My holiday letter to friends and family...

Hello All!

As we wind down 2014, I realized I've dropped the ball when it came to blogging on a somewhat regular basis. In light of that, I've decided to blog my "Holiday Letter." I'm saving a ton of money on stamps and you get a review of what my year has been like. A classic "Win-Win."

Family: As of today, I am still in the will. Of course, that changes daily but I like to remain cautiously optimistic. Luckily, my [white trash] stepbrother went into diabetic shock over the holidays, which ended up defaulting me into mock hero status within the family. There was a moment (in his crazy, low blood sugar state) when he squared off with my dad and was prepping to fight. In my first and only Christian moment of the year, and against every ounce of my being, I calmly talked my dad out of kicking his ass. I'm pretty sure that should give me much-needed brownie points to get into Heaven. At the very least, with the stepbrother out of the picture I think I should get his share of the inheritance.

For those of you who have been out of touch, I still do not have children (that I know of). I have come to the conclusion that instead of parenting, I am better suited to be a rodeo clown. After the crazy experience with my dad and stepbrother, distracting a raging bull doesn't sound so reckless or scary...but changing a poop-filled diaper on a screaming child? I quit.

Friends: I have made some new ones and lost touch with some old ones and according to my math, I am now up to 3 in total (this time last year I was at 1.5 friends). At this rate, I should have enough friends to fill a funeral home upon my demise. RANDOM ADVERTISEMENT: One of these 3 friends is in desperate need of a girlfriend. If any of you know a single lady with a pulse (brain activity not required) please let me know, as I spent at least 2/3 of 2014 acting as his wingman and quite frankly, I'm over it.


Work: I got myself a new job. So far, more people like me than hate me. They also gave me a company car. In typical "me" fashion, the first thing I did was accidentally spill a coffee and dump French Fries in the front seat (like a douche). In other news, people at work keep telling me I have "a great personality." I was flattered at first but then realized I am one "pretty face" comment away from being the new fat girl in the office. Seriously...I put butter on a donut ONE TIME in a team meeting and I am subtly labeled for life.

Pets: My dog is still alive, going on 15 years. She has morphed into a fairly obnoxious roommate. I'm certain if she had opposable thumbs she would be totally unbearable. I could see her raiding the fridge and making a lot of overseas phone calls. I have also discovered over the year that she is deaf. The good thing about a deaf dog is, she doesn't lose her mind when the doorbell rings. The bad part is, I look pretty stupid when I take her outside, using hand signals to give her commands. To date, I have assisted with the successful landing of 7 planes, although my dog still doesn't come when I "call" her. The bird is also around. Earlier this year she laid an egg... ON ME. I would like to think that's good luck in some culture, but until I find out which one, it is still pretty gross in mine.

Life: I have learned a few things throughout the year, which makes 2014 a success in my book. I learned that kidney-punching my mom will never get old. I learned that I overcome shitty first impressions more than I realize; that sarcasm is not universal. I learned that it is really hard to compliment a guy with low self esteem on the glory of his beard. I also learned how to indoor rock climb... Ha ha, yeah, okay, that part is a lie. "Doing" is not "learning," and considering I can barely walk across a flat surface without falling to my death, I find it ironic someone would invite me to scale a wall with many uneven surfaces. I learned that drinking a Coke while eating a Mentos could make your face explode, and if you can keep them alive long enough, Sea Monkeys get big and creepy. I learned our advancements in Science aren't enough to find a lost commercial airliner but are developed enough to land a space probe on a moving comet.

Lastly, I learned it gets really old to have people ask me if I have a boyfriend (when I don't have a boyfriend). That is why in 2015 my new answer will be: "No, I'm just sleeping around."


So in closing, I'd like to wish all of you a happy and moderately healthy New Year. I hope you follow through on your resolutions to lose the weight, fight that infection, not show up drunk at your next custody hearing and stop stealing toilet paper from your office. Here's to 2015! Wear a helmet.

You may kiss the bride.

I read once that if you ever wrote a book you should give it a title after you're done. In the spirit of going with that general concept, I've decided to title this blog with how it will end.

There was a time when I didn't drink at all, until I was almost 23 years old. Yup, even that one night when I was 19 and my sister and her friends snuck me into the hottest local bar in town (Tink's). They made me wait in the creepy, dark, raper side alley. My sister kicked open the side emergency exit. I ran inside and froze, watching as bouncers fought through the crowd of people to get to that door. "GET LOST!" she yelled, and full-force shoved me into the crowd, where I immediately got lost in a sea of people, bad music and plastic jewelry. Even that night, I couldn't bring myself to drink. It was illegal. I didn't do illegal things! And for those of you who don't know my back story, I had every intention of becoming a nun after I graduated high school. My mom made me go to college. But I digress...

Flash forward to today. I don't have the same hang-ups about alcohol as I did back then. In fact, I pride myself on making up for lost time. Here are just some examples of my evolution...

I went to a wedding as a rent-a-date with a friend about 13 years ago. It was one of those fancy, "we have so much money we burn it when we're bored" kind of weddings in New Jersey. It was held at the same place where the movie Cocoon was filmed. We started drinking White Russians because we were fancy, like the people around us. This story ends with me being so hammered I couldn't chew my food once dinner was served. I ended up sleeping in my car on the side of the highway somewhere in between states. To say I was hung over is an understatement. Clearly, I was an amateur. Note to self: Get your shit together.

More recently, I was at a work function where we got set up in sweet hotel rooms. Literally. We were in Hershey. And because no one had to drive, the booze was flowing like...uh...wine. Literally. Figuratively....? It was an unlimited, open bar tab from 5pm to midnight and people were drinking like we were 3rd class passengers on the sinking Titanic. I ended up sitting next to a manager from another part of the company who was drunk and priding himself on being the King of Offensive Jokes. As soon as he told me he that, I believe my next statement to him was, "You're adorable." Of course I challenged him (I tend to throw down when I drink). I won after 2 jokes AND I got him to move his seat. Some people can't handle my Awesome. There are even rare times when even I can't keep up with my own Awesome. That's what the next story is about.

Wedding story #2: So, I go to this wedding and it is in the country. There were tents set up. There were bugs, grass, and a big fancy trailer with separate facilities for the ladies and gents. I hit the ground running, which is just a polite way of me admitting that I was rage drinking due to some ridiculous shit that occurred to me before I got there. First drink - vodka tonic. Were you expecting beer? What am I, a farmer? Who drinks beer at weddings? Then a dude from Duck Dynasty showed up (one of the younger ones from the show - his beard wasn't gray) and I witnessed the grandmother of the bride trying to sex him up. He escaped her first attempt and I immediately decided to stick close to him and turn that into a Grandma Love Connection. I knew he'd thank me later. Alcohol gives me the best ideas. Flash forward 3 vodkas later: Love connection forgotten, I started grabbing random people to drag them to the bar to get drinks, because "NO ONE SHOULD DRINK ALONE." 6 vodkas and one beer deep: I hit that special stage of Drunk where I really thought I could dance. No, wait. I didn't think it. I knew it. Even now that I think back, I am pretty sure I was A-MAZE-BALLS out on that dance floor of grass. And then an hour after that, Fate stepped in and I threw up in a garbage can, scaring the innocence out of a little girl who was standing nearby. Lesson to that kid: Showing off your amazeballs dance skills will cause you to vomit. That is the biggest reason why I don't dance. It just gets too messy.

Wedding story #3: I perfected my skills.

My friends got engaged and had asked me to officiate. Actually, it went something like this:

Couple: "We're ENGAGED!"
Me: "That's awesome! Hey, can I be your minister person? Ha ha ha"

(a few days later)

Couple: "Will you really marry us? That'd be great!"
Me: (to them) "SURE! It'll be fun!" (in my head) "Oh hell, I was only joking."

Being their Officiant was terrifying, no matter how I looked at it. Yeah, I write a blog but this is for fun and most times it sucks. Not to mention, my blogs aren't usually read by more than 5 people and 3 of those people are relatives and 2 of them can barely read. Lastly...writing for eyes and writing for speech are wildly different. But hey, what's the worst that could happen, right?

My friends were expecting 75 people at their wedding and wanted a ceremony that would make folks laugh AND cry. The end result was a ceremony that referenced all of the following: The IRS, Miranda Rights, prison, Ebola, Jurassic Park, Rueben sandwiches, beer (mentioned twice), Dr. Seuss, love and a grapefruit martini. And it was a hit - I got compliments all night. And ya know what I drank before the ceremony? Vodka. And after? More vodka. I believe the most unruly I got that night was when I demanded the bartender on duty buy my house, but in the grand scheme of things that's not so bad.

And by the power vested in me by the State of Pennsylvania, Montgomery County, Universal Life Church and the grapefruit martini I had before the ceremony...I now pronounce you Husband and Wife. You may kiss the bride.

Damn. I'm a natural.

"Don't use the ladies room. It smells like someone dumped a dead body in there." -- my email to a coworker

There are all kinds of people in this world. I'd say most of us are fairly normal with abnormal moments sprinkled in there. Then there's everyone else: the true 1%, if you will, and not because they've got more money than God. At least, not unless "crazy" can pay an electric bill.

Like the hot chick at the bar who seems SUPER fun and SUPER cool and SUPER bendy. You know who she is. She's the one who lets the entire bar in on her little "secret" (SHE'S NOT WEARING UNDERWEAR!!!!), but gets offended when the 75 yr old regular smacks her on the ass. She has made out with at least two bartenders, one bouncer...and remember when she dry humped the acoustic guitar player the Wednesday before Thanksgiving? (no one likes Free Fallin' THAT much) Most of the time, she's pretty cool, until one guy makes the fatal mistake of not returning her 17 phone calls one night 3 weeks ago, after grabbing a coffee with her after last call. This is the guy who (irrationally) thinks he can just show up at the bar the same night she's there and act like nothing happened. He's the "No Big Deal" guy. Little does he know, it IS a big deal (to her) and he is about to unleash the Crazy.

This chick puts the Hot in Psychotic. She's not afraid to make a scene...and she does. Hard. If you have never seen this happen in a bar, the best way I can describe it is, it's a lot like whale watching: Exciting when the activity starts, but then you get a little nervous because holy shit, it's happening way closer than you expected and you're not confident they'll understand you are not there to hurt them. Standing even remotely near "No Big Deal" is enough to get a drink in your face when Crazy goes off her rocker. Just stand back and make sure you've got a grip on that gin & tonic; You are about to see how scary 102 lbs of booze, body glitter and dad abandonment can be.

Then there's the "No Sense of Humor" person. EASILY one of my favorites. This type of person also doesn't understand how sarcasm works, which makes conversations even more fun. I cross paths with these people often around the office (they tend to be my managers), and every so often I am lucky enough to run into them in public.

One particularly memorable event was when I ran into an old friend from high school. Okay, that's a lie. We got old, but we weren't friends. We weren't enemies, either. I guess we were...acquaintances? Acquaintances enough that if either one of us got murdered, the other would tell people we knew the victim. That's more familiar than if you found out your gynecologist was tragically killed; I know I wouldn't admit to knowing that guy (I knew where his hands had been! ewwww)

On this particular night, this pseudo-friend tried to start some shit with me. It came out of nowhere. What I didn't realize at the time was that certain posts I made on one particular social media website was interpreted (by him) as being personal attacks. I guess he thought I was taking shots at him directly. It was all very Son of Sam-like (I'm the neighbor's dog in this analogy) and I admit, it threw me off balance.

What you are about to read is the abridged version of the conversation that unfolded; not that it matters either way, the full version is equally confusing...

So...David Berkowitz 2.0 comes up to me and tried to engage me in some kind of intellectual dance off. He pointed to the cross necklace I was wearing and asked what it meant to me. Having answered unacceptably, he called me a bad Christian. Then he showed me some carved bird-on-a-shoelace thing around his neck and asked me if I knew what it meant. I'm not too bad at Pictionary so I figured I'd first identify the creature, then guess at its profound meaning. Dolphin? (no) Seagull? (no!) ... ... ... DOVE! Yes, it was a dove! Okay...uh...doves mean... love? (no) Land?? (huh?) I got it -- PEACE!

And the final answer was...NOPE. At this point (and in my mind), I'm thinking there is NO WAY I could be wrong on this. But then again, what are the odds some dude wearing a Peace symbol necklace would try to pick a fight with me? In my world, the odds are pretty good, apparently. And that's when it hit me...I knew what it meant!

"YOU'RE A PRINCE FAN!" I was so excited, I HAD to be right, it was the only obvious answer left. Of course, not having a sense of humor, Pseudo Friend stormed off. Was he defeated? Not at all. Clearly, I was the asshole in that exchange, and I am sure he told everyone who would listen that I was, too. But I get that a lot. People who don't understand sarcasm are awesome.

I never did get confirmation on that damn necklace. I'm still pretty sure it meant Peace. Or Peas. Maybe he's a vegan. Maybe that's where I went wrong...

Of course, these moments in my life get a little awkward (for them, not me) when they happen in the workplace. Especially when it happens with my superiors. Like the time my boss brought his son to the office for "Bring Your Child to Work Day." He stopped by my desk to introduce me to the little guy. When I asked the kid where his younger brother was, my boss said they set the age minimum at 8 yrs old; His other son was only 6 and wasn't allowed. I told the son in front of me that that was a lie, that it was really, "Bring Your FAVORITE Kid to Work Day." He smiled & giggled, and my boss couldn't drag him away from my desk fast enough. Have fun explaining that one at dinner, Dad!

It's nuts that I've managed to build an entire career being like this. To think, I started off working barefoot in a small office in my hometown, only to end up being loose-lipped in a Fortune 500 company AND randomly blogging when the spirit moves me. I am living proof life doesn't give a shit what your "plans" are. I didn't really have a plan, but I know this wasn't it.

So stay in school, kids. Life needs all kinds of kinds.

"Dear Prince,

That's not at all what we sound like.

Signed,
Doves"

If I had a band I would call it, "Fight Me to Spite Me."

But I'll get to bands a little later in this blog. (trust me, if I had all the time in the world, I'd blog about rock stars all day long. Luckily, I have a job...)

Okay, where to start?

I admit, about 98.9% of the time, I'm a douchebag. 100%, completely, unequivocally, hardcore douchebag. BUT: 1.1% of the time, I am actually a fairly decent friend-person. No, seriously. I am the biggest, okay-est friend you could ever ask for. When that 1.1% comes out, I am magnificent, hands down. Part 1 of this blog is about one of those (rare) moments in my life.

I know a rock star. Because of this, I have been in places and talked to people I would have assumed only existed on Sponge Bob Squarepants or Reality TV.

One fateful evening, in a moment of absolute slit-your-wrists, paint-the-garage, shave-the-dog boredom, I figured I'd take a short road trip to see my rock star play in his rock star band. My first mistake was thinking it was a short trip. One wrong turn and 3 hours later...

...I walked into a bar in the middle of nowhere.

That's a lie. I was somewhere because GPS admitted this place existed. It was minor technicality, to say the least. It was the kind of bar where your shoes stuck to the floor, the bartender was 70 yrs old and angry, and there was at least one pregnant girl drinking a Bud Light.

I bought my first beer (bottle, not draft) and sat back to enjoy the show. By "show," I mean the patrons, not the band. There was a crew in front of me playing pool. Player #1 was meth-head skinny and wearing a relatively clean bandana. I could tell he was madly in love with his wife (who was at least 7 months pregnant) by the way he kept buying her shots and telling her they were gonna, "make a sister for that baby" that night. I often wondered what true love looked like. Now I know.

Player #2 was the bitter single friend (admit it, we all have one). Redneck single friends are the most bitter of all, probably because their most recent ex-girlfriend is their friend's sister, their cousin's friend, their own half-sister. What I'm saying is, the bitter friend is bitter because he can't escape her, and his ex is probably at the same bar that night (which is the only bar in town), with her new boyfriend (his brother/cousin/father). Anyway, bitter single friend was playing pool, HARD. I guess he thought if he showed his ex what she was missing with his skillful sinking of balls, she'd come back to him. From what I could tell, her new boyfriend didn't have to borrow his mom's car so there was no contest.

As to be expected, at some point in the evening in a 1-star establishment (as this place was), Drunk Angry Guy inevitably shows up. As luck would have it, he came up to me and Rock Star as the band was starting to pack up. Drunk Angry Guy (heavily slurring): "Heeeeeey. Imma give you money for the drinks. Get yerself sumthun and buy me shots. Yeah?" Rock Star and I exchanged looks and he said, "Sorry dude, I can't do that. If they cut you off, they probably don't want you to drink any more." I was impressed. I don't speak "drunk" fluently. Rock Star must use Rosetta Stone.

Drunk Guy (suddenly irrationally angry): "You mutherfuckerscumbags from Pennsylvania!!!! I own a bar in New York! This is bullshit!" He stumbled away.

That's kind of the abridged version, but it still gets the point across. Drunk redneck people are waaaay scarier than regular people.

But they are NOTHING compared to the pompous douchebags from Arizona....

My buddy moved to the desert almost a year ago. During a trip to visit family, I visited him as well. One night, I swung by to see him while he was bartending. That was the night I met some of Tempe's finest.

My first meeting was with Jarrod. He was the exact opposite of the white guy who only ate Subway. This Jarrod was a black man who, within 10 minutes of meeting me asked if I had ever "been" with a black man before. I said No. Then I asked him if he was ever with a white girl. He responded with, "I've NEVER been with a black girl." I wasn't sure what to say, so I said, "Uh, me neither. So I guess we have that in common."

About a half hour in, Mr. Wristbands showed up. Had I been a 15 year old girl with daddy issues, this guy would have been absolutely DREAMY. But, I'm not and he wasn't. Jarrod introduced us and Wristbands said, "You look familiar. Have we met before?" I said, "Maybe in prison?" Wristbands didn't find my wit endearing (guys like him never do), and he said, "Oh, so you have a dick?" There it was. That was my moment...

..but all I did was smile at him. Not because I was at a loss for words. Not because I thought he was amusing. I smiled because here was a 30-something year old guy who clearly never broke a sweat outside of a Golden Corral buffet in his entire life, wearing exercise sweat wristbands with the TV show "Sons of Anarchy" logo them, had his hair tips bleached, cracking a joke about ME having a dick. To that I say, Really, guy? I HAD SO MUCH GOOD MATERIAL!!! My response could have been epic!! But because I'm a Christian (and more accurately, because I was in a town in a state COMPLETELY out of my comfort AND safety zone), I passed on all the obvious jokes and let him win that round. I smiled.

Things work out in the end, though. His quasi-girlfriend/groupie showed up and she was one of those "worn hard & put away wet" gals. She was super nice, but you could tell he kept her around because she paid his bar tab and she paid his bar tab because he kept her around (and she ALWAYS wanted to date a rock star). True love: Not these two. The only thing they truly shared is probably an STD.

I don't know...rock star lifestyles are tough. I mean, I see it from their point of view: The girls, the fame, the attention, the money...it's a helluva good time, a party always. But as someone connected to them (like Mr. Wristbands' lady friend), she's really just a tag-along. Collateral damage, if you will. She's one vagina away from being kicked to the curb and then being stuck picking up a bar tab for some regular schlep who only sings at karaoke and digs ditches for a living. So the ending to her story is a sad one. Yeah, that's something to avoid, fo' sho'.

But at the end of the day, it's not my problem. It is good to get out into society, though, and meet these people. It expands your horizons, makes you realize how lucky you have it, and at the very least, it gives good material for which to write a blog. So for that, to all you Crazies out there...I thank you.

If people could read my mind, I'd get punched in the face a lot.

I have had some amazing experiences over the past few weeks and I wasn't sure how to wrap them all up in one blog. Then I had the idea to buy some wine this afternoon, which lead to the GLORIOUS idea to drink it, and here I am, blogging my face off. What can I say? Wine makes me want to share my thoughts with you. Yes, YOU.

For anyone who doesn't know me (whether that is your choice or mine), here's a personal fact: I like to people watch. Correction: I LOOOOVE to people watch. You can safely assume if I am ever in a room with you, I am watching you. So with that being said...

I was at a bar a few weeks ago. Not alone, I had a bodyguard (he didn't know he was my bodyguard, but I find it's best not to tell your protector that's what they are; it only makes them nervous). It was the kind of place where dudes parked their motorcycles on the sidewalk because they could, and ladies wore ghetto gold jewelry because that made them classy. I guess in all fairness, I wouldn't call it a bar. It was more of a hole-in-the-wall dive and easily one of my new favorite places. So...

We walked in and were immediately hit by the smell of cigarettes and unpaid child support. All in all, it was everything I could have hoped and dreamed it to be. We ordered some beers and settled in to watch the crazy unfold.

It didn't take long before Brett Michaels showed up. It wasn't THE Brett Michaels, but I wasn't going to tell him that. I am fairly certain he was already drunk by the time he got there; he complimented me and my "twin sister" on our outfits. He stumbled around like he just got some new legs. I figured he was due to pass out or puke, and then something amazing happened: His ex-wife walked in with her shiny new husband. WHOA BABY. How do I know this, being a first-timer to this fine establishment? Brett told me and everyone who would listen that not only was that his ex, but she was STILL in love with him and only divorced him because he was in jail. I turned to my man and said, "We're getting another round after this."

What, did you honestly think I was going to leave? When the universe hands you a perfect storm, you don't put on a raincoat and grab an umbrella. You kick off your shoes, walk into it head on and declare, "I WANT TO SEE BRETT MICHAELS START SOME SHIT." Plus, I REALLY wanted to find out what he did that landed him in jail.

Slight side track here: It is a pretty well-known fact that I'm immune to sensing danger. I just don't have a survival instinct. With that being said...

Brett was on a roll, REALLY letting his ex-lady know what she was missing. Is the band singing "The Final Countdown?" Brett was determined to sing it better TO his lady AND her Shiny New Husband, WHILE he played pool...poorly. (note to Brett: Not all pool shots need to be taken 'behind the back.')

Just when I was getting into it (about the same time New Husband was cracking his knuckles), Bodyguard informed me we had to leave. Nooooo! *fist shaking* I think he sensed the impending shit storm that was about to unfold. Again, I can't sense danger so I must depend on those around me. I finished my beer (it's hard to drink when you're pouting) and we left. "We're leaving together but it's still farewell..."

Onto Bar # 2. This was one was definitely cleaner. My shoes didn't stick to the floor at all. The ladies room had soap. But that doesn't mean there wasn't any people watching to partake in. Oh, they were ALL around us. As we all know, at some point after 10:30pm you will usually find "The Make-Out Couple" at a bar.

They were there and they were ALL OVER each other. They were making out so hard, the guy could barely keep his NY Rangers jersey on.

While that was happening, there was a different kind of love occurring on my side of the bar. Drunk Fist Bump Man was in the house and as luck would have it, he has got a HUGE man-crush on my man! So of course, it didn't take much for that bromance to get kicked into high gear. Fist Bumper: "HEY!!! I love you man! It's so great to see you!" *forces awkward hug* Bodyguard: "Uh, hey man, what's up?" Me: SMILING EAR TO EAR

Oh, that's the other thing I guess I should tell you. I don't play favorites when I people watch. If I know you and you are the victim of some weirdness, I will not only watch it happen, I will revel in how awesome it is for ME to watch YOU feel awkward. Which is exactly what I did. (I'm that jerk friend your mom warned you about) For the rest of the night, Fist Bumper celebrated pretty much every bar "milestone" with Bodyguard. "Someone just ordered a shot?! Hey bro!" *fist bump* "Bobby just came back from the bathroom?! YEAH!" *fist bump* "LAST CALL?!?!!?! F--K IT!" *several fist bumps* I think the total fist bump count was up to 22. I could be wrong, but this isn't CNN so who gives a shit?

Back to The Make-Out Couple. A guy can only take so many hours of sucking the lips off a girl's face before he needs a little more...uh, well...lovin'. Apparently his lady wasn't privy to that bit of information and by 1am, our Rangers fan had had enough. He left his lady (and his Bud Light) at the bar so he could dance to the band. Or rather, WITH the band. And help them sing their songs, you know, in case they forgot the words he was making up. One would think she would have gotten up with him, but nope. She just sat there, a sad gal left behind. I'm pretty sure we all know how their story ended, though: He threw up in her car and then passed out on her cat when they got back to her place. But I bet she still made him a bowl of cereal the next morning. #she's a keeper

My final story is a pretty short one and happened while I was at work (a place which does not serve alcohol, to the dismay of many employees).

We had a new guy start in my department. I've nicknamed him, "Terrified Coworker," because he is. I have never seen such an extreme case of social anxiety in my life before I met this guy. On his first day I tried to joke around with him to loosen him up and I am pretty sure he almost cried. (insert Tom Hanks here) Acknowledging that lately, I seem to have that affect on guys, I immediately backed off and didn't speak to him for the rest of the day. However, while he was sitting with other members of the team, "job shadowing," as we call it... I realized something: He laughs through his nose.

You read that correctly. THROUGH. HIS. NOSE.

He doesn't open his mouth when he laughs, it is entirely through his nose. I didn't think that was physically possible, kinda like keeping your eyes open when you sneeze or scratching an itch on your foot while it's still in the shoe. It's hard to describe the sound of a nose-laugh, but it goes something like this: HRRMPH HRRMPH HRRMPH HRRMPH! However you cut it, it's strange, unnatural, and I am pretty sure I can't trust him. Ever. I'm sure this particular story will develop over time, so stay tuned for that.

Well my friends, I hate to be so abrupt in my wrap-up but that's all I've got to offer for now. Until we meet again...stay cool and if you see me around, I'll be watching.

“I used to be self conscious about my height, but then I thought, fuck that, I'm Harry Potter.”― Daniel Radcliffe

On more than one occasion I have had someone, somewhere tell me I had low self-esteem, all because of some joke I made about myself. Don't these people realize one of my mottos is "What people think of you is none of your business?" Yet, they volunteer that shit. Did I ask your opinion? Then shut your lips. And quite frankly, it is shit. For as much as it pains me to have to blog about this, I have a diarrhea-level urge to set the record straight.

I do not have low self esteem. I am a realist. With that being said, let me explain some things:

I was raised in a household where physical attributes didn't mean a whole bunch. It was understood that there would always be someone prettier than you out there, so figure out an alternative. My sister got off easy; she's the smart one. She is good at math, quick to make friends, she can dance and is generally excellent at everything she does. Thank God she got her Masters degree, I was running out of ways to disappoint my parents (I can only get so many tattoos).

Then there is me. I don't have the brains my sister does. Math is hard. Dancing isn't an option: I don't just not have rhythm, I have anti-rhythm. I'm terrible with names and when I meet someone for the first time, I end up nicknaming them "Branch" (in my head). It makes me awkward in social situations. Short of discovering a hidden talent (plate spinning? belly button whistling?) my go-to thing ended up being humor.

If only it were that easy.

Humor is a tough thing to pull off. You have to know your audience and find a common ground that you can both laugh about. Unfortunately for those around me, I am not good at identifying either of those things. As a result, I have inadvertently publically shamed people at work, made people cry (sorry random guy in bar, but thank you for serving our country), and I am pretty sure that priest would have laughed during my confession if he could see the "I'm only KIDDING!" look on my face (75 Hail Marys? Jesus Christ, it was a JOKE!)

Needless to say, the only thing left in this world that I can safely joke about is myself. It isn't low self esteem; it's self-deprecating humor. (I know that's a big word...Google it) Hang with me long enough and you'll realize I'm a pretty big fan of myself. Just because I acknowledge that I have the coordination of a new born calf, a farmer's tooth, big hips and a fire victim's hairline (and those are the easy ones!) doesn't mean I'm self conscious about them. I was never known for my striking good looks, ninja math skills or exceptional coordination anyway so why attempt to play that hand now? You'd have to be blind not to notice these things about me. But you know what? I can rebound on a trip & fall like a BOSS. I use my farmer's tooth to open things that most people need scissors for. I've swung these hips to bounce skinny girls out of the way so I could get into the bathroom first. And my hair? I'm pretty sure it has more fun when I'm sleeping than I do (at least, that's how it looks when I wake up in the morning), but I'm cool with it.

I save all my bragging for my diary. Let's be honest with each other: If all I did was tell you how awesome I was, how I was a hero at work, how AH-MA-ZING my arches are (these feet were designed for high heels) and how I'm 97% sure I sound exactly like Carrie Underwood when I sing in the car, you'd feel pretty bad about yourself. Plus - you'd think I was a douche nozzle for being all braggy and you would be right. It's like those girls who brag about getting hit on all the time. Big deal, you're pretty... Talk to me in 35 years. I can eat a mixing bowl full of pasta in under an hour. Oh sure, that may not have guys banging down my door and in 35 years I'll be the size of a house, but at least it's a true accomplishment. Not that it matters anyway, because that shit goes in my diary. Now, the next time I slip on ice and slide under my truck when I try to get in it? That's a story I will shout from the roof tops.

To leave the house, or not to leave the house...that is the question in 2014.

I knew it has been awhile since I last posted anything. I didn't realize it's been 6 months, though. Had I made some bad decisions the night of that last blog, today I would be 3 months away from being someone's mom! Or would I...? Given how 2013 went down, I am not too sure I want to leave the house in 2014 to even practice. By the end of this blog, you might back me up on that decision.

Let me make one thing clear: I've got a fairly thick skin, so what you are about to read is my way of sharing the good times. I will admit, though, that after some of these events occurred two packages of Oreos, one extra large pizza (with black olives) and several shots of Bourbon lost their lives in my attempts to self-medicate.

Story # 1: I was out one night, wearing my nicest burlap potato sack, when I was introduced to a friend of a friend. He had all of his front teeth and as it turned out, he was 4 years younger than me. I knew there was something special between us when later in the evening he said, "I don't usually find older women attractive, but you're not too bad." Really? You're adorable. I'm not even that much older where I could have been your babysitter. Hmmph. I think in today's society, ages are now being calculated in dog years. It's a whole new world out there and I am very unprepared.

Then there's the wee little man story. I am being 100% honest when I say this guy was approximately nipples-high (I'm 5'4, you do the math). It was a night when I was wearing my favorite cat sweater, feeling pretty good about my hot self. Several adult beverages in, wee man's balls must've dropped and he says to me, "I'm not usually attracted to bigger girls, but I think you're kind of cute." Gee, thanks? And coincidentally, I am not usually attracted to grown men who are still legally required to use car seats, so hey, let's step outside our comfort zones. I'll pick you up at 8pm? *literally picks him up*

So those two dudes were my "something new" learned in 2013: Anytime a guy starts a sentence with, "I don't usually..." it's going to end poorly for me. Duly noted.

Then there are the random comments that aren't story-worthy, but are still worth sharing. These are times in my life I'm pretty sure I have stumbled into a Tourette Syndrome convention:

1. You have thick legs. No, I mean that in a good way. Like, good-thick. (just shut up already)
2. I think you're a serial killer. (meant in the nicest way possible, I'm sure)
3. That's a nice outfit. I can really see what you were trying to do. (bitch)

And to think, people tell me that I lack an internal filter. Irony is fun.

Last but not least, how could I forget one of the most complimentary conversations I've had so far this year? On this particular evening, I looked exceptionally good with my off-the-shoulder sweatshirt and stirrup pants. This story is slightly different, however, since my fellow conversationalist is someone I've known since...well, since my stirrup pants were in style the first time around. Anyway, we got talking about my Hollywood marriage that ended in a white trash divorce. In talking about my ex, my pal said, "You know, one man's trash is another man's treasure." He clearly mistook my shocked expression for confusion because he went on to clarify with, "I mean, you know, you're the trash in that analo--" I got it, I got it, thanks. You can stop talking now. But just for that, I will make you buy me all the drinks this bar has to offer. And food. And that girl's coat across the room, because I've never seen that shade of blue before. Yes, I am demanding you buy my friendship back.

I guess I need to let it all go. Leave the past behind. Smile every day. Think positive. Don't suck. Never wear underwear. I don't know, inspriational quotes are hard. You get the idea, though, and that's all that matters.

So until we meet again...Cheers and Happy New Year!

I don't mean to bitch (but really I do...)

I want to start this off by saying I love old people. Is that rude? But it's true. I was practically raised in a nursing home (my mom worked in one and childcare was limited). I volunteer at my local VA and hang with the vets during bingo. Let me tell you - nothing is scarier than a bunch of former Army guys catching a Marine cheating at bingo. He can "Ooo RAH!" all he wants; if B 4 wasn't called, it WASN'T CALLED and he will have 5 guys offering to personally kick his cheating ass back to his room.

With that being said, I would like to ask one teeny, tiny favor to all the "old" folk out there: Stop doing things on my time. I don't think I'm asking too much. All I am asking for is to go to the bank on my lunch hour and get in and out. I get pissed when I'm stuck in line behind five 73-year olds who got there "early" so they could catch Maury Pauvich at 1:30pm (yea Dad, I'm talking to you). Spoiler alert: We never find out who the father of LaShawnda's baby is! Big shocker there.

Or maybe I want to get to work early one morning. Is it too much to ask to have an easy-breezy drive in at 7:10am on a Tuesday? Apparently, yes, that IS asking too much. Sucks to be me, but Ethel and Bea need to take their morning drive to nowhere at 8 miles per hour BELOW the speed limit. Oh, you're stuck behind them? Sucks to be you; Ethel's rear-view mirror is turned straight down to the floor so she doesn't even notice you are tailgating.

And then there's the dentist. Just once I'd like to snag an appointment during "regular people hours." You know, maybe a 2pm on a Thursday; I can take a half day off from work, grab some lunch, head over at my leisure... But NOPE. Forget about booking any kind of appointment between 9am and 3pm. Even if I get lucky and sneak in at 1pm-ish, I walk into a waiting room full of gray-haired folks who all have appointments ranging from 2:30pm-5:30pm. REALLY?!? Can't these people just drop off their teeth and come back later?

So that's my gripe for today. Oh wait. Did I say this blog was about old people? HA! My mistake. I actually meant it was about unemployed people who were milking the welfare system and are looking forward to the joys of Obamacare. It's bad enough they're mooching our tax dollars; now they are mooching our free time. Yeah, I have a problem with that. Bummer alert: This blog ended up being one.

I think the Honey Badger is on to something.

If you haven't watched the YouTube video about how badass the honey badger is, you need to get on that before you keep reading this blog. It's cool, I'll wait.

(waiting...............and waiting some more........)


Good stuff, eh? Okay, now this blog will make sense to you.

I don't think I am alone when I say I think society has gotten too soft. Everyone is afraid of insulting someone, even if it means sacrificing their own principles and comfort level. I am here to say Forget That! If the Pope can quit his job, if the Mayans can reset thousands of years, then gosh darn it, we should be able to say what is on our minds and not be afraid of ringing in 2014 all alone because we insulted a few friends & family members along the way.

I think 2013 should be the year people stop being polite and start getting back to basics. Put your big boy/girl pants on; shit is about to get real.

People have told me that I am rigid, uncompromising, obnoxious and generally speaking, uptight. I cannot say I disagree with any of those descriptions, but I do disagree that I am any of those things all of the time. I would say it's an 85/15 split. Most of the time, I'd say I'm fairly relaxed and easy going. Here are some of the things I ask for full cooperation and consideration on. Like a power-lifting midget, this list might be small, but it is powerful:

Use a coaster (or I'll break your fingers). By my calculations I have already spent approximately 1/6 of my life dusting my furniture. I will make your life permanently uncomfortable if my time was spent in vain because you are too lazy to use a coaster for your Diet Dr. Pepper.

If I'm on the phone (not with you), don't talk to me or the person I am on the phone with. 1 - It's rude, and 2 - I cannot multi-task and have two conversations at once. It's hard enough for me even to use a phone, let alone juggle two conversations. Cut me some slack and I will give you the same courtesy. If you choose to ignore this warning, you risk getting an epic kick to the shins.

Be on time. It's really not that hard to be on time, and you're really not that important to be late. Sorry Narcissus. I apologize, Joaquin Phoenix. You're just not that important. Hell, I'M not that important. All I ask is that you don't hold up my meeting; chances are I'm hungry, I have to pee, or I just have shit to do. If my party starts at 6pm, show up at 6pm. I don't want your ass camped out on my couch at 3am all because you decided to make an appearance at 10pm. My life is not your 24 hour convenient store.

If you ask a rude question, expect a rude response.

If we are in the same crowd together, don't stand next to me and fart. Granted, the random Fart in the Crowd is usually a stranger (or maybe I'm giving everyone I know too much credit), but come on. What makes the crowd fart so gross is the body heat of the crowd. Besides, I don't need your fart in my $10 beer.

So with the new year upon us, I think we should all drop our inhibitions and just tell it like it is. Call people out. Break some fingers for the rings on your coffee table. Stand up straight and say No! I will not buy more Girl Scout Cookies! (okay, but just one more box) Stick to your guns - If someone is talking about you behind your back, respond to them to their face.

If we all follow the rule of the Honey Badger, we can put Tums out of business. It's pretty simple, actually. Just don't give a shit.

I'm kind of a jerk...

...which was pointed out to me tonight by two guys I had hired to change the locks on my house so I could make my psuedo-husband my exhusband. Is that ironic? Funny how people develop an opinion of you over a little incident like that.

But...I'd be a liar if I said I didn't think twice about the crap they said about me tonight. They might actually have a point; I'm harsh, I'm crass, I lack an internal filter... and it all made me wonder why anyone still talks to me. I guess I AM kind of a douchebag. Here's just one example:

I mailed out my Christmas cards shortly after Turkey Day. It wasn't much of a surprise when a friend of mine sent me a text message last week asking for my address (obviously wanting to send a card in return). Quick back story: This friend of mine got married overseas in March 2012, held a stateside 'reception' in May of 2012. I gave a nice chunk of change to the newlyweds when I attended the local reception. The story ends there. Unacceptable, and let me explain why.

So....after receiving the "what's your address" text I responded with my address and "Are you finally mailing out Thank You cards?" Yes, it was rude of me to call him out, but with that being said, it's pretty goddamn rude to NOT send Thank You cards to people who gave gifts at your half-assed, "we just want money" reception. I might have been rude by pointing that out, but they are ten times ruder by NOT saying Thank You.

Then I got thinking...this isn't the first time someone hasn't thanked me for being nice. I went to a wedding several years ago where the bride was 7 months pregnant and I gave $100 to eat mac & cheese with plasticwear. I never got a Thank You for that, either.

Here's where things get CRAZY. My sister is NOTORIOUS (yes, it deserves ALL CAPITAL LETTERS) for not only NOT thanking me for gifts, but not even acknowledging they've arrived in the mail in the first place. Really? How is that okay? I mean, okay, I get it, you don't want to take the 1 minute out of your day to call me during your commute (like you would normally do 4 days a week) to say THANKS, but at least have the decency to say, "Oh hey, I got your card/package," so I at least know the mailman didn't steal it. I am at the point I don't even care if I get a "Thanks" or "This Sucks" or "Go to Hell," I just want to know my shit isn't being lifted by some hoarder postal service person with a mental condition.

All of this raging rudeness makes me want to go into business making "You're Welcome" cards, for those rude bastards who are "too cool" to thank you for your time and generosity. Beat them to the punch with a snazzy You're Welcome card! Coming to stores near you...

I guess I'm not sure how this plays out. Am I the rude one for calling out people for their lack of manners? Because I don't think so. And with a new year slowly (but surely) creeping up on us, I'm thinking this is going to be my New Year's Resolution. Everyone Everywhere...Consider this your official warning: If you are going to be rude and/or ignorant, I will unequivocally, 100%, call you out on your piss-poor social skills.

So go ahead and "pretend" you didn't get my gift card for your birthday (Nancy). I will bring it to your attention. Pretend your kids didn't get my holiday cards (sister). I will call you, Rudeness, and point out your lack of manners. And just to take this one step further... Ms Manager of the Team I Work With: You can pretend to care about my "input" on the team's progress, but unbeknownst to you I'm going to blind copy my manager, your manager and a third, "random" manager on that "progress report." Needless to say, you can suck it. Hard.

I'm sick and tired of rude people and people who flat-out don't give a shit. And with that being said...Who the FUDGE puts a gumball machine in a bathroom (refer to picture in post)? Those people will be getting a letter from me AND the PA Health Department. Blind copied as well. Because that's how I roll and if they don't like it, they can suck it. Hard.

I guess you can sign me,

Used To Have Friends in 2012

I pretty much do whatever Oprah tells me to do.

If you've never cooked anything more than cereal, you can skip the first paragraph of this blog. But if you have actually cooked a meal, keep reading.

I made chicken the other night and tossed the scraps into the garbage. In less than 8 hours, you'd have thought I had a 9-week-old dead hooker in my kitchen, it smelled so bad. It reminds me never to murder a chicken hooker, because that's not something you want in the trunk of your car overnight... it's a dead giveaway (pun intended).

Last night I was watching TV and the emergency warning system shut down the show I was watching to warn of a tornado in the area. All viewers were told to go into their basements. I don't have a basement...that's kind of a problem. But it did make me put things in perspective, things like, "Well, I don't have to do laundry tomorrow," and "At least I get out of November's mortgage payment." But there are those other, deeper things, that ran through my mind. Those things like, "I should've apologized to my sister for reading her diary in 7th grade," or "I've always wanted to carve my name into a tree," and especially, "Wow, this really sucks if I die tonight..." (the strange part was, I was compelled to call one person but changed my mind because I thought it would make for an awkward conversation..."Hey, what's up? Yeah, I might be dead in 3 hours...") In case you haven't figured it out by now, I survived. You're welcome.

Life is all about perspective; I guess that's the point. Like the guy I recently heard about who almost lost his hand in an accident. Luckily he didn't, but he still cannot use it. That's great and all, but while he heals there are those pain in the ass things that we don't always think about: Sure, he can wipe his ass but how does he wash one hand? Or, how does he use a shovel? He just became a slower typer. He can't easily pour cooked pasta into a strainer. Ever try to eat a taco with one hand?

Perspective. It's pretty much synonmous with Reality. They are both in our minds. People can object with one another but reality is all about our own perspective. And that's terrifying, especially with crazy fanatics out there. Like people who think Burger King makes the BEST. BURGERS. EVER. Or those crazies who think when aliens invade, they'll want to be our friends. OR the people who think everyone is inherently good (insert insane, screechy laughter here) We know who we are.

Like my armpits. I waxed them last night. Best decision I ever made. You might disagree, but it is only my reality that counts.

And the upcoming holidays. I bet if I spend this holiday season sober, I'll find out football is boring, my dad isn't funny and I really cannot play the guitar. It's all about perspective.

Bored? Call this number: 610-331-0770

I don't know who it belongs to (well, I have an idea of who it is). What I can tell you is this: I don't think I am making their Christmas card list this year. I could be wrong, but considering this mystery number sent me a text saying only: I hate u, I have to assume they're not big fans. Now that I think about it, they didn't use punctuation. That makes ALL the difference, especially with mystery phone numbers. It could be the difference between sleeping with all the lights on in the house with a carving knife on my nightstand *cough* (not that I did that) or feeling bad because a fellow earthling is simply confused. I hate u? (maybe they're on the fence) I hate u! (they get excited about hating people) Or perhaps, I hate u?! (unsure of how to spell their pronouns) In any case, I think it is pretty rude and gutless for people to use someone else's phone to send mean text messages. I get it. You hate me. Join the club, take a number, get in line...there's more where that came from. There are days I hate myself. Granted, those days don't come along often because I am pretty freakin' awesome, but you know...some days, I'd break up with me. I'd use the toilet and not flush. I'd eat the last of my cupcakes without offering to share with me. But I wouldn't send myself an anonymous "I hate u" text message. In all honesty, though, I cannot say I'm surprised. People either love me or hate me; I don't have an "in-between" personality where people are on the fence and I am okay with that. What bugs me though, is that I'm a private citizen and now I get anonymous hate texts? Seriously? Here's what I think: I think if you have something to say, stand up and say it like a man to my face, not behind the cloak of Verizon Wireless from an unnamed cell number (yes, I also lost $9.99 trying to figure out who it was). And because I like to practice what I preach, I am going to tell all of YOU what I really think (better sit down, this one is gonna be a doozie): -Your dog isn't that cute. -Your kid isn't that smart. -You're not funny. -Your exgirlfriend was hot and you're an idiot for screwing it up. -I hate your haircut. -Your sister is prettier. -If I had balls they'd be bigger than yours. -I'm jealous of your boobs. -Relax. -You need to wear makeup.- Don't you feel better? I know I do. So let me be "Frank" (ha ha): I'm too much of a wuss to call that strange number back in order to find out what asshole hates me. But I DO have faith that at least one of you will call that number. If you do, please leave a comment on this blog telling all of us who it belongs to...because that's when the REAL fun will begin. (insert creepy clown smiley face here)

The best argument against democracy is a five-minute conversation with the average voter. - Winston Churchill

So how 'bout that new health care bill? I haven't blogged in quite some time because I really haven't had much material. Go figure, I still don't. No, I am not even touching the political stuff. No need to get your panties in a bunch. I only reserve my discussions of politics and religion for my minority friends (I think I am up to 3). Bad segway: I work with a guy who is getting married in a few months and today he told me how he put "fun" items on his wedding gift registry. You know, fun things like a Dungeons and Dragons book, art supplies and a blue ray DVD player. Is that what the kids are doing nowadays? I mean, registering for those kinds of gifts really expose who you are as a person. Are you ready for that? Is the guest list? D&D? Uh, yeah, if I go to that wedding I'm probably going to eat all the shrimp just to piss off the other nerd guests. But realistically, I bet most of them are allergic anyway and the few remaining hate cocktail sauce, so...more shrimp for me. I know, I know, to each his own. If some jackass wants to turn his wedding registry into a Letter to Santa, then that's his perogative. I don't have to like it, but I don't think it's right. In fact, I bet he is the "under" toilet paper guy. Oh, you know who I'm talking about. There are two types of people in this world: Those who put the toilet paper roll on properly, and those who put it on so the sheet sneaks up from underneath. I've done the math on this. I've been places, I've seen things. My statistical brain-math says that 95% of people are "over the top" toilet paper loaders. Then there's that 4%. What are you people, farmers? Who taught you to live? Underneath toilet paper. Riiiight. Next you'll tell me pork isn't a white meat (hmmm?) Lastly, we have that lingering 1% of noncommittals who try to say they don't care if the paper is over or under. Liars!! You are the same people who act like you don't like the taste of beer. (figures they'd be women) Speaking of beer... I came up with a solid marketing compaign for tampons today. Personally, I like to keep mine in the freezer. Nothing helps beat the heat on a hot summer day like a chilly tampon. So check it out: Instead of the stupid commercials with the cute cheerleaders, or the anti-commercials against the cute cheerleader commercials, why not turn a woman's menstral cycle into a party? Let's face it, the one thing most guys would kill to hear is, "Honey, I am NOT pregnant!" PAR-TAY! Let's make it one. Picture it: Hot chicks in bikinis washing cars, maybe a water fight breaks out, beer starts falling from the sky and then the announcer comes in: "Got beer? Don't forget the Tampax!" It may be weird at first, but trust me ladies, this will work. Men will no longer bitch and moan when we ask them to run to the store to grab us a box. Why? 'Cause they dodged a bullet that month, baby! It's time to celebrate! I know, I'm a genius. Thanks for reading.

The more things change, the more they stay the same after all.

For all you non-literary types, that's from "A Separate Peace." Not to be confused with "The Catcher in the Rye." Similar character structure, totally different scenario. In a nutshell... in the first book, a guy lies about how his friend dies. In the second, the guy admits he lies all the time for no apparent reason. The same concept, but different perspectives. Crazy. Both stories remind me of when I was a kid. I got messed with all the time. No, really. ALL the time. I was one of those dumbass, gullible kids you could tell anything to and they would believe it. (funny, I don't think I've changed much...) To get me to take a nap, my mom would tell me that as soon as my "eyes fell asleep", I could come out and play. I bought it every single time. I remember having my grandfather tell me that chocolate milk came from brown cows. That ended up being my very first debate; I was in kindergarten, and my main argument was, "My Pappa wouldn't make that up!" Flash forward to the end of that day when I got home from school and told my mom (in absolute disgust) how the kids in school had the AUDACITY to say all cows make white milk. To which she replied, "Pappa made that up." Whaaaaat? Then there was the cold cement. We would sit on the cement steps leading up to the porch and Pappa would say, "Don't sit on the cold concrete like that! You'll get hemorroids like your grandmother!" Poor Gram... he blamed a lot on her. And then there was sugar. If we were eating too much candy, or licking our fingers and sticking them in the sugar bowl, we were told we couldn't have any more because "buggies will grow in your stomach." You know, I didn't realize that wasn't the truth until around 6th grade when we learned in health class about stomach acids and stuff. But... ...I also thought you could get pregnant from kissing a guy until I was about 15. Until then I hadn't planned on having kids and figured if I got married, I wouldn't kiss my new husband, I'd just shake his hand at the altar. Did I mention I believed in Santa Clause until I was 13? And I'm okay with that, because I'm pretty sure my sister figured it out only the year before (as I throw her under the bus with me...) AND....it just hit me this past holiday season that the song, "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Clause" was about the dad BEING Santa Clause! What the fudge!!! I never realized that the song was about Mom kissing Dad. Yeah, I'm an idiot. I admit it and I'm not ashamed. It's an ambiguous song. Sue me. Call me Forrest Gump, but I like that I can't sniff out bullshit from a mile away. I like that I get offended when I make eye contact in the supermarket and say "Hi!" and the other person doesn't respond. Where I come from, people say "Hey." We don't need to know each other. We don't care what kind of day you've had. You say "Hey" because, well, that's what we do. So that's my story and I'm sticking to it. I don't like liars, probably because I believe them. Where I come from, it's pretty simple: If you gotta lie about it, you shouldn't do it.

"In three words I can sum up everything I've learned about life: It goes on." Robert Frost

Tomorrow will be the 1 year anniversary of when I got engaged. Ahhh, I remember it like it was yesterday. I remember studying for a test (I ended up failing), I remember my dad calling me an asshole...the memories. I will cherish them forever. Picture it: A long-haired brunette marries a bad boy. The vehicle for the wedding? A giant pick up truck. Her wedding ring: Platinum, of course. His? Steel. Country music was played at the reception. Their backstories: She was engaged once but broke it off. He had been married previously. She had dogs, he had kids.

The bride's thought on marriage? A quote direct from her: "I've always been very skeptical about marriage, because I only want to do it once; I want to do it the right way." Name that couple... Sandra Bullock and Jesse James. I know, I know, you were gonna say it was me (for the record, hers was a giant, red Monster truck; mine was my dad's big white Dodge Ram). But my point is this: She gave a guy the benefit of the doubt the rest of us didn't. Unfortunately, we were right. It does make me wonder, though, what kind of boyfriend he was? At the very least, we can assume he was a convincing "good" boyfriend. I bet he even provided the first toothbrush she left at his place (I'm guessing). The reason I bring this up is because my sister and I had a discussion about how I am the ultimate bad boyfriend. Okay, let me explain: As you all know, my sister lives in Arizona. The rest of us are in Pennsylvania. My mom goes out to visit at least quarterly and as a result, she ends up leaving personal items behind so she doesn't have to pack so much on her trips. Over the years it has graduated from a toothbrush to make-up, pajamas to regular clothes - pants, shirts, shoes...you name it. I live about 2 hours away from my folks. It is a comfortable distance. My sister asked me once how much crap my mom has left at my place. I thought about it and said, "Well...she left socks behind once and I gave them back." And that's when I realized there had been several times my mom left some things behind and I, in a completely oblivious move, made damn sure she got her things back. No pajamas, no socks...is that a brush? Not in my house! In my defense, I didn't realize what was going down. I thought I was doing a good thing by giving her stuff back. I mean, socks...how many pairs does one person have? Maybe she needed them! I don't want to be blamed for my own mother going sockless. And pajamas... really people, I thought she was being a smartass by leaving them in the hamper. Kinda like a 'Hey kid, now it's YOUR turn to wash MY pajamas for a change." So...uh, yeah, I think it's a safe assumption that if I'm a bad 'boyfriend' to my own mother, I would be a total douchebag to date (if I were a guy). Crazy.

A little sumthin' for everyone (keep reading, you're bound to come up)

Dear Friends, We've been through a lot over the years. Not just with this blog, but in life...in general. So for that, I'd like to say Thank You, mainly for not slipping me an Ambien, strapping me into the back seat of a car and pulling a "Kennedy" on me. So here's my special Thanks for all the good times (and you know who you are): Thanks for saving me from getting hit by that purple car. And for introducing me to the movie "Seven." That was an interesting night and to this day, I still don't know how I found my way home. Thanks for playing Double Dare in the house, even when I almost died on the basement stairs...but I recovered, got the flag and we still got it done in time! Oh, and thanks again for saving my life during orientation. But seriously...she deserved to be called a "pig." Thanks for letting me yell at you for writing sketchy business. That was a defining moment between "business" and "friendship," mainly because you yelled back. And you were right...I had forgotten what it was like to be on that side of the 'biz. Whatever...you were right. Once. Get over it. Thanks for inviting me to lunch. Of course I'd never say No. You terrified me. I would have chewed your food if you asked me to, but (thankfully) you didn't. And look at us now...running 5Ks. Who woulda thunk it? Thanks for being the only guy to treat me like a normal person. Oh, and when you knew the whole "42" thing, too? That was pretty awesome. Probably the smartest thing to ever happen in a Home Depot break room, let's face it. Thanks for cracking me up with your 'random' interogation questions of all the new people at work, mainly the "Are you married, Do you have a boyfriend?" question. That cracks me up. And double thanks for when you wrote the exercise/diet blog...you convinced me not to ever do that (diet, exercise and blog...I was only partially convinced). Thanks for St Paddy's Day and every time we hit the shore. Walking a parade in reverse is the way it should be, and being stuck in a dive motel room because it rained is pretty typical, too. Nothing says "Vacation Fun" like seeing the beach washed out by high tide and downpours. Thanks for having lunch with me during your senior and my freshman year of highschool. Glad your computer nerd stuff worked out for you. :) You rocked the French Horn. By the way, tell your parents the purple door still works! Thanks for being cool at The Silo. I liked your hat. And I'm sorry it didn't work out with that blonde. But really, you should've told me your friend was a douchebag, so you kinda deserved not getting anywhere with that blonde. I'm just sayin'... Thanks for being my fellow reading nerd friend in 8th grade. Sorry we lost track of each other...seemingly twice in our lives... and I'm with you: It's hard to believe Wally became a Bible Banger! Really? He used to be cute... Thanks for teaching me Southern women curse. Even though I practically had a coronary when I heard you drop the F bomb for the first time, it was one of the most defining moments in my life: Insurance companies weren't that scary and Suthern Belles DO swear! Thank you, N.C., for being one of those random, lingering people from highschool who connected with me on Facebook and then decided to follow my blog. I'm not really sure why we didn't talk more in highschool. I don't remember either of us being exceptionally cool...but what's done is done. Glad you're still alive.

12/26/98 - Just 'cuz (lyrics courtesy of "Over You" by Miranda Lambert

Weather man said it’s gonna snow
By now I should be used to the cold
Mid-February shouldn’t be so scary
It was only December
I still remember the presents, the tree, you and me

But you went away
How dare you?
I miss you
They say I’ll be OK
But I’m not going to ever get over you

Living alone here in this place
I think of you, and I’m not afraid
Your favorite records make me feel better
Cause you sing along
With every song
I know you didn’t mean to give them to me

But you went away
How dare you?
I miss you
They say I’ll be OK
But I’m not going to ever get over you

It really sinks in, you know, when I see it in stone

Cause you went away,
How dare you?
I miss you
They say I’ll be OK
But I’m not going to ever get over you

But I have five, so what does that say about me?

Richard Jeni once said, "I always look for a woman who has a tattoo. I see a woman with a tattoo and I'm thinking OK, here's a gal who is capable of making a decision she'll regret in the future." There's something to think about.

Last week my mom and I flew out to the desert to visit my sister and her family. We find we're more effective as a team: I've got youth on my side, Mom's got experience. Between us both, we can keep those two little boys under control...until one morning...

I was in the kitchen and my sister and brother in law were gone to work. I heard a Bang Bang Bang! "Open the door!" coming from my mom, about 30 feet away, down the hall. Apparently the youngest son, who is just about 3 years old, locked himself in the bathroom with the one dog. "OPEN THIS DOOR NOW!" I could tell she was trying to be authoritative and not show fear, but that kid didn't care either way. He was busy with the dog and all the cool stuff kids find in bathrooms - toilet paper, shampoo, toilets... Poor Mom. Poor dog. But hey, dogs have teeth, right? If it got bad in there, I would imagine survival instinct would kick in. Bang bang! "You better open this door....!" Uh oh, I think she was about to crack.

Right when I was getting ready to walk down the hall and offer my assistance (which just means I'm tall enough to reach one of the spare keys my sister keeps above each door frame in the house), the little dude opened the door, the dog ran out and all was well. We never found out what he did to the dog in there, but she smelled faintly of Oil of Olay for the rest of the day. It was the first time I ever saw my mom drink wine before 9am. Hey, it's adult grape juice. I let her go.

And then there was my big date with my oldest nephew. We went to see "The Lorax" and he was pretty pumped. He's such a good kid. He's one of those good natured, helpful kids that would give you the shirt off his back...but apparently that's where his goodwill ends, as I found out in the theatre. He may share his toys, his popcorn, let you ride his bike (if you'll fit), hell, even offer you the last piece of bubble gum...but try to get even one piece of Chocolate Covered Cookie Dough candy out of his little fingers and you'll have better luck winning the $50 million Power Ball 3 times in a row. Can you believe he waited until the lights dimmed and the movie started before he opened the box of candy? Like I wasn't going to hear/smell him eat them. And afterwards I said, "Hey, I bet that candy sure was good in there," to which he replied, "It was, especially since I didn't share!" And then he laughed at me! Oooo, ZING! He got me good. I have declared him my FAVORITE 7 year old nephew.

Annnd back to the other kid. He has some difficulty saying a strong C. My family's nickname for me is Crissy (which is strange since my name is Georgia...ha ha...but seriously...) Straight from the mouths of babes: To the 3 year old, the kid who struggles to say a hard C, my name was Titsy. Like my real first name isn't stripper-sounding enough, now I've got Titsy as a nickname. Hopefully he outgrows it, and until then I'll be wearing padded bras and heavy sweaters. The best part of being called Titsy, though, is that every time it comes up, my mom cracks up laughing like it's the first time she's heard it. That cracks ME up, and then it's just a never-ending circle of laughs.

On our last night, my sister let the oldest nephew stay up later to hang with Aunt Titsy and Grandma Lady (my family is hell on names). When he was finally being sent off to bed my mom grabbed him for a bear hug. She started saying all those cool things Grandmas say, things like Be a good boy, Watch out for those girls chasin' ya, I love you so much... and then it was MY turn. I gave him a big hug, which started off a little awkward because I grabbed him by the head (we have big heads in my family, what can I say?)... and I didn't know what to say. My mom said all the good stuff. So I was like (huuuuug!), "Uh, yeah, so uh, be good and uh...don't do drugs." And he laughed at me.

So there it was, my big shining moment in being influential in a child's life. The only thing we can do now is see if it sticks.

It's all relative.

I would imagine if you have lived to be at least 25 years of age, there has been a moment in your life when you've accidentally dropped something into a toilet. Now correct me if I'm wrong: The second it happens, the first thought you have is, "Do I really want that back?" followed up with, "I wonder if I can just flush it?" And then there's the, "What else don't I mind getting poop water on to scoop ____ out?"

Let's face it, we see a dog drink out of a toilet and while we think it's gross, we don't think much more than that. BUT...drop a cell phone or toothbrush or even tweezers in that same toilet and the main thought is "I pooped in that bowl a few hours ago!"

It's all relative.

For some reason, when the house temperature is 71 in the winter I freeze, but in the summer, 71 makes me sweat.

And here's a random thought: I think pigeons are really reincarnated Egyptians.

Here's a second random thought: I don't think Michael Jackson ever existed. I just think LaToya got sick of playing two people.

For the record: I am okay with that whole, "Everything happens for a reason," idea...

And 'off-the-record': ...I just want to know what the 'reason' is up front.

Lastly: What doesn't kill us makes us stronger. Look at Magic Johnson. He's in the prime of his life.

I want to run for President, and let me tell you why...

First of all, I agree with a lot of what Mitt Romney says. Why is it such a big deal not to be concerned about the extremely poor? A family living at the poverty level still eats better than a college student who works 3 jobs. And that's just the beginning, people. I have a WHOLE campaign set up, and it goes something like this:

1. Legalize all drugs and tax the shit out of them. People won't use more or less drugs based on their legal status. Booze is legal and there are millions of people over the age of 21 who aren't raging alcoholics. Look, I'm not saying we should put drugs on sale, I'm just saying legalize them and make extra money all around. The country will get out of debt AND welfare payouts will decrease with every crackwhore overdose.

2. Sterilize everyone on social security under the age of 55, and anyone on welfare who has at least one child (man or woman). This should pretty much limit the payouts of both funds, not to mention discourage people from bumming off the system. If you want more money, keep your pants on and get a job. Oh, and if you're 'sick' enough to cash in on disability? Tough shit. If this were 1889, your 'crippled' ass would either be dead in a field or you'd have to suck it up and help plant and harvest with the rest of your family. We're bringing Darwinism back.

3. Homeless people - export them to Mexico; consider it an even trade. Gracias.

4. The pink flamingo will be the new national bird. Flamingos are fun and sassy. So will be the United States of America.

5. Secret Service will be fired. Things aren't fun to kill if there isn't a challenge.

6. Four day work weeks for everyone. You're welcome.

So this Presidential election, forget Santorum. Ignore Romney. Screw Gingrich. Write MY name into the ballot and people, we'll get this country rockin'!