"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'!

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.