uncle said, "HEY! It's your birthday today!" At least he remembered...eventually. I guess some dude rising from the dead trumps me being born in the first place. Whatever, Jesus was always a show off. Look where that got him.

But in all seriousness, birthdays are overall a good time. I love seeing what people get me. This year, my boyfriend got me new running sneakers and a two year gym membership. I'll let that one sink in. Now, if he surprises me with a bottle of diet pills, I might have to kill him in his sleep. As luck would have it, though, HIS birthday happens to be tomorrow...and he's getting a sleeping bag and the cold shoulder from ME. On the flip side, my parents hooked me up with a mongo gift card for my all-time FAVORITE steak house. The need to feed strikes again. It was a nice balance to the "get fit" gifts. But it also reminded me of the time my mom picked up my birthday cake. It read, "Happy Birthday Jill!! " on it. It was really sweet, but my name isn't Jill. That's my sister...who is 3 years older and lives 2500 miles away. Clearly, I am the favorite child. Ahhh, a mother's love...it's palpable.

Speaking of my sister, she's coming to town with her kids tomorrow (keep an eye open for THAT blog). My only (anticipated) gripe is that I've been delegated to bunk with my 6 year old nephew, and my dog. The last time we had this sleeping arrangement, I was woken up at 1am, then 2:30am, then 4am, by my nephew and the dog. They were playing together, bouncing around the bed, having a GRAND old time. That's when I discovered how hard it is to yell in a whisper. You just can't get that to translate to a bouncy 3 year old. Or a terrier.

In any case, I'm going back to my "birthday celebrations." Basically, my intentions are to eat a big, greasy burger for dinner, drink way too much Bud Light, and watch Clint Eastwood movies. Seriously. Even I can't make this up, and I've bullshitted you people in several blogs thus far.

So, I'm taking this 33 year old ass and my 33 year old eggs and I'm going to get this party started. Thanks for all the birthday wishes, and for those of you who forgot - Thanks for nothing. (ooo, burn)

Attention: I am NOT pregnant. I'm just Pro-Choice.

It's been a hell of a past few weeks, let me tell you.

I visited my folks over the weekend. What a circus that turned out to be. My dad is partially senile and my mom is partially deaf. Put them at the same dinner table and it's like trying to teach a blind kid how to drive...a stick shift...in the snow...up hill. I'll spare you the details (they are hard to follow anyway), but all I know is, I was exhausted by the end of dinner. My sister is coming in for Easter with her kids. I gave her fair warning about the parental chaos and all she did was laugh at me. You know what I say to that? Go ahead and laugh, "J". I'm not going to translate a damn thing for you when you're in town. You think your 2-year old's babbling is hard to understand? Good luck with mom and dad.

Speaking of misunderstandings, I made the mistake of telling my mother this very true, very unfortunate story about myself: Up until about 5 years ago, when I would hear someone use the term, "F bomb," I thought the F meant "fart," as in, "Fart Bomb." That said, I was having conversations like this:

Other person: "Oh man, you should have been in that meeting! It got crazy! Joe dropped an F bomb and everything!"

Me: "Get outta here, that's hysterical! You know, I was at Wal-Mart the other day and I dropped a super loud F bomb in the check out line!"

You can imagine my mortification (is that a word? It is now) to find out that for ten years of my adult, professional life, I was dropping a totally different F bomb than my colleagues...and bragging about it. I consider myself to be a fairly smart individual (or at least 'relatively'). Why it never occurred to me that maybe, just maybe, all these public F bombs I was being told about weren't really FART bombs, that people generally don't brag about their flatulence, never crossed my mind. I'm glad I finally figured it out. I may be a slow learner, but I'm a learner none-the-less.

It seems as though misunderstanding runs in my family. My 6 yr old nephew freaked a little last week when he thought you *had* to get married when you got older. This clearly put a damper on his views of adulthood up to this point, since a few months ago he found out he could curse all-he-wanted when he turned 35. In any case, he went so far as to ask my sister if "Aunt C" (that's me) was married. Much to his relief, he found out I wasn't. As a result, he is officially my new, favorite person in the whole world: The only person to think it's cool that I'm 33 and NOT married, never been and it's a toss up if I ever will. But to finish his story, when my sister asked him why he did not want to get married, he replied, "Because I don't know all the girls in the world!" Sounds to me like we've got a mini-Wilt Chamberlain in the making. I can't wait to see how his story develops. I can only hope it doesn't end with antibiotics and child support.

Quidnunc

Happiness is a state of mind. Stupidity is a whole other animal.

I was at the mall the other day and overheard a mother (trashy) calling for her child. It went something like this: "Cameron, get over here! Come HERE! COME HINDER!"

It made me laugh, but it also made me sad. Not only is that woman a moron, but she has at least one child (whom she has legal custody of) who is learning how to be a moron, too. And I have to admit, now that it's tax season, I'm somewhat pissed off that my hard-earned money is going to pay for HER to watch Jerry Springer tomorrow.

But it could always be worse. I mean, I can't stand it when I am dealing with a moron who acts like I'M the idiot. Trust me, I don't need outside help to be stupid; I do that very well on my own...like the time I went to lunch with my parents and ordered Pasta Fagioli -- but pronounced it "Pasta Fa-joe-lee." Or the time I shoved my finger up the family dog's ass; not my smartest move, but it definitely gave new meaning to the phrase, "Man's best friend." In hindsight, it's hard to believe I had my finger up an ass before my first kiss. But I digress...

I would like to think many of you read (and hopefully enjoy) this blog because you can relate. So here is my offer to YOU: I am looking for guest bloggers, people to write about anything they want. I would like to know what YOU are thinking for a change. In fact, I've given a little headstart to the cause with the letter I posted. Men, women, children, centaurs...Drop me a comment. If I get even one interested party, I will post my email and we'll get this party started.

Quidnunc: Look it up.

P.S. It's harder than it looks.

Shallow thoughts, by Me.

To continue from the nipple blog, here's the thing: Don't Google a medical symptom unless you are prepared to die from your mystery condition. Even if you don't have the same exact symptoms, you will once you read about them. I mean, one of the catch-all symptoms is oozing. Let me tell you something about that: If you squeeze ANYTHING hard enough, you will get fluid to ooze out of it. Anything. Try it. ANY-THING.

Now back to other randomness...

I work with a woman who has a dictionary at her desk. An old school, hardback dictionary. Personally, I think it makes her look like an even bigger idiot. In a world of spellcheck and Internet, is a dictionary even necessary? If I could open a non twist-off beer with my teeth, would I carry a bottle opener on my keyring? (note to everyone: I do not have a bottle opener on my keyring) Women with boob jobs don't need bras. Even moderately intelligent people living in the 21st century do not need hard copy dictionaries at their desks at work. It's all the same, people. The only thing that dictionary is good for at this point in time is kindling. Better start with the F's!

And...

I read an article that said a cluttered desk, or a desk that was "perceived" as being unorganized, could lead to your inability to obtain that raise or promotion you've been wanting. Needless to say, I spent this morning cleaning up my desk - I put away random little toys, I consolidated all my sticky notes into a nicely typed Word document...I tightened my shit up. I expect to get that raise/promotion any day now. And if I don't? I'm setting up one of those huge, blow up yard decorations in my cubicle. Maybe the Grinch Who Stole Christmas, maybe something holiday-neutral...? I don't know yet.

Lastly, here's the real reason for this blog: I ran into an exboyfriend over the weekend. I was in my hometown, shopping at the "new" Wal-Mart. There I was, in the dogfood aisle, when I heard, "[WC]?? Is that you?" I looked up, and there he was: M.R. Ugh. We dated about 12 years ago.

(sigh) We dated, we broke up, he joined the Air Force, I moved away, he was discharged and then went on to make babies with several girls all over town. I said Hi and realized he was checking out my cart...which was topped with the biggest pack of toilet paper I could find. Great. Not that I cared, but the last thing I needed was for this guy to think I've grown into a woman with a poop problem. Why else would I need 24 rolls of extra thick, double-ply? Indian name: Ass on Fire. Aisle 5.

So, we went through the "How are you's" and all that, and when I asked what he was up to, he blurted, "I'm-engaged-we're-getting-married-in-October." Then he asked about me ~ was I married, engaged, anything...? And I responded, "Well, I was engaged for about a half-hour..." and he cut me off to say, "I'm not surprised, that seems to be your style." Excuse me? What a jerkoff. AND he was still looking in my cart! So I said, "Yeah, well, you know...(awkward laugh) Don't worry, there's no cat food in there." I was so pissed. I was thrown off my game, and this bonehead was taking cheap shots. It was over a decade ago! Get over it! I had been rendered speechless due to the awkwardness! Life was SO unfair. I was, am, a shitty girlfriend...how could he still hold a grudge? I did the guy a favor!

Well, we stood and 'caught up' for almost an hour. Translation: He talked about himself and made as many digs at me as possible. And the entire time, all I could think was, "I'm so glad I showered before I left the house this morning." It also helped that in between his digs, he spilled that he was a loser mall security guard and he's marrying a chick who has a 13 year old son. His mother still hates his guts and his dad ended up being gay. Okay, so I made up the gay part, but still - there was a 64 oz bottle of ketchup next to the toilet paper. I could only IMAGINE what kind of impression that was making!

We finally went our separate ways, opposite directions, of course. He went towards Automotive, I opted for the cereal aisle. I was so twitchy after that unexpected run-in, I bought cereal I didn't even know they MADE anymore: Grape Nuts? Raisin Bran? Honey Nut Clusters?!?!? Sure, they'll go GREAT with my toilet paper and ketchup. I was happy to get out of there, which for me, is a wasted trip to Wal-Mart. I could linger around there for HOURS.

And so, if you take nothing from this story but one thing, at least take this with you: When shopping, grab the toilet paper first. Put it on the bottom. No one in this world needs to know what you're wiping your ass with. Especially bitter exboyfriends. They are out there, and they will find you.

You are only as strong as your weakest nipple.

Last week, I developed a rash on my nipple. Just the one...one rogue nipple. I know, it's an awkward topic, not one I would normally throw out into the public arena casually. Which is why I called my sister about it - I was sure she'd offer up some sage areola advice. Here's the conversation we had:

Me: Hey, I have a rash on my nipple. It's CRAZY itchy, too.
Sister: Why are you telling me this?
Me: Because I want to know if this has ever happened to you. Ya know, maybe this is genetic or something.
Sister: (silence)
Me: Uh, yeah, I put some aloe on it. Do you think that will help?
Sister: (silence...but I could hear her breathing...) So yeah, I was assigned to a new project at work, but I'm not sure I want to deal with the chick I've been partnered with...
Me: (scratch scratch scratch) Uh, okay, what's the problem with her...?

Note to Sister - See that fancy magnet? Don't think you'll be getting one of those from me anytime soon.

Needless to say, the rash cleared up. I attribute that to the aloe and amazing self control. But let me tell you, it was a stressful few days. After the go-nowhere conversation with my sister, I tried Googling "Nipple Rashes." I thought for sure I would be enlightened with some medical goodness. What a mistake that was. All I can say is, I really hope my Norton Anti-Virus was working, because I saw pictures and websites that only my exboyfriend would masturbate to.

What a crazy week.

Aside from the nipple incident, I was at work the other day and opened a bottle of soda. Let me give you some backstory here: I work with a woman who is a crazed Bless You Nazi. Someone can sneeze from 15 aisles away and if she hears it, she will scream "BLESS YOU!" in their direction. She is an insane pain in the ass with it. Now back to the story...

So, I open a bottle of soda. You know how it makes that "PSSSSHHHH" sound, right? Well, it does that, and the only two people in the department are me and Crazy. As I took my first sip I hear (from over the cubicle wall), "BLESS YOU!!!"

It was definitely a WTF moment. But, never one to resist pointing out another person's shortcomings, I yelled back, "Hey [Crazy], I didn't sneeze, I opened a bottle of Coke. But, you turned my soda into wine, so for that, I thank you." What makes this joke even funnier is the fact that she's half Jewish.

Now onto that Van Gough-quality picture. That is the glorious artwork of my oldest nephew. What I like most about his art is how absolute he is. "ONLY call if..." Yea, you tell 'em! Screw you if you want to call to say Hi. Go to hell if you want to check in to see if we have plans for Sunday. If you're not calling about Chip, the green mouse dog (thank you T.D for that description), we want NOTHING to do with you. Now that's my kind of kid.

And finally, to wrap this show up, I have been hearing recently that some people want to leave comments on my blogs, but are hesitent to do so because no one else is leaving comments. PLEASE! If you have something to say, don't be shy! Write it down! I love comments! And hell, if you leave a cool enough one, it might even give me a blog idea. Give it a shot...in fact, I'll go first...