Even in your darkest moments you'll think of something that will crack you up.

I realized how true this was when I called my mom last weekend, furious because I found cigarette burn marks on the linoleum floor in my upstairs bathroom (my husband smokes; I do not). Her response? “How can you be sure it was him? I think you should have a talk with the dog, not only because she has picked up smoking but because now she’s being careless.”

I had to laugh. In the most technical sense, my mom was right. While I was certain it was him, I really couldn’t prove it. Needless to say, my mother saved his life that day. It would have been an awkward situation if she didn’t.

“My daughter is only 33 and already a widow.”
“That’s too bad, please tell her I’m sorry.”
“Oh, no, she’s fine, she’s a widow by choice.”

Speaking of choices (I’m brushing up on my topic-transitioning skills), I was watching Lock-Up the other night. For those of you unfamiliar, it is a documentary-type show filmed inside prisons all across the country. They interview the convicts and guards. It’s a lot like Survivor, but shot in jail and no one wins in the end. This particular night it was a Lock-Up marathon. I was in my glory. I judged the shit out of those prisoners…yeah, even the non-violent drug dealers who had to share cells with serial killers. No sympathy coming from THIS couch. Deal with it, you big babies, you got some 13 year old hooked on crack. Yeah, I hope you get killed in your sleep. Call it a life lesson, courtesy of Greg “The Strangler” Johnson.

Anyway…out of everything I learned from watching fifteen Lock-Ups in a row (among other things: don’t be a snitch, find a gang to join and you can make a shank out of a bed spring and medical tape), those guys are RIPPED. But not in a body builder kind of way; more like a gymnast-slave kind of way. The kind of muscle tone and strength you only get by doing pull-ups with your fingertips on a windowsill and a million squats a day in your cell, because you’re stuck in it for 23 out of 24 hours. It’s terrifying, when you think about it. A few of those guys will be released some day and when they are, they will have the strength of 25 retards and the weapon-making skills of MacGyver. Whoever thought prison was a good idea is…well, is probably dead by now. But you know what I mean.

What I don’t understand is women’s prison. On one side, you’ve got the guys and they’re all jacked with their muscles and whatnot, and then you have the women – fat and beastly. How does THAT happen? Especially when the repetitive gripe of inmates everywhere is how awful the food is. Then what the hell are those women eating? (please…this is a child-friendly blog, keep your head out of the gutter) Don’t tell me the food is horrendous and not fit for humans, but have the end shot be some cow’s size 48 ass waddling down the dimly lit corroder, back to her cell. I ain’t buying it. And while we’re at it: She needs a hair cut and a dye job. Even the men stay "pretty" in prison and they have more reason NOT to look good than a woman (can anyone tell me who dropped the soap?)

Overall, I'd have to say prison looks like it sucks. The only upside is that you don't have to worry about what to wear every day. I'd be down with that. But generally, I think I'll avoid it if I can. If I need to 'take care of business' that badly, I think a freak accident will do the trick (less paperwork that way).

So on that note, I'm done for the year. Thanks for helping me wrap up my second full year of blogging, I definitely had more fun writing this than you had reading it. But I do appreciate your eyes.

Anyhooties, have a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year! (I just assume no Jewish people read this blog…it’s not kosher). I'll catch ya on the flip side.

Stay Hungry. Stay Foolish. (RIP, Steve Jobs)

In memory of Steve Jobs, here's the commencement address he gave at Stanford University in 2005. I thought it made for a pretty solid blog; definitely better than I could write:

I am honored to be with you today at your commencement from one of the finest universities in the world. I never graduated from college. Truth be told, this is the closest I've ever gotten to a college graduation. Today I want to tell you three stories from my life. That's it. No big deal. Just three stories.

The first story is about connecting the dots.

I dropped out of Reed College after the first 6 months, but then stayed around as a drop-in for another 18 months or so before I really quit. So why did I drop out?

It started before I was born. My biological mother was a young, unwed college graduate student, and she decided to put me up for adoption. She felt very strongly that I should be adopted by college graduates, so everything was all set for me to be adopted at birth by a lawyer and his wife. Except that when I popped out they decided at the last minute that they really wanted a girl. So my parents, who were on a waiting list, got a call in the middle of the night asking: "We have an unexpected baby boy; do you want him?" They said: "Of course." My biological mother later found out that my mother had never graduated from college and that my father had never graduated from high school. She refused to sign the final adoption papers. She only relented a few months later when my parents promised that I would someday go to college.

And 17 years later I did go to college. But I naively chose a college that was almost as expensive as Stanford, and all of my working-class parents' savings were being spent on my college tuition. After six months, I couldn't see the value in it. I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life and no idea how college was going to help me figure it out. And here I was spending all of the money my parents had saved their entire life. So I decided to drop out and trust that it would all work out OK. It was pretty scary at the time, but looking back it was one of the best decisions I ever made. The minute I dropped out I could stop taking the required classes that didn't interest me, and begin dropping in on the ones that looked interesting.

It wasn't all romantic. I didn't have a dorm room, so I slept on the floor in friends' rooms, I returned coke bottles for the 5¢ deposits to buy food with, and I would walk the 7 miles across town every Sunday night to get one good meal a week at the Hare Krishna temple. I loved it. And much of what I stumbled into by following my curiosity and intuition turned out to be priceless later on. Let me give you one example:

Reed College at that time offered perhaps the best calligraphy instruction in the country. Throughout the campus every poster, every label on every drawer, was beautifully hand calligraphed. Because I had dropped out and didn't have to take the normal classes, I decided to take a calligraphy class to learn how to do this. I learned about serif and san serif typefaces, about varying the amount of space between different letter combinations, about what makes great typography great. It was beautiful, historical, artistically subtle in a way that science can't capture, and I found it fascinating.

None of this had even a hope of any practical application in my life. But ten years later, when we were designing the first Macintosh computer, it all came back to me. And we designed it all into the Mac. It was the first computer with beautiful typography. If I had never dropped in on that single course in college, the Mac would have never had multiple typefaces or proportionally spaced fonts. And since Windows just copied the Mac, it's likely that no personal computer would have them. If I had never dropped out, I would have never dropped in on this calligraphy class, and personal computers might not have the wonderful typography that they do. Of course it was impossible to connect the dots looking forward when I was in college. But it was very, very clear looking backwards ten years later.

Again, you can't connect the dots looking forward; you can only connect them looking backwards. So you have to trust that the dots will somehow connect in your future. You have to trust in something — your gut, destiny, life, karma, whatever. This approach has never let me down, and it has made all the difference in my life.

My second story is about love and loss.

I was lucky — I found what I loved to do early in life. Woz and I started Apple in my parents garage when I was 20. We worked hard, and in 10 years Apple had grown from just the two of us in a garage into a $2 billion company with over 4000 employees. We had just released our finest creation — the Macintosh — a year earlier, and I had just turned 30. And then I got fired. How can you get fired from a company you started? Well, as Apple grew we hired someone who I thought was very talented to run the company with me, and for the first year or so things went well. But then our visions of the future began to diverge and eventually we had a falling out. When we did, our Board of Directors sided with him. So at 30 I was out. And very publicly out. What had been the focus of my entire adult life was gone, and it was devastating.

I really didn't know what to do for a few months. I felt that I had let the previous generation of entrepreneurs down - that I had dropped the baton as it was being passed to me. I met with David Packard and Bob Noyce and tried to apologize for screwing up so badly. I was a very public failure, and I even thought about running away from the valley. But something slowly began to dawn on me — I still loved what I did. The turn of events at Apple had not changed that one bit. I had been rejected, but I was still in love. And so I decided to start over.

I didn't see it then, but it turned out that getting fired from Apple was the best thing that could have ever happened to me. The heaviness of being successful was replaced by the lightness of being a beginner again, less sure about everything. It freed me to enter one of the most creative periods of my life.

During the next five years, I started a company named NeXT, another company named Pixar, and fell in love with an amazing woman who would become my wife. Pixar went on to create the worlds first computer animated feature film, Toy Story, and is now the most successful animation studio in the world. In a remarkable turn of events, Apple bought NeXT, I returned to Apple, and the technology we developed at NeXT is at the heart of Apple's current renaissance. And Laurene and I have a wonderful family together.

I'm pretty sure none of this would have happened if I hadn't been fired from Apple. It was awful tasting medicine, but I guess the patient needed it. Sometimes life hits you in the head with a brick. Don't lose faith. I'm convinced that the only thing that kept me going was that I loved what I did. You've got to find what you love. And that is as true for your work as it is for your lovers. Your work is going to fill a large part of your life, and the only way to be truly satisfied is to do what you believe is great work. And the only way to do great work is to love what you do. If you haven't found it yet, keep looking. Don't settle. As with all matters of the heart, you'll know when you find it. And, like any great relationship, it just gets better and better as the years roll on. So keep looking until you find it. Don't settle.

My third story is about death.

When I was 17, I read a quote that went something like: "If you live each day as if it was your last, someday you'll most certainly be right." It made an impression on me, and since then, for the past 33 years, I have looked in the mirror every morning and asked myself: "If today were the last day of my life, would I want to do what I am about to do today?" And whenever the answer has been "No" for too many days in a row, I know I need to change something.

Remembering that I'll be dead soon is the most important tool I've ever encountered to help me make the big choices in life. Because almost everything — all external expectations, all pride, all fear of embarrassment or failure - these things just fall away in the face of death, leaving only what is truly important. Remembering that you are going to die is the best way I know to avoid the trap of thinking you have something to lose. You are already naked. There is no reason not to follow your heart.

About a year ago I was diagnosed with cancer. I had a scan at 7:30 in the morning, and it clearly showed a tumor on my pancreas. I didn't even know what a pancreas was. The doctors told me this was almost certainly a type of cancer that is incurable, and that I should expect to live no longer than three to six months. My doctor advised me to go home and get my affairs in order, which is doctor's code for prepare to die. It means to try to tell your kids everything you thought you'd have the next 10 years to tell them in just a few months. It means to make sure everything is buttoned up so that it will be as easy as possible for your family. It means to say your goodbyes.

I lived with that diagnosis all day. Later that evening I had a biopsy, where they stuck an endoscope down my throat, through my stomach and into my intestines, put a needle into my pancreas and got a few cells from the tumor. I was sedated, but my wife, who was there, told me that when they viewed the cells under a microscope the doctors started crying because it turned out to be a very rare form of pancreatic cancer that is curable with surgery. I had the surgery and I'm fine now.

This was the closest I've been to facing death, and I hope it's the closest I get for a few more decades. Having lived through it, I can now say this to you with a bit more certainty than when death was a useful but purely intellectual concept:

No one wants to die. Even people who want to go to heaven don't want to die to get there. And yet death is the destination we all share. No one has ever escaped it. And that is as it should be, because Death is very likely the single best invention of Life. It is Life's change agent. It clears out the old to make way for the new. Right now the new is you, but someday not too long from now, you will gradually become the old and be cleared away. Sorry to be so dramatic, but it is quite true.

Your time is limited, so don't waste it living someone else's life. Don't be trapped by dogma — which is living with the results of other people's thinking. Don't let the noise of others' opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary.

When I was young, there was an amazing publication called The Whole Earth Catalog, which was one of the bibles of my generation. It was created by a fellow named Stewart Brand not far from here in Menlo Park, and he brought it to life with his poetic touch. This was in the late 1960's, before personal computers and desktop publishing, so it was all made with typewriters, scissors, and polaroid cameras. It was sort of like Google in paperback form, 35 years before Google came along: it was idealistic, and overflowing with neat tools and great notions.

Stewart and his team put out several issues of The Whole Earth Catalog, and then when it had run its course, they put out a final issue. It was the mid-1970s, and I was your age. On the back cover of their final issue was a photograph of an early morning country road, the kind you might find yourself hitchhiking on if you were so adventurous. Beneath it were the words: "Stay Hungry. Stay Foolish." It was their farewell message as they signed off. Stay Hungry. Stay Foolish. And I have always wished that for myself. And now, as you graduate to begin anew, I wish that for you.

Stay Hungry. Stay Foolish.

Thank you all very much.

I want my own talk show.

And if I had one, I'd give out some really awesome tidbits on life. In fact, my talk show would be called, "My Facts of Life." No, wait. "My Rules of Life." Yeah, that's what I would call it. So let me give you some sneak previews of my talk show.


My Rules of Life:

1. If you commit suicide, leave a letter. Or a note. Leave something. Let's face it, if you're going to be a selfish dick and kill yourself, the least you can do is leave some final words for the poor bastards who will miss your sorry ass.

2. If you are a stay-at-home mom, you have voluntarily given up your right to bitch. I'm serious. If you have chosen to clean, do laundry and chase ugly kids around all day, no one wants to hear you bitch about doing laundry, cleaning and chasing ugly kids around all day. I have a job. I have unexpected bullshit that pops up during the day, and I reserve the right to gripe about those things. I don't give a shit that now you miss watching The View ever since its time slot changed to 11am and Johnny Jr still naps at 9am. That's not a real problem. Lose the kids and get a job. And if you're some low life who had kids just to get on welfare?? Double Shut Up.

3. I saw a book in the bookstore the other day entitled, "Beating Dyslexia." Seriously? Because assuming you have dyslexia and can get past the title....I don't buy it. Literally OR figuratively. Unless you get a friend to read it to you, but that's unrealistic because people with dyslexia don't have friends. I know this for a fact. Ask Russell Crow. I think he's dyslexic and after that phone throwing incident, I'm pretty sure he doesn't have friends.

4. PETA can kiss my ass with their, "Oh, you're so mean when you kill cows!" "Ew, it's so cruel the way you keep chickens in cages and then slaughter them!" comments. Get over yourselves. Have you ever watched National Geographic? Have you ever witnessed a pack of wild dogs take down a gazelle? They rip its guts out. Most times, they start eating it while it's still alive. My point, Vegans, is this: Humans are just like Nature; Simply put, we're just more organized.

So there's your preview. My talk show is going to be A-W-E-S-O-M-E. I can't dance, I won't give away free shit and there won't be a cool Mexican midget sidekick. I refuse to endorse books or Politicians, and quite frankly, I'll probably be unshowered and drunk when we tape. I don't know about you, but I can't wait.

F-ck the Weather Channel.

That's right, I said it. It is a bold statement made by a bold woman, one who sits on her front porch with a glass of wine and her dog off its leash. Hold me back, I'm breaking at least two laws right now. Was that a fart? Make it three (air pollution). That's how I roll. Suck it.

I do not understand why black people movies are such a big, freakin' deal. I mean, I get it, there aren't a whole lot out there (The Color Purple, Roots, How Stella Got Her Groove Back, Gorillas in the Mist...ha ha, come on, that's a JOKE), but still... why the big deal? I can't think of any Mexican movies, and those people should be el gripe-o...ing. Okay, that's a lie. There is one movie that comes to mind and it stars Jennifer Lopez as the main character. Here's the catch: she's not even Mexican - she's a Puerto Rican! That is like white people trying to pass Colin Farrell off as an Italian dude and plugging him into The Godfather. COME ON! I guess my point is...uh...I don't have one. I've got some wine buzz action happening.

I need to get a new toothbrush. I thought I read somewhere that you are supposed to get a new toothbrush every three months. Does anyone really do that? Hang on, I take that back. For anyone who does that...you need a hobby or a pet or a girlfriend. If you can keep track of how long it's been since your last 'new' toothbrush, stop. Immediately. Do something crazy: Park in a handicapped spot. Don't put your shopping cart in the 'cart corral.' You know those "Take a Penny, Leave a Penny" cups? Take a penny...hell, take several pennies and don't use them for your purchase. Be a badass.

I got a new job at work. I'm pretty excited about it, except that now my desk is being moved so I can sit with my "new team." The downside to that is, my new team is on the "People of Wal-Mart" floor of the company. Great. I'll be surrounded by nothing but mouth breathers and people who wear corduroy shirts, people who brag about getting Lawrence Olivier's autograph like, a million years ago. I cannot wait.

And my last (buzzed) thought of the day is this: Art. It's stupid. And people who go to school for it, or for art "history" are equally stupid. Just because you think a painting of a distorted mule eating glass, sitting on a purple box is 'artsy' and 'stimulating' doesn't mean you are smarter or "deeper" than me. All it means is that you are a delusional douchebag with more student loans and a crappier job. You can shove Picasso up your nose. He isn't meaningful or expressive. He made more money dead! That right there says it all! If you do anything and are poor in life BUT make ka-gillions after you die, then you are not doing it right. Example: Elvis Presley, Michael Jackson, Jimi Hendrix...People who didn't do it right.

And that is exactly why I am pretty sure I will be a world-famous, kagillionaire writer before I die. Print this blog out. It will happen. Maybe. Most likely.

I need a refill.

Anyone who says weddings are fun to plan is either lying, or crazy.

One month, 14 days. That's how long I've been engaged. Not that I'm counting, but it is hard to believe that one month, 15 days ago I was living a relatively stress-free life. That has all changed. Now, I'm knees-deep in planning a wedding and I can feel myself coming unglued.

It started with my mom, to be honest. She went to the church to get information for me on what I need to do to get married in the Catholic church. She took a dozen donuts with her. God likes donuts and so do the ladies in the Rectory. A few eclairs later and here I am: Gettin' married in "da Church" and jumping through the Holy hoops. I bet if you took a survey, 90% of people who eloped are Catholic. You know why? Because the Roman Catholic church is a pain in the balls (when the priests aren't playing with them, anyway). "Do this, do that, join this, take this class, we need this," blah blah blah. Hmmph. Won't WE feel silly if in the end, the Jews were right?

Personally, I think this whole thing is too serious. To counteract that and put the FUN back into Wedding, I've got my own ideas...

My sister is my Matron of Honor. The only other time (outside of weddings) for adults to have 'buddies' is if you are superheros. That said, I like the idea of us dressing up as Batman and Robin. She would be Batman and I would Robin, since I mostly tagged along with her when we were kids. Besides, Robin wears the easier mask when it comes to that first wedded kiss on the altar.

I'm also kicking around the idea of an alternate ending. Instead of having a ring slipped on my finger, I think being handed a trophy would be be original. Picture it: I get handed my trophy, hold it over my head in celebration and then race down the aisle and out of the church. I've seen more people get weepy over their team winning than after watching two people swap rings. I want people to feel the love.

And that's another thing: What is going on with the sudden blast of Feminism? Kate Middleton refused to utter the word "obey" in her ceremony and women all over the world had her back on that . Really? Because with a 50% divorce rate, does it even matter what we say at all (yeah, that "death do us part" is really holding up)? Personally, I'm down with the traditional language, even the non-equal "man and wife" in lieu of "husband and wife" crap. But, I also have a plan. When it gets to my part about "obeying" my husband, I'm going to say, "I do!" and then smack said-husband on the ass. You know, so he knows I mean it. I like to be sincere.

For the most part, I have everything in order. Dress? Found it. In fact, it is on order and I already have the work order in for its alteration. I am having them remove the train and instead, stitch a bib into it. I spill things on myself a lot. Put me in something white and expect me to wear it all day? Oh yeah, that thing is going to be a Food Masterpiece by the time the DJ packs up.

I've got my dad walking me down the aisle. I have actually given some thought to having both my parents walk me down the aisle, but I am concerned there will be a power struggle at the end. I think they are both so freakin' elated to give me away they'll each want to be "The" person. I fear a short tug-of-war and a surprise shove at my fiance... uh, yeah, that's still in the works.

I will be outsourcing the ring bearer - my nephew from Arizona will be getting those honors and my mother desperately wants him in a top hat. The kid can wear a tuxedo t-shit for all I care, as long as he shows up and doesn't trip. (well, the tripping part is optional...as long as he doesn't get hurt, he can fall all he wants).

My mother (a former beautician) will be doing my hair. Of course, one has to consider that in her former hairstyling days, all of her customers were 80 year old women named Helen and Thelma, and they all had super short, curly hair that was a shade of blue... I have nothing more to say about that, I just hope the photographer gets the lighting right.

Lastly, the reception. We will not be cutting a cake. Instead, we will have a block of cheese. One, I love cheese more than cake, and two, I love a good subtle joke more than anything.

And that's the wedding planning. It is moving along faster than I expected. People have already asked me if I have intentions to renew my vows every so many years. Uh, HELLO. I work in the insurance industry. Renewals are in my blood. I'll be renewing my vows every single year and it it's an off year, I might nonrenew them.


That remains to be seen.

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...

It's 2011! Let's kick ass!

It's a new year. I don't know about you people, but I pretty much kept my 2010 resolutions: I did not get engaged (thumbs down, 2009!), and I'm still awesome (thumbs up, 2010!). Baby steps.

I never did understand people who made resolutions based on other people's decisions. Like people who 'resolve' to get a promotion, or get someone else to quit smoking...stuff like that. You can't control what other people decide to do. It is a simple fact of life. He's not going to marry you no matter how many hints you drop. And your boss barely knows your name, let alone your employee number to fill out paperwork for your promotion. Keep it real. Resolve not to cry after sex, or maybe lose 5 lbs. Maybe finally make a doctor's appointment and get that rash checked out. Stuff like that.

Speaking of losing 5 lbs, this is the time of year that pisses me off the most. Not because I'm trying to drop the 3 guinea pigs I packed on over the holidays, but because my nice, quiet, little gym is now packed with chubby New Year's Resoluters who smell like salami and monopolize the equipment.

Take yesterday for example. I was on the treadmill and Chubbs 1 & 2 came waddling in. I admit, I do get a certain enjoyment out of watching the newcomers. They enter the gym, almost like they've been chased in from the street. Disheveled and a little nervous, they look around, not sure where to go next. The guys always make a bee-line for the weights. The chick follows, realizes she knows even less about dumbbells, and wanders back out to the cardio equipment. She eyes it suspiciously, kind of like how my dog eyeballs the vacuum when I pull it out. The bike? Uuhhhh, no, those pedal straps are SCARY. The Stairmaster? Uuuhhhhhhhhh, nope, stairs are HARD. The treadmill...ooo, yeah, the treadmill. Walk? I can walk!
So Slim jumps on the treadmill next to me and sets it to a 2 mph pace. And dammit if after 5 minutes she isn't winded! I would have offered her some of my water but she looked more like a milkshake kinda gal.

I never did find out how long she lasted (my workout was done way before hers), but I am curious to see if I'll ever see her (or him) in there again. I've found that it usually takes 3 workouts before the newbies quit. They realize sweating and sore muscles aren't fun at ALL. And they are right. But I'd rather be sweaty and sore and not have my own gravitational force because I busted my ass at the gym, than be sweaty and sore because I strained myself racing back to the buffet again (all because they put out more mashed potatoes and rolls....really?!)

So get out there in 2011 and make me proud! And if you are one of the newbies at the gym, don't give people like me the pleasure of watching your awkwardness. Walk in like you own the place. Run on the treadmill like there's only one Whopper left and its got cheese! Sweat like you just won a hotdog eating contest! YEA!