Midlife Mediocrity

Teenagers: Not as Dumb as You Think They Are

2012-02-01T09:30:00.002-05:00

One of the benefits of being married to a "car guy" is that our cars last us forever. Thanks to Jeff, I drove a 1990 Nissan Stanza until it had 300,000 miles on it and the insurance company told us they'd no longer cover it after a very minor fender-bender. Awesome car, by the way.

My current ride is a 2000 Toyota convertible which Jeff refers to as my "car for life" (he's not joking). Jeff keeps it in pristine condition. It looks & drives like it just came off the showroom floor and the mileages is still relatively low, so it'll be my ride for many years to come. It's in such good shape that the Toyota dealer tries to buy it from us every time we take it in for service. And while I love my car, sometimes I have visions of something a little...newer. Sadly, we replace cars on a need-basis only in our family, and my "need" is way off over the horizon.

I had a glimmer of hope when my 15-year-old stepson, Aaron, approached me about the possibility of "inheriting" my car when he turns 16. Visions of hard-top convertibles danced in my head! All we had to do was convince Jeff that it was a good idea.

I approached Jeff with the topic, and Jeff replied that we should offer Aaron our spare car (a 1997 Nissan Pathfinder with 250,000 miles on it that we refer to as "Boomer's Car" because it's the only car our Great Dane fits in). I countered that Aaron needed something more reliable and we'd never be able to get Boomer to the vet without the Pathfinder. It was a convincing argument, but Jeff said that he thought Aaron would prefer the SUV (which I knew wasn't true) so we should give him a choice.

Woo Frigging Hoo, people! I was about to hand off my 12-year-old ride for a better, faster, stronger "car for life"! I started browsing websites for my new (used) car.

The next time Jeff visited Aaron in North Carolina, he made the offer that Aaron could choose from our cars.

Aaron's response? "Thanks, Dad! I'll take your Maxima."

DAMMIT. Car for life, indeed.

Mane Manners

2012-01-31T19:21:00.001-05:00

I don't normally do this, but I'm about to get a little political. Don't get me wrong: I vote (early & often!) and I have a pretty strong opinion about all things politic, I just don't usually get into it here.

That being said...here we go. WTF is up with Callista Gingrich's hair?

I'm a proud Southern Girl. Granted, I'm the kind of Southern Girl that thinks that the problem with Atlanta is that it's surrounded by Georgia, but I did spend 4 years in Auburn, Alabama in college (in the 80's, no less) which gives me a bit of Strand Street Cred. Coiffure Currency, if you will.

Those of you who haven't had much interaction with gently-bred Southern Gals probably don't know this, but there are Tendril Tenets that we learn from a very young age.

The basis of these Ringlet Rules is the law of 2 of 3 (i.e. your hair can feature 2 of the 3 following characteristics, but no more):

Helmet Head
Color Not Occurring in Nature
"The Swoop" (not to be confused with "The Pouf" sported by our sisters up North)

Enter our girl Callista:

photo credit: www.ibtimes.com

I've got to be honest people: I see a 3 of 3 violation here. And not in a good way. Dare I say a Hat Trick? (more like Impervious Platinum Helmet). We have helmet. We have unnatural color . And we have swoopage.

I don't get the "how". And I don't get the "why". I kind of don't even get the "what". And in a time when so many people turn to political spouses to soften a candidate's image...I just don't get her at all. When people are lining up to ask you how you get your hair to "do that", it might be time to reconsider your look. There are rules for a reason, sister. It's for all of us!

Bring it , 2012!

2012-01-30T10:25:00.001-05:00

This year started out so well. It really did! But it didn’t take long for things to take a sharp left turn and spiral quickly toward the gutter. As usual.

I rang in 2012 as the Designated Driver on the way home from watching my beloved Auburn Tigers kick some butt in the Chick-Fil-A Bowl on New Year’s Eve. That’s right: other people actually entrusted me with the responsibility of getting everyone home safely. And by "other people", I mean my brother. Who, by the way, was so completely shitfaced that he accused a woman wearing blue flashing novelty glasses of trying to pull him over for "walking under the influence" and then handed his phone to a homeless person and asked him to take a picture of us posing with a stadium trash can. Haven’t seen the picture yet, but I’ll be sure to share it once I do. I’m sure it’s quite tasteful.

So how did I go from responsible driver on Jan 1 to recipient of a tetanus shot, two bouts of different antibiotics for unrelated injuries, five stitches, and being the idiot whose friends have to steal her car keys from her purse and then force her into their car Patty Hearst-style to prevent her from driving drunk by Jan 30? It defies explanation, although the Margarita Machine that Jeff gave me for Christmas is a contributing factor.

In my defense, the car keys situation was an isolated incident - I’m normally very cautious about getting behind the wheel. I should have realized that it’s none too smart to spend a few hours in a bar immediately after attending the funeral for a high school friend, five days after the anniversary of my Mother’s death and six months after I lost my Dad. Combine that with a group of high school friends sending drink after drink my way (vodka with a splash of cranberry, anyone?), and it’s the perfect recipe for bad decisions. And I’ll never live down the fact that FRT was the responsible party in this situation (well, Mrs. FRT, actually). When FRT tells you you’re too drunk...you’re way past the point of no return. I should have known better.

The stitches, tetanus shot & antibiotics, however, are all on me (compliments of the aforementioned Margarita Machine). I make no excuses.

At this rate, 2012 is going to be EPIC!

UPDATE (You're welcome):

Bitch Burglary

2011-11-18T09:43:00.002-05:00

My God, people. Just when I was finally starting to feel safe & secure in my little town of Buford, GA, the following article appeared in yesterday's local paper:

Holy Shit! Someone stole a pink rubber bracelet from Spencer's at the mall! Things will never be the same around here. It's hard-hitting journalistic masterpieces such as this that make me regret leaving the newspaper biz to get into real estate. I've been following this compelling story very closely. Here's the additional information I've been able to gather:

In an emergency press briefing, County Police officials released the following statement: “In our continuing investigations, we have uncovered evidence that this may not be an isolated incident. We believe this heinous crime is part of an ongoing criminal enterprise and encourage retailers and citizens to safeguard all rubber jewelry featuring expletives until further notice. Citizens are encouraged to remain calm and to consider public safety before reacting. Spencer’s has informed us that although the ‘bitch’ bracelet remains missing, there are plenty of bracelets inscribed with the word ‘whore’ available as well as a limited supply of ‘slut’ bracelets. We have fast-tracked this investigation and will focus all available manpower to identifying a suspect. Although we are leaving all investigative avenues open, we believe the thief is likely a female high school student, perhaps with Daddy issues, who may possibly be an actual bitch. Obviously this type of suspect is very dangerous and should not be approached by individual citizens. If you identify a suspect, please dial 911.”

I'll keep you posted as additional details become available.

Dog Days (and Nights)

2011-11-17T13:12:00.000-05:00

Fair Warning: This is yet another post about my dogs. Read no further if you’re sick and/or tired of being regaled with tales (and tails) of life with Boomer & Marley. You know who you are.

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Boomer (all 135 pounds of him) has taken to laying directly at my feet every night while I watch TV. And by directly at my feet, I mean right where I put my feet on the floor when I'm sitting in my favorite chair, which leaves no room for my actual feet. "Under foot" is an understatement.

Boomer doesn't really have a "spot" in our house. He hangs out on the guest bed while we're at work and he usually just lays on the floor next to us when we're home. I decided it was time to try to find him an area to call his own. Hopefully nowhere near my feet. First step: Buy a Mack-Daddy dog bed that he won't be able to resist. I found the perfect bed on the L.L. Bean website, and three days and $300 later it was delivered.

Assembly was a bit of a bitch, as evidenced below. And don't give me any shit about my giant glass of wine on the side table. Iced White Zinfandel: signature drink of the white trash female.

Once I had the bed (badly) assembled, I put it in the corner and waited for the magic to happen. Based on previous experience, I knew that Boomer needed to "discover" the new bed by himself, and then "claim" it as his own (he won't touch a new dog toy unless you put it down and leave the room - Great Danes are ridiculously passive). I also knew that if I made a big deal about the bed, he'd assume it was mine and he'd never get within 10 feet of it. So once the bed was in place I left the room to let nature take it's course. I checked back every few minutes to see how he responded.

8:30 p.m.: Oh, shit. Wrong dog. "Marley! Move! MOVE!! That's not your bed!" I finally got her to move to her own bed in the opposite corner.

8:45 p.m.: Oh, for the love of God. "Marley! GET OUT! That's not your bed." She eventually moved to her own bed again.

9:00 p.m.: "Marley. Dammit! NOT. YOUR. BED." This time I relocated her to her own bed myself.

9:15 p.m. : "Hey, ASSHOLE! Move." I finally had to lock her in the guest room. Obedience isn't really one of her strengths.

I was worried that all the commotion might have scared Boomer away from the overpriced bed forever, but eventually his curiosity got the best of him.

9:20 p.m.: He's giving it a try, but he looks decidedly nervous about it.

9:25 p.m.: Still not sure about it. But after 5 solid minutes of me repeating "goodboygoodboygoodboygoodboy" I think he was afraid to move.

9:30p.m.: V-I-C-T-O-R-Y!

Sweet Jesus. The things we do for our dogs!

One Year Later...rehab edition

2011-11-16T11:31:00.000-05:00

Remember last year when I posted this picture of the bar at my house and the feedback I received trended toward "Are you & Jeff saving your money or are you hoping to get a group discount at rehab?"

Behold: One. Year. Later.

After I removed the lamp to make more room we still had several bottles that didn't fit, so I shoved all my favorite vodkas in the spare freezer for safekeeping (chilled coconut vodka = heaven!).

I was also going to also post a picture of our wine rack and inside of our beer fridge, but I was afraid we'd have too many uninvited guests this weekend. You know I don't like to share!

Cheers!

Princess Power (or lack thereof)

2011-11-13T12:49:00.000-05:00

I spent yesterday watching a tragic afternoon of Auburn football at the home of my pal and fellow blogger FRT.

I'd like to say that I visit them to enjoy catching up with him and his lovely wife (both of whom I've known since high school and are two of my favorite people), but I think we all know that I head to his house because I adore his kids - Things 1-3. It's nice to be around kids with whom I can enjoy intelligent, compelling conversation, such as the talk I had with my cohort in middle child-dom, kindergarten-aged Thing 2 after we heard another child claim to be a princess:

Thing 2: I don't like princesses. Don't. Like. Them.
LAB: Me either!
T2:   Really?
LAB: Yep - princess is a crummy job, if you ask me.
T2:   Why?
LAB: Because everyone knows that in a constitutional monarchy, parliament has all the power. To aspire to be anything less than Prime Minister is to choose to be a figurehead. Plus, I'm pretty sure princesses have to wear pantyhose.
T2:   Ummm.. What?
LAB: Princess bad. Prime Mister good.
T2:   Right. Want some Skittles? I saved you some red ones.

God, I love that kid.

If you've ever wondered why I shouldn't have kids...there's the answer.

Cattle Battle

2011-11-10T09:37:00.001-05:00

Jeff went to the junkyard yesterday because now that I've forbidden more cars at the house I'm pretty sure he's trying to sneak them in piece by piece and he sent me this awesome picture:

Obviously a picture such as this raises several questions, so we had the following exchange when I got home from work:

LAB: Are all cattle girls?
Jeff: Oh my God. No. Cows are female. Male cattle are steer.
LAB: Oh.
Jeff: If they were all girls, how would you get more?
LAB: I don' know. Animal husbandry isn't my specialty.
Jeff: The fact that the words "animal husbandry" exist in your vocabulary terrifies me.
LAB: I went to college in Alabama.
Jeff: Clearly.
LAB: But all bulls are male, right?
Jeff: Yes.
LAB: Then how do you get more bulls?
Jeff: I'm really glad we had this talk.

Geriatric Stripper Shoes

2011-11-07T16:35:00.001-05:00

Over the weekend, I received some feedback from my pal Hoss that posting any ridiculous bullshit on my blog was better than posting nothing at all. And so, without further delay, I give you any ridiculous bullshit.

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Between our work and travel schedules, Jeff and I have seen very little of each other for the past 8 weeks. Substantial stretches of time apart, by the way, is the secret to our successful marriage. Last weekend we finally had a couple of days together, and I used all 48 hours of it to generally bug the shit out of him. Because I can’t stop myself, no matter how hard I try. This morning he was practically giddy to see me almost ready to leave for work. Until we had this exchange:

LAB: Is this outfit too matchy?

Jeff: What the hell does “too matchy” mean?

LAB: Does it look like I’m trying too hard?

Jeff: What the hell does “trying too hard” mean?

LAB: You know. Does it look like it’s overly coordinated?

Jeff: Oh, Jesus. It matches. Does that answer your question?

LAB: I know it matches. Is it too matchy?

Jeff: Blink. Blink.

LAB: Well?

Jeff: It matches. If you were wearing Garanimals, you’d be hippo and hippo.

LAB: Is that a swipe at my weight?

Jeff: Oh, Jesus.

LAB: You could have said giraffe and giraffe. Or antelope and antelope. But you said hippo.

Jeff: Giraffes and antelopes don’t make noise and therefore can never be used in an analogy involving you. Hippos, on the other hand...

LAB: Fair enough.

Jeff: While we’re talking about it, I think you should rethink those shoes.

LAB: The shoes aren’t in play right now.

Jeff: No, seriously. Where does one buy shoes like that? And why are they so shiny? They look like geriatric stripper shoes. Did you buy them at the geriatric stripper store? I bet they love you there. You should open a store that caters to geriatric strippers and drag queens. You’d totally be in your element.

LAB: I’m not worried about the shoes.

Jeff: You shouldn't be worried about the matchiness of your outfit when you’re sporting Wonder Woman’s metallic slippers on your feet. Trust me. Will you be taking the invisible airplane to work or should I just warm up your car?

LAB: Never mind.

Jeff: Exactly.

Further Evidence of my Impressive Leadership Skills

2011-10-18T16:14:00.000-04:00

I try not to blog too much about work. Primarily because Jeff says I have to keep a job and if I lose this one I’m pretty sure a vinyl apron and hairnet are in my future. Which reminds me of one of my favorite jokes, compliments of Fake AP Stylebook on Twitter: While it's tempting to call them "baristi" because of the Italian roots, the plural of "barista" is "journalism graduates."

But back to my job. We hosted a charity hot air balloon festival last weekend for 6,000 guests at our community in North Atlanta. Because it didn’t occur to us that since we only have three full-time employees, we’d probably kill ourselves. Ramping up for the event involved night after night after night of very late hours at the office. And in the world of LAB, late night at the office = BYOB. I’m a hard worker, but I’m not a complete idiot.

A couple of days before the event, we were sitting in a meeting with the office group as well as some part-timers, volunteers and sponsors and one of them said “did you guys know someone has been drinking in your office? There were all kinds of Smirnoff Ice bottles in the kitchen trash.” Needless to say, my coworkers’ eyes all turned to me. I make no excuses.

After the meeting, a part-timer came into my office and said she couldn’t believe I was drinking at work. My response? “If I’m sitting at my desk at 9 p.m. assigning volunteers to game stations, I’m pretty sure nobody’s getting hurt if I’m having a couple of adult beverages. Besides, it’s not like I’m flaunting it all over the place. I put the bottles in my drawer in the refrigerator where no one can see them.”

No one, including my boss, ever said another word about it. Because they wouldn't dare.

Event day came and at the end of the day I headed to the fridge for a drink before we started cleanup. I opened my drawer...and there were six different kinds of beer in it in addition to my Smirnoff Ice. Apparently word traveled fast. Everyone I work with had bought into my BYOB concept and was ready to booze it up at work right along with me. Cleanup was by far the best part of the festival.

I’m a born leader, folks.

Highlander wedding? Yep, I've been there.

2011-10-11T11:56:00.003-04:00

So. Ummmm…That? Was the worst Summer of my life. Moving on.

Jeff and I went to the most awesome wedding ever last month. Ever, ever. Like, Evah.

First of all, the date of wedding was 09-10-11, which makes my paltry 04-21-01 look pitiful by comparison. 9.10.11, people. How could it not kick ass?

I should mention that it was a Jewish wedding, which is pretty much everything a wedding should be. The prayers are better than other weddings, the vows are better than other weddings and the traditions pretty much smack down all other weddings and make them their bitch. And I’m not just saying that because Christianity & I had a knock-down, drag-out battle that I’m pretty sure isn’t over. By a long shot.

Note to self: inquire as to whether or not Judaism is accepting applications.

But here’s what made the wedding awesome: All of the music in the ceremony and at the reception was taken from the score of the film Highlander. The original Highlander. Circa 1986. Sean Connery. Christopher Lambert. Connor MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. There can be only one. It was a traditional Jewish ceremony...featuring the Highlander soundtrack.

We’re talking Queen here, people. Freddy Frigging Mercury. At a wedding. In the ceremony. It was so awesome that I don’t think the word awesome sufficiently describes it. Dare I say it was the awesome-est?

There were Brian May-style electric guitar solos during the ceremony. Remember 80’s era Brian May solos? They sounded like lasers. Laser guitars, people. My friend had laser guitars in her wedding ceremony. I somehow feel less married by this fact. How can I be married if I didn’t have laser guitars to seal the deal? I think it’s possible that the geriatric pianist pounding out show tunes on a Yamaha upright at my wedding reception may have invalidated the whole damn thing.

Second Note to self: Don’t let Jeff know that we may not actually be married. He’ll trade me in like an ’82 Peugeot for sure.

So we get to the reception, and the bride and groom have their first dance to a 10-minute electric guitar solo version of “Who Wants to Live Forever”. A laser guitar first dance. An impromptu *singalong* laser guitar first dance. Holy, holy shit people. How could I not have thought of this for my wedding? I wish I could accurately describe the look on Jeff’s face during the dance. It was surprise mixed with disbelief mixed with something akin to horror. Clearly he wasn’t feeling the awesomeness. Or maybe he thought it was so awesome that he was struggling to hold back the tears. I’ll ask him for clarification.

We spent three glorious hours laughing and reveling in laser guitar, open bar, party like a rock star nirvana. Mostly laughing. That, my friends, was a wedding.

There can be only one, indeed.

It seemed perfectly plausible to me...

2011-08-10T09:39:00.000-04:00

Last weekend Jeff was in the garage finally digging through some of the items he brought home from my Dad’s basement, and he came into the house carrying a small plastic dish containing a couple of metal items covered in yellow liquid.

Jeff: Holding up the dish. Check it out! I read online that if you spit twice into a dish and then pee on it, it takes the rust off metal. I put the old bottle openers from your Dad’s house in it to see if it works.

LAB: That’s gross, but whatever.

Jeff: What do you mean whatever? It’s a new cleaner I bought at Home Depot. It looks like pee. I was joking. Do you seriously think I would spit into a dish and then pee on it?
LAB: Blink. Blink.

Jeff: Seriously?

LAB: Stares at floor.

Jeff: Does that even sound like something I would do?

LAB: Oh, Jesus. There’s really no right answer to that question. I don’t know what the hell you do out there. As far as I’m concerned, peeing in a dish is best case scenario.

Jeff: Reaching into the liquid. Hey, this one says “Schlitz Malt Liquor” on it! Cool!!!

LAB: Can you do that outside? I’m still seeing pee.

A Pictorial History of my Whirlwind Work Trip to Tampa

2011-07-27T10:37:00.000-04:00

Spent 24 hours in Tampa this week to get some "face time" with the Powers-That-Be. Awesomeness ensued:

Ummm. I asked for a compact car. Not Big Pimpin' in a Crown Vic! They see me rollin'...they hatin'...

Trunk large enough for 5 dead bodies (or one bag of Boomer's food).

Look how sad my luggage looks.

Clearly I need more Coach totes to fill this bad boy up!

Killer view from my hotel room.

Does the fun ever start?

Following a Maserati to the airport.

Texting & driving may be illegal, but taking cell phone pictures through the steering wheel? Totally kosher.

Flight home delayed.

Double vodka cranberry to the rescue!

I had to order two so the first one wouldn't get lonely in my stomach.

The only other highlight from the ~~voyage of the damned~~ trip was when a guy got kicked off the flight home because he "smelled". How bad do you have to smell to get tossed from an airplane? He wasn't even embarrassed. Awesome!

Trash: It's not just in the driveway

2011-07-22T10:35:00.000-04:00

You know how sometimes you're faced with two options, and to choose Option "A" would mean you're probably a reasonably classy human being...but to choose Option "B" would mean you're headed down the crushed-beer-can-strewn path directly to trailer-trashdom? No? May be it's just me. Anyway, it seems I just can't keep myself from resisting the sweet Siren's song of Option B. Because, as I've stated before: LAB = Ghetto.

I can't believe I'm admitting this. But you're not going to be the least bit surprised by it.

At my office, we're rotating temporary staff members throughout the week this summer because my full-time coworker is on maternity leave through September. I'm here every weekday, and since we try to have two people here at all times, in any given week I work with two or three different people. All of whom are supposed to do my bidding, but we all know how that's been working out for me.

So I came to work on Monday dressed in an awesome new outfit that I had just put together. Nothing makes you feel better than knowing that you look pretty good! I even straightened my hair and wore heels. Watch your back, Kate Middleton, I'm coming for you!

On Tuesday morning, I was in my closet feeling moderately hung over and completely underwhelmed by my wardrobe options. I looked longingly at my Monday outfit, which was hanging nicely on the rack (it's a dry-clean-only ensemble, and since it was the first time I had worn it I was planning to wear it one more time before sending it to the cleaners).

And then I realized: my Monday coworker and my Tuesday coworker are two different people. And my boss hadn't been to the office at all on Monday. And none of the HOA staff had stopped by my office on Monday. And I hadn't met any potential home buyers on Monday. And Jeff hadn't seen me in my work clothes at all on Monday.

Do you see where this is headed?...down the crushed-beer-can-strewn path directly to trailer-trashdom, perhaps?

Yep - you guessed it! I put on my smokin' hot Monday outfit for a Tuesday revival.

I wore the exact same outfit to the office two days in a row. Not twice in one week. Two. Consecutive. Days. And screw you guys, I felt great wearing it the second time.

In case it raises your opinion of me, I did change my undergarments. I'm not a complete animal.

I make no apologies.

Over-served and solo

2011-07-21T11:47:00.001-04:00

Jeff’s working nights this week, which means I’m spending my evenings sitting in my favorite chair watching “Alaska State Troopers” and “Locked up Abroad” on NatGeo, not worrying about all the housework I should be doing and drinking Gallo White Zinfandel. Because Beringer stopped honoring my $5 rebates after the 49^th one I mailed them. Guess 50 is the limit. Bastards.

It’s hardly a surprise that I often find myself slightly “over-served” on nights Jeff is working. And fuck you with your “does she really sit home by herself at night and drink alone?” judgments. I can name at least 30 things I do on a regular basis that are more judgment-worthy than a little solo sipping in the evening.

Jeff’s no idiot. He can tell within 30 seconds of arriving home at 8 a.m. just how liquored up I got the night before. Like this morning, for example. Trash? Not taken to the curb for weekly pickup. Laundry room? Double doors wide-ass open to the whole world (the laundry is in the garage and has separate doors that open to the outside). Two of his least favorite things to find when he gets home. If I had left the garden hose blocking his parking spot, I would have had a hat trick!

This morning I was in the kitchen when he pulled in the driveway. I saw him get out of his car, look to the left at the trash can and then look to the right at the laundry doors. Then I saw his shoulders drop and what appeared to be a giant exhale. He actually had the nerve to walk in the door and say “Did you do laundry this morning?” Whatever.

We both know I forgot to lock the laundry room last night. What’s the big frigging deal? No one lives behind us and it’s not like anyone is going to walk around the back of our house, see that the laundry room is open and then decide to steal his tighty whities and our industrial-sized box of OxyClean. Billy Mays really knew his shit!

I don’t know why he thinks it’s such an issue. I guess it’s because we keep the beer fridge in there, and if anyone discovered our stockpile we could take a substantial hit. Right in the liquor locker, if you will. But since no one knows about the super-secret beer fridge location, our stockpile remains perfectly safe even if I forget to lock the doors.

Oh, shit. Never mind.

Reversal of Trash Fortune (AKA: words I'll always regret saying)

2011-07-19T19:22:00.003-04:00

I’ve been kind of overwhelmed the past couple of months. I had a family emergency that’s taken up most of my time and I’ve basically been at the point that I just can’t handle one more single thing.

Enter one more single thing...

While I was out dealing with said family emergency, I decided to make a quick stop at Taco Bell on the way between crisis management appointments and work to pick up a drive-through lunch. Because nothing says home cooking like 35% beef mixed with “other ingredients”.

So there I am, sitting at the bottom of the I-985 exit ramp waiting to make a right on red to get to Taco Bell, when WHAM!!! A high school kid in a brand new Jeep nails my beloved old convertible right in the rear. Insert “taking it in the rear” joke here. The police eventually arrived, only to inform me that the hitter had questionable immigration status and even more questionable car insurance.   Awesome. Note to self: How come a 17-year-old potentially-undocumented immigrant has a nicer car than I do?

I finally got back to the office and started wrangling with the high school hitter’s insurance company about getting the repairs covered. Fast forward two full weeks and the insurance co. is still tap dancing around with the requisite bullshit: New policy. Driver not covered.   Police report not ready. Insured party won’t return calls. Insured party won’t answer certified letter. Insured party won’t answer door. Blah Blah Blah.

Now I’m dealing with a family emergency and driving around in a ghetto looking car with a smacked up rear bumper and a tail light hanging on by two slim wires and a prayer, which may or may not be covered by the guilty party’s insurance company. It was literally more than I could handle (and I don’t use those words lightly – I’m usually a Ninja Warrior in a crisis situation).

Naturally, I whined to Jeff about how I’m just going to start walking everywhere I go because I can’t be bothered with working with the sketchy insurance company to get my car fixed while I’m dealing with family issues and an office workload that seems to double every day. Cue violins for my pitiful situation.

Jeff, in his infinite wisdom, says “I don’t mean to make things worse, but we’ve only got a month until you birthday and we need to get the emissions done so we can renew your tag. Oh, and since your current tag is damaged we can’t renew online. We’ll have to go to the DMV and wait in line to get a new one.” That’s two more single things, people. Possibly three.

My response? “I don’t want to hear another goddamn word about cars. EVER. Can you please just handle everything?” He got a little smile on his face, and without a second thought he said he’d take care of it. I should have noticed that he agreed a little too easily, but I kind of thought may be he was just happy to have an opportunity to take care of me. Sometimes I can be so stupid!

Anyway, I picked up the keys to our spare car (a trusty 1997 Nissan Pathfinder, with damn near a quarter-million miles on it), and went about my business while he handled the insurance battle and car repair (which took 6 more weeks plus repair time, by the way).

About half way through the repair process I came home one night after work and noticed subtle changes in our driveway. First, I saw large oil stains along the drive. Based on my years with Jeff I know this is a sure sign of a tow truck visit. Also based on my history with Jeff, I know that tow trucks only come to our property to make deliveries. Because I’m not lucky enough to have anything hauled away. Next, I noticed that the Ford truck under the truck cover at the end of the drive appeared to be substantially shorter than the truck that was in the same spot when I left for work in the morning.

People, contrary to popular belief, I am not a moron. A switcheroo had taken place behind my back. Total. Marriage. Foul. The penalties would be swift.

I entered the house, walked right up to Jeff and here’s what transpired:

LAB: “What’s under the truck cover?”

Jeff: “A 1971 Ford F-100, same as always.”

LAB: “You sure that’s what you’re going with? I know it’s a different truck because the one parked in the driveway doesn’t have an 8-foot bed.” See how observant I am! Nothing gets past me!

Jeff: “Well it’s not the *same* truck, but it’s a Ford F-100.”

LAB: “Uh huh. Where did this mysteriously different Ford F-100 come from?”

Jeff: “I had it towed in. For parts.”

LAB: “Uh huh. Where’s the other truck?”

Jeff: “I rented a parking spot for it at the storage place around the corner. It’s just for 30 days, so I can strip it of the parts I need and bring the other one back.”

LAB: “Uh huh.”

Jeff: “What?”

LAB: “Seriously? You bought another parts car after we just got rid of that piece of crap LTD you bought for parts?”

Jeff: “Of course. The LTD had already been stripped. What’s the problem?”

LAB: “You brought another piece of shit car in here without telling me! I thought we agreed: talk first, buy later.”

And here it comes people. The zinger:

Jeff: “You told me that you didn’t want to hear another goddamn word about cars, remember? As I recall, you also added the word EVER.”

Touché, Jeff. You win this one.

I know what you guys are thinking: LAB, you make this shit up just to amuse yourself.

Nope. Not only did he tow in a complete POS truck, but it’s full of tires & trash. Which I hope didn’t cost extra. Behold our new acquisition!

Here's the proud owner, taking his own photos of his new pride & joy:

Ain't she a beauty?

And complete with bald, dead, smelly tires in the cab!

Not sure where the trash ends and the truck begins:

I was smart enough not to ask Jeff how much he paid for this fine item. Although I was seriously tempted to ask him if he back charged the previous owner for trash removal. I totally brought this one on myself. Won't happen again.

Kid Fail

2011-06-22T09:03:00.001-04:00

My stepson is in town this week, which is awesome because it's like having a 14-year-old male version of myself around all the time. He totally gets all my jokes (and thinks I'm hilarious), he enjoys the same TV shows and movies as I do, and he completely agrees with me that the living room sofa renders the dining room table useless.

Last night we decided that we need to invest in more airsoft pistols so we can ambush Jeff every night when he gets home from work (because water balloons are, like, so last year). Aaron said he'd jump on the computer and do some research before we go shopping. I told him to check out the Bass Pro Shop website first. He printed a few options and asked me what site to visit next. I thought Dick's Sporting Goods might be a good choice, but I didn't know the name of the site. I said "just Google Dicks". So he did.

Ummm. Yeah. Guess I should have thought that one through first.

Parrothead Fail

2011-06-16T11:28:00.001-04:00

Haven’t been around the ole Blog-O-Sphere much lately, primarily because I’ve been trying to slip out from under the big black cloud that has been firmly parked above my head for about a month. Between ailing family members, crazy work schedules and inconvenient car crashes, May (and now June) have been a real bitch. And I’m sure as hell not dragging my bad Karma into my blog. It’s my happy place!

To be honest, I’m finding plenty of humor in my life these days but it’s so wildly inappropriate that putting it on paper or online would cause you to question both my good taste and my sanity (neither of which I have in abundance, even in the best of times).

And now I’m facing a weekend that may possibly kill me.

My office sponsors outdoor concerts every June to try to drum up home sales traffic in our little corner of North Atlanta. We hire regional bands (a step up from local, but not big-time national groups) and they play on our Village Green on Saturday nights. It’s a really nice free family event that brings out residents and guests alike. I kind of enjoy working at them, even though they’re ridiculously labor-intensive due to our tiny staff. We run ads on local radio stations and in newspapers, and usually around 1,500 – 2,000 people show up. Not too shabby for an office with only three full-time employees!

Anyway, our last concert for the year is this weekend and I’ve been getting the strangest phone calls. People keep calling here and asking “What time is Jimmy Buffett playing on Saturday?” Ummmm, Jimmy Buffett? In this small town? I think not people. I’ve seen the ads for the concerts, and they clearly say “Beach Music & Golden Oldies” on the 18^th. That’s not Jimmy Buffett peeps.

So yesterday I was leaving the office for the day and I looked over at our literature table and saw the original flyers that we printed for the concerts back in early Spring. And right there...printed on the flyer...it says “June 18: Jimmy Buffett and Golden Oldies.” Oh. Holy. Shit. Someone printed materials that imply that Jimmy Buffett is coming here. On Saturday. It was corrected before the ads went out to the media, but everything that was distributed by hand to local businesses is misleading (at best).

Granted, any person in their right mind would know that the flyer means the band will play Jimmy Buffett-style beach music and oldies, but “right mind” and people in small-town Georgia don’t often intersect. Last week we were literally bursting at the port-o-potty seams with 1,800 concert goers. Hopefully we don’t overflow with Parrotheads on Saturday. On the bright side, if things get ugly at least Mr. Buffett won’t be here to see it.

My Karma and I need a vacation.

Well Marbled in Hell

2011-05-26T10:23:00.002-04:00

For crap's sake, people. I try to do the right thing. I swear I do! But I keep ending up in situations where I find myself in possession of various items for which I did not pay. Want some real-LAB-life examples? Just look here and here.

And it happened again. Last week I was at Publix buying a handful of items on the way home from visiting my Dad, who was in the hospital recovering from surgery. Between the hospital and Publix my beloved convertible was rear-ended by a high school kid with sketchy insurance, so I had kind of a lot on my mind while I was checking out in the express lane. It's not like it's rocket science to ring up three 2-liter bottles of Diet Coke, a bag of potatoes and some limes, so I figured I didn't have to monitor the cashier's activities too closely. I paid for my purchases, the bagger loaded them into my cart and I rolled the cart outside and tossed the bags into the (smushed) trunk of my car. Nothing seemed particularly amiss.

When I got home, I unloaded my groceries and took everything out of the bags. Here's what I found: three 2-liter bottles of Diet Coke, a bag of potatoes, some limes... along with four ribeye steaks and a package of Famous Amos vanilla sandwich cookies. Yep, someone else's groceries found their way into the trunk of my car. The receipt was even in the bag. Someone bought just those few items, paid with a debit card, and I guess either left them at the register or left them in the cart in which the bagger loaded my groceries. Those are the only two possibilities I can think of to explain how these items came into my possession.

I couldn't really figure out what to do from there. If I took the steaks back to Publix, would they look for the person who paid for them and then return them to their proper owner? Would Publix just put them back out and sell them again (someone had already paid for them - I had the receipt). The steaks were clearly not mine. I know this. But seriously people. I'm dealing with an ailing father, a wrecked car and a serious backlog of work at my office because my personal life has been sucking up 2-3 hours of work time a day. (Rationalizing really is my greatest strength).

So I turned to the most moral person I know: I called Jeff at work to ask for his opinion. His response?

Jeff: "What do the steaks look like?"
LAB: "They look like $35 of meat I didn't pay for. Should I take them back?"
Jeff: "No, I mean are they well marbled?"
LAB: "You think I should KEEP them?"
Jeff: "I think you're dealing with enough problems right now. I'm sure Publix made the customer whole by replacing the items."
LAB: "But..."
Jeff: "Remember Blockbuster? If you want to go through that humiliation again, go right ahead."
LAB: "No way. Putting them in the fridge now."

We ate the steaks (and the cookies). I'm going to hell.

Culinary Charade

2011-05-18T11:29:00.004-04:00

Like many Southern women, I pride myself on my cooking. My Creamy Fried Confetti Corn is so good you'll want to smack your Grandma. No lie. And my Chocolate Pecan Pie? It's the surefire route to a marriage proposal. Trust me.

But like most contemporary women, balancing time-consuming homemade recipes and a busy schedule is a challenge. So I cut corners when I can.

A couple of Sundays ago, my family got together at my Dad's house to celebrate my brother's birthday. I volunteered to cook. I decided I'd make pot roast, hand-mashed potatoes and a big pot of fresh green beans (cooked with chopped onions, a chunk of pork fat and a bay leaf, naturally). But the weekend got busy and before I knew it it was time to head over to my Dad's to start cooking. I realized that there wasn't going to be time to make pot roast, or any other type of roast for that matter. So I committed the Cardinal Sin of Southern Womanhood. I bought a pre-cooked package of Hormel Beef Roast au Jus. Clearly I'm going straight to hell (in just three days if Christian calculations are correct). Lucky for me the end of days isn't scheduled to occur until 6 p.m. on the 21st, so I still have time to get my laundry done. But I digress.

It wasn't enough of a crime to serve the pre-packaged protein. Not for me, at least. I had the nerve to try to pass it off as my own recipe. Hormel as Homemade, if you will. So instead of popping the package into the microwave for four minutes as directed, I put it in a baking dish and baked it in the oven so it would look like I made it myself. Then I proudly served it along with my hand-mashed potatoes and special-recipe green beans. I should have known better.

At the dinner table, my sister said "What cut of meat is this? A chuck roast?" My reply: "Ummm. Pot Roast" (I never claimed to be a quick thinker). She mentioned that her husband is on a low-carb diet and said after dinner she wanted to get the recipe from me. I smelled a confession in my future.

After dinner my sister and I were cleaning up the kitchen and she asked me several pot-roast-related questions. I'm pretty sure she was being sincere, but I'm open to the possibility that she knew she had me nailed and she was screwing with me. I wouldn't put it past her - she's nobody's fool! So I finally dug deep, deep into the trash can in which I had buried the pre-packaged evidence and I confessed my crime. I'm a food fraud. A repast pretender. A dinner duper. I felt dirty.

The good news is that she was excited to find a really easy low-carb dish to tell her husband about. The bad news is that I'll forever live under a cloud of dietary distrust no matter how labor-intensive future meals may be. Oh, well. At least the beans were good.

Think before you speak, Jackass!

2011-05-17T16:44:00.000-04:00

Yesterday I posted this picture on Facebook and bitched about how tacky this "car" (and I use the term very loosely) looks in our driveway:

Jeff bought this ridiculous 1969 Ford LTD to strip out the engine and transmission and then scrap the remaining car. The fact that it's a temporary addition to our collection and that he keeps it under a car cover and out of sight when he's not working on it doesn't make it any more palatable to me. Our house has officially turned into Sanford & Son.

So last night I'm bitching to him about what the neighbors must think of us (as if their opinions aren't already firmly in place) and how trashy we are to have 5 cars scattered around our property.

Jeff's response? "We have 6 cars. Don't forget the one in storage".

Thanks for the reminder, Jack Ass. Have I mentioned how lucky he is that I love him?

The one where Jeff regains control

2011-04-26T14:29:00.000-04:00

Today's the day that I officially admit that I've lost the "upper hand" in my marriage. Don't get me wrong: for a few early years Jeff was basically my bitch. It was glorious! But no more. Lately he's been out-God-damn-flanking me at every turn. He's been playing me like a country fiddle at a backyard hoedown (and it's exactly as bad as it sounds).

Want an example (and I'm ashamed to admit that I walked right into this one)? Jeff took me out to lunch last Saturday, which isn't too unusual, and we had the following exchange.

Jeff: How's your sandwich?
LAB: Great.
Jeff: So, I, ummmmmm, bought an engine hoist.
LAB: Excuse me?
Jeff: You know, an engine hoist. To pull engines out of cars.
LAB: Hmmmmm.
Jeff: It only cost XXX hundred dollars. (amount redacted to hide our spendy ways)
LAB: XXX hundred dollars? What a coincidence. You spent the exact same amount on a necklace that you "spontaneously" bought me last week on vacation.
Jeff: Huh. I didn't think of that.
LAB: Hmmmmm.
Jeff: What?
LAB: You unexpectedly spent XXX hundred dollars on a gift for me, and then you spent XXX hundred dollars on something you have wanted for years but couldn't justify buying.
Jeff: Huh. How about that.
LAB: Yep. How about that. So now you figure that I've got nowhere to go with this, don't you?
Jeff: If you say so.
LAB: You win this one. But don't get cocky.

Remember my last post, in which I gloated about how I "tricked" Jeff into buying me a nice necklace while we were on vacation? Yeah. Not so much. I think I may have grossly underestimated him.

The reappearance of Fun Jeff

2011-04-20T09:21:00.000-04:00

One of the great things about our anniversary trip was that “fun Jeff” showed up, as opposed to “less fun, but still tolerable Jeff” or “Jesus Christ, could his mood get any worse? Jeff”. I see more of that guy than I care to, but it’s usually because of something I did. Or didn’t do. Or broke. Or drove into the side of the house (but that only happened once).

Jeff’s mood is directly related to the amount of sleep he gets and he was working nights the week before we left for vacation, which meant he’d had crappy daytime sleep for a solid week. I was naturally concerned that the Jeff I’d find on vacation might not be the Jeff with whom I really wanted to spend 24 hours a day for several days in a row. Thankfully, he was in great spirits for the entire trip.

As part of his good spirits, Jeff took me to a jeweler in Savannah that had a bunch of funky jewelry in the storefront window and told me to pick something out. He never does this. Never. We usually agree beforehand how much we’ll spend on gifts for each other and we don’t deviate from the agreed-upon cost. Plus, there’s a moratorium on jewelry purchases in our house. There’s also a moratorium on sourdough bread, but that’s a story for another day.

But last week he walked me into the jeweler and over to a display case that had gold, silver and semi-precious-stone items in it (all very reasonably priced) and told me to pick out anything I wanted and it could be my anniversary / early birthday present. I thought for a minute and asked “Anything”?

It was at this point that Jeff made a tactical error. He doesn’t make them often. May be he was a little tipsy, I’m not sure. But without thinking, he replied “Sure”. In 2 seconds flat I took one giant step away from the reasonably-priced items and stepped up to the diamonds. Hello, my pretties!!! I didn’t really expect to get away with it, but a girl’s gotta try! Turns out, “fun Jeff” is also “easily amused Jeff” and he coughed up for a nice gift for me (not too nice – I went easy on him). Guess I’ll keep him another 10 years.

Senate Bill 10: revisited

2011-04-19T09:14:00.001-04:00

So by now you probably know that Senate Bill 10 passed (SB 10 is outlined at the bottom of this entry for the uninitiated). Finally. Many Georgians will be allowed to vote in November on whether or not to allow retail package sales of beer, wine & liquor on Sundays. Others will have to wait until the next scheduled election in their municipality, which could be as late as November 2012. Sucks to be them.

But that’s not what I’m writing about today. Today I want to tell you about the little civics lesson I received by following the live feed of the Georgia House of Representatives Session on April 12.

Holy crap, people. The GA House is a clusterf*ck.

SB 10 was presented late in the day on Tuesday the 12^th. As I recall, it was after 9 p.m., but I’m not sure of the exact time (alcohol was involved). Anyway, I had been watching the live feed with great boredom, just waiting for SB 10 to be called. When I finally heard the magic words, I immediately perked up.

The bill was introduced and the Speaker asked “will there be any questions”. Due to the late hour and the number of issues left to discuss, several Representatives mumbled (not too quietly) “Noooooooo”, which I thought was all kinds of awesome. But alas, several Reps had questions. There was the normal back & forth until one Representative (and I wish to God I knew who it was, it was an older lady dressed to-the-nines in her ridiculous Sunday-go-to-meeting hat) stood up and said…and I shit you not…”Is this the jobs bill”? Jesus. H. Christ. He just read the damn thing in its’ entirety. Did it *sound* like the jobs bill?

There was a moment of silence in the chamber and then the Rep who read the bill from the well said “No.” Crazy lady, still standing, replied “Will it create jobs?” Rep in the well said “Ummm. It could.” Crazy lady sat down. Seriously. The people we elected to represent us in the GA House can’t even be bothered to pay attention to the issue on which they’re voting. And it’s not like it was some bullshit bill about waste management or renaming a street. It’s one of the most controversial bills introduced this year. It received an enormous amount of press coverage. Everyone from the Christian Coalition to the Liquor Lobby had piped in on it. So no, lady. It’s not the jobs bill.

After the questions, we got to the Speech-a-fying. Two reps made rational comments about how the bill isn’t about religion or alcohol and was really focused on citizen’s rights. One rep asked to be excused from the vote (big baby!). We had the requisite son-of-an-alcoholic Rep who spoke about how his shitty childhood justifies his opposition to the bill (apparently his Dad was always sober on Sundays because he was too dumb to plan ahead). We had the standard Christian Coalition kiss-ass make his point. Blah, blah, blah. Not exactly “must see TV”.

But later, I heard the most convincing argument yet against the bill. A representative stood in the well and said that his issue with the bill was that the Legislature was pushing decisions down to the citizen’s because they were too chickenshit to make the decision themselves (I’m paraphrasing here). It actually made sense to me. His point was that if they’re pushing this issue out for a vote, why aren’t all decisions made by local referendum? It was a valid point, but it was made much too late. And frankly, I’ll take my rights however I can get them and local referendum works just fine for me.

The bill was finally put to a vote, and easily passed 127 to 44. Not even close. The whole thing took less than 30 minutes. It was equal parts riveting and appalling to watch. I stopped watching the stream immediately after the bill passed, but I still wonder if crazy lady stood up when the jobs bill was introduced and said “Is this the liquor bill”?

From the Georgia Senate Website:

Senate Bill 10: A BILL to be entitled an Act to amend Code Section 3-3-7 of the Official Code of Georgia Annotated, relating to the local authorization and regulation of sales of alcoholic beverages on Sunday, so as to provide that in each county or municipality in which package sales of only malt beverages and wine by retailers is lawful, the governing authority of the county or municipality, as appropriate, may authorize package sales by a retailer of malt beverages and wine on Sundays from 12:30 P.M. until 11:30 P.M., if approved by referendum; to provide procedures; to provide for applicability; to provide for related matters; to repeal conflicting laws; and for other purposes.

It's 3 a.m. Do you know where your husband is?

2011-04-18T12:07:00.000-04:00

I’m still sorting through my vacation stories trying to determine what’s “funny funny” (i.e. Jeff’s encounter with the Lady Chablis in the hotel lobby) and what’s “you really had to be there funny” (i.e. busting a sales clerk asleep on the floor under the display cabinets of a mall kiosk), although it’s all hilarious to me.

First let me explain why we chose Savannah as our destination. Since Thursday is our 10th wedding anniversary, we originally wanted to go somewhere really cool (as in out of the country), but the economy and my job in real estate have us spooked so we decided to lower our standards (which is fitting, since that’s what Jeff did when he finally agreed to marry me).

Savannah was the obvious choice for one very good reason. When you enter a bar in Savannah and order a drink, the bartender replies with the following magical words: “For here or to go”? Oh, hells yeah people! Those five little words put a song in my heart (and a stumble in my step). In Savannah you’re not only allowed to gad about in public with an adult beverage in your hand, it’s practically required. You can take your drink everywhere you go as long as it’s in a plastic cup. It’s tragic that I’m not already a permanent Savannah resident.

The first night of our stay, it finally hit me what it means to be married to Jeff for 10 years. Jeff was coming off a week of working the p.m. shift, so we knew he probably wouldn’t sleep well the first couple of nights. I wasn’t at all surprised to hear him get up around 3 a.m. We booked a suite for this very reason, and he went into the living area while I slept. About 30 minutes later I was awakened by the strangest sound coming from the living area. It was like a long, low screech and then a kind of a ripping noise. It almost sounded like huge pieces of packing tape being ripped off the roll. And it happened again and again and again.

Any woman in her right mind would be concerned by this noise. But not me. When you’re married to Jeff, you learn to expect the unexpected. We’re 10 years in people. Nothing surprises me. If he was out there wrapping up a dead body in a spare blanket for disposal, I was sure he had a good reason. So I did the obvious thing and went back to sleep.

When I woke up the next morning, I asked Jeff if he was making a strange screeching, ripping sound overnight. His response? “Yep. I decided to shave but the cold air was blasting out of the ceiling vent in the bathroom. I didn’t want to turn off the A/C, so I taped over the vent with packing tape.”

See? Perfectly reasonable explanation. Don’t all husbands take a giant roll of packing tape on vacation and get out of bed at 3 a.m. to tape over a ceiling vent and shave? No? Well, mine does.

Fit for a dog

2011-04-14T13:18:00.000-04:00

Since my tragic rejection by the USO, I've pretty much given up on the idea of finding a volunteer opportunity. Most of the opportunities I was interested in weren't a good fit due to my work schedule or were already fully-staffed with volunteers (lots of folks out of work these days).

So I've decided to find a new hobby that I can do on my own. Today's venture? Homemade dog biscuits. Check it out, peeps. And my pooches like them, too!

The Second Best Typo Ever

2011-04-13T13:23:00.001-04:00

Jeff and I just got back from our vacation to Savannah (which I didn't mention previously because nothing screams "Free Flat Screen TVs - first customer only!" like announcing online that your home will be uninhabited for a few days). While on a side trip to Tybee Island, we came across the second best typo ever. Don't get me wrong: "Persue Perfection" will always be the gold standard of typos. No question. But the #2 slot has officially be filled.

On the advice of Trip Adviser, we stopped for lunch at Gerald's Pig & Shrimp on Tybee. On the back of the menu was a little blurb about the owner (the aforementioned Gerald), which noted that he was a former "Thesbian". Spelled exactly that way. I'm assuming that it meant that he was a former Thespian, but I'm open to the idea that he was a former actor who liked the ladies (Thespian + Lesbian = Thesbian). You never know.

Whenever I come across such a misspelling, I like to hit up the Urban Dictionary website to see what awesome definition they found for the word. And I wasn't disappointed: Thesbian - A woman who isn't really a Lesbian but is just acting gay, either as a response to negative learned behavior towards men or not wanting to be alone due to unattractiveness. Urban Dictionary, I think I love you. Although I should note that the UD entry is grossly unfair to imply that Lesbians are unattractive. Based on my (none of your business) experience, there are some smokin' hot daughters of Sappho out there.

Don't Poke the Bear

2011-04-06T09:21:00.002-04:00

Yesterday I really had my hands full at work (literally and figuratively). We had a groundbreaking for a new builder and because my coworker is pregnant and my boss tends to run late, the labor-intensive parts of the day were all me. Like getting to work at 8 a.m. to blow up balloons and clean ceremonial shovels, for example. Not awesome, but I'm grateful as hell to have a job so I just get it done and move on.

After the groundbreaking I made the rounds pulling signs and collecting the supplies I had schlepped to the meeting site. When I came back to the office my car trunk was full of crapola to unload. I grabbed the first load and as I approached the front porch of our office I noticed a man in a suit standing there. He watched me walk up the sidewalk. He watched me step onto the porch. He saw that I was carrying a heavy-ass brochure box, three outdoor extension cords, a tablecloth on a hanger and four hardhats looped on my fingers. Clearly I didn't have a way to open the door without putting down a substantial amount of my load.

He saw all of this, and as I approached the door....he turned his back on me. He was literally standing two feet from me as I put down the brochure box and extension cords to open the door. WTF, Dude? A little help here? Normally I would have said something, but I was in "just get this sh*t done so I can get back to my real job" mode and I didn't have any energy to expend on his dumb ass.

But here's the best part. When he finally came into our office about 10 minutes later, I found out he was here for a job interview with a company that was borrowing our conference room. Bad news, dude. I'm a tattletale...and payback is a mother.

Return of the J-Dubs

2011-04-04T10:56:00.003-04:00

Guess who stopped by my house for a visit on Saturday? My pals the Jehovah’s Witnesses. The ole JW’s. The J-Dubs, if you will. God, how I’ve missed them!

I first noticed that they were on my street when they knocked on my neighbor’s door (my Pentecostal neighbors, I should note). I would have loved to have been a fly on the wall for that conversation:

Jehovah’s Witness: “You’re going to hell.”
Pentecostal Neighbor: “No, you are.”
JW: “No, you are.”
PN: “No. You.”
JW: “No. You.”

I’m surprised it ever ended!

Let me first say that when the J-Dubs come to my house I treat them with respect. Well, first I try to hide from them but if I can’t avoid contact then I treat them with respect and hustle them off as quickly as possible. It must be really hard to go door-to-door espousing your personal beliefs to complete strangers, and while I disagree with their beliefs they’re just doing their thing. Whatever.

My personal choice is to spend as little energy as possible on religion. I’m not an atheist or a theist or a deist or any kid of an “ist”. I guess if I had to declare myself I’d say I’m an indifferent agnostic. Is it possible that there is a God and a Devil and a heaven and an afterlife? Absolutely. There are a lot of religious options out there, I’m just not interested in participating in any of them. I liken my view on religion to a high school guy who can’t decide whether to ask out the homecoming queen or the less attractive girl who is more likely to accept, so he just goes out with his buddies instead.

But back to my Saturday guests. I was effectively hiding from them in Jeff’s office until I had to leave the house to take Marley to the vet. I walked out the back door, put Marley in the car and...AMBUSH! They were standing in my driveway. How do they do that? One minute they were across the street and the next minute they were right in front of me. Spooky!

I like to immediately take the upper hand in these situations, so I said “Hello. Out visiting today?” (Hello, Captain Obvious here) and I reached out my hand to take the pamphlet offering of the day. They handed me a pamphlet and said “We’d like to invite you to a service to celebrate the death of Jesus.” Ummmm. OK. I replied “Thanks, I’m just headed out.” That was the entire exchange.

So I got in the car, glanced at the pamphlet and noticed that the “celebration” they invited me to was at...wait for it...a frigging funeral home. Sweet. Jesus. Apparently the J-Dubs are celebrating the death of the son of their God at The Flanigan Funeral Home. Not much surprises me, but this? Had me wondering just what events are planned for the death celebration. Will there be a casket? Will someone be in said casket? I have to admit I’m almost tempted to hit this thing up just to see what goes on (but I won’t).

I know what you’re thinking: “Bullsh*t, LAB. You must be making this up”.

And to you I say:

BAM! You should know better than to doubt me. As an aside, I’d like to mention that somebody needs to work on their sticker-sticking skills.

The whole episode got me to thinking (which is never good): next time they visit, can I treat the J-Dubs with respect and still mess with them just a little? They kind of owe me some slack after the whole funeral home invitation, right?

I’m thinking next time they knock on my door I’m going to pretend like they represent the Fellowship of the Sun from True Blood. I imagine it would go something like this:

JWs: We’d like to invite you to a…

LAB: (interrupts) DIE FANGERS!

JWs: Excuse me?

LAB: Praise his holy light! You guys packing?

JWs: What?

LAB: Stakes!!! You have them with you, right?

JWs: What?

LAB: Never know when you’ll need to stake a vamper!

JWs: (backing away) Heresapamphletwehavetogo.

How awesome would that be?

Winner Winner Chicken Dinner

2011-04-03T15:12:00.001-04:00

In our 10 years of marriage, I've had to explain many of my dumb ass "incidents" to Jeff. I tend to run into trouble when he's out of town. Like, for example, the time he came home from a business trip and found 3/4 if our Dalmatian's coat was dyed pink (henceforth known as the "Exploding Blender Full of Daiquiris Incident") or the numerous times he had to drive my ass all over town to retrace my steps in an attempt to locate and retrieve my car (collectively known as the "I should write down where I parked before I get my drink on and catch a cab home" incidents).

But tonight? I'm going to have to explain to him how I ended up with a giant bite mark on my inner thigh while he was out of town. People, we have a winner.

I'm going to explain to you exactly what happened, and then I'd love some feedback on whether I should stick to the truth, come up with a convincing lie or just attempt to avoid letting him see that part of my anatomy until the bruise is gone and hope for the best.

Here's what (really) happened: Last week Jeff bought a jumbo-sized bag of dog food for Marley. I used the last of the old food in her dish last night, so I grabbed the new bag to empty into the storage container. It was really heavy, so I had to kind of squat down to get enough leverage to handle the bag. As always, Boomer and Marley were watching me intently in case I spilled a few kibbles onto the floor. Marley was on my left and Boomer was on my right. I had emptied about half the bag into the container when I lost my footing and landed on my butt, spilling a fair amount of food in the process. Boomer immediately lunged for the food. Marley immediately snapped at Boomer. My inner thigh got caught in the middle. Chaos ensued.

So now I've got a bite-shaped bruise (including teeth marks) that distinctly resembles a hickey right near my Business District. Just below The Chamber of Commerce, if you will. Explaining this one may be tricky.

University Smackdown

2011-04-01T09:31:00.002-04:00

I was going to post another April Fool's entry today, but due to the hilariously negative reaction I got from some of you crybabies regarding my April 1 pregnancy post last year, I reconsidered. So no hi-jinks from me today. I'll just write the same old crap. You're welcome.

Jeff told me about a couple of months ago that he thinks he should bite the bullet and finally finish his college degree (he's a few credits shy of finishing). I'm all for it, but when he told me that he decided to apply to Georgia State University since it's near his office, I had to warn him to gear up for battle because he'll be getting a boatload more than he bargained for.

I attended GSU for one semester during my Internship in Atlanta while I was a student at Auburn and I also took a handful of post-graduate courses there a few years ago. And that school put me through the absolute wringer. Repeatedly.

Don't get me wrong - GSU is a great school (especially the School of Business), but they laid the smack down on me like nobody's business. I'll give you a quick example: halfway through a semester (for which I had already paid and was faithfully attending each class) I received a letter stating that my enrollment had been canceled due to "immunization issues".

That's right: my histological history had been sufficient to get me through all four years of school and graduation at Auburn, as well as a year of graduate school at UNC-Charlotte (which sadly did not result in a degree), but as far as GSU was concerned I was right off the rubber raft from a third-world country and I needed to be thoroughly scrubbed and possibly deloused.

They specifically wanted me to get a measles shot, although I could prove that I had been fully-immunized as a child and that I underwent a second round of shots during the measles epidemic at Auburn in the 80's (remember that one AU pals?). Didn't matter. They wouldn't let me back on campus until I went to *their* medical office to get re-immunized (do I smell a university money-making conspiracy here?). I checked with my doctor to make sure another round of measles shots wouldn't do me any harm and I got the damn shot. I don't remember how much it cost, but the whole thing left a really bad taste in my mouth. And my arm hurt, too.

I could go on for paragraphs about the real (and perceived) slights heaped on me by GSU, but today's post is about Jeff's experience - before he even takes his first class.

Jeff sent in his application and his transcripts from the colleges he has already attended and he received a provisional acceptance letter that said before he could enroll he needed to take a standardized test to assess his "reading, writing and mathematics" skills. You read that correctly. Jeff, who has already earned an Associate's Degree, who has lived in Europe and Central America and can communicate effectively in three languages, who works in a high-pressure job managing a large staff, and who is substantially smarter than I'll ever be, is being asked by GSU to participate in the standardized test version of "Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader". I know it's all kinds of wrong, but I find this hilarious. Jeff? Not so much.

The best part? The letter was addressed to "Dear Non-Traditional Student". What. The. Hell. I guess being in a professional male in your 40's lumps you in with students who are non-English speakers or GED recipients or whoever else gets this treatment.

And it's not like he can just show up and take the stupid test. He's going to have to buy the study materials to get a refresher course in all that crap you learn in high school and never use again (hello, Calculus!). I find this even more hilarious. I really am a crap wife.

Jeff read the letter and said "What the hell do they want from me?" They want to break you down and steal your soul, babe. Trust me on this one.

Big Dog, Dumb People

2011-03-31T15:32:00.000-04:00

An Open Letter to people who think that the fact that I have a large dog means I want to hear their idiot opinions when I’m walking him (and believe me, I don’t).

Dear Morons:

I thought today would be a great time to address all of your asinine questions and comments at one time. Here you go.

No, Boomer is not a horse. No, I don’t ride him. No, he doesn’t have a saddle.
It most certainly does *not* look like Boomer is walking me. He’s very gentle and walks on a loose leash, which in the dog world means he doesn’t pull.
Are you really asking me about his poop? I can save you some if you’d like. I’ll leave it on your front porch later tonight.
No, he doesn’t bite. Do you think we’d be standing this close to you if he did?
No, he doesn’t participate in dog fights (seriously!?!?).
I bathe him with the hose, like I would any other dog.
No, you may not borrow him for the weekend to impregnate your dog. First of all, he’s neutered. Secondly, what the hell is wrong with you?
He eats dog food. Because he’s a dog.
Again with the poop? Why the interest?
He sleeps in a dog bed. You know he’s a dog, right?
No, I don’t “fold him up” to put him in the car. He fits in the car the same way a 135-pound person would. He puts his butt on the seat and his feet on the floorboard.
Thank you for pointing out that both my dogs appear to be “full breed” and that I should have rescued a dog instead of getting them from a breeder. You are a judgmental jackass. Both dogs came from rescue groups. Any breed of dog can end up homeless, even Dalmatians and Great Danes.
Yes I am aware the Great Danes can have health issues. They can also live well over 10 years if given proper care. Thanks for telling me that death is imminent for my dog. You are a delightful person. I bet you’re all kinds of fun at a party.

I hope I've cleared up all your thought provoking, intelligent questions. I'd also like to give a shout out to all the awesome people (who are not morons with asinine comments) that I've met when I'm out walking Boomer and Marley. You guys ROCK and I'm glad to know you!

Hugs!

LAB

Love ya, Boomer Boy! Good Dog!

And just to give equal time to my girl Marley:

Circumspect Seasons

2011-03-30T13:04:00.000-04:00

I'd like to apologize to my fellow Atlantans for the disappearance of Spring. It's all my fault. We had a long stretch of warm sunny days that sent me straight to the mall for new Spring clothes, which naturally caused an immediate drop in temperature and torrential rains.

In other news, at some point in the last few years I seem to have become an adult. I didn't actually notice on my own - my best pal Suzy pointed it out to me. Here's how she knew: After Jeff & I received our bonuses from our respective employers this year, we entered into heated negotiations regarding the amount of money I should spend on new clothes for work (now that I'm out in front of the public more, I really needed to spiff up the wardrobe).

Jeff manages our money because I'm, well, me (AKA the Britney Spears of our family, sans the head shaving). Trust me on this one, it's better for everyone involved that I don't have carte blanche to spend. I have an individual bank account for my spending money (I'm not completely crazy), but we discuss purchases from our joint account before making them. So I brought my wardrobe-enhancement-plan to the table. I originally asked for $500, which caused Jeff to choke on his Cheerios. He countered with $200 and we eventually settled on $300. And yes, I do know that we're in a recession but I can't pitch custom homes to the public wearing a pair of khakis and a polo with our company logo on it, which is pretty much what I wore to work previously. I know. Not sexy.

So I had $300 in hand to spend however I wanted. In my former life, I would have gone straight to the Coach store and dropped the entire amount on a new purse, wardrobe be damned. But I didn't. I actually went shopping for work clothes and that's exactly what I bought. Check me out peeps - I'm all growns up! Sort of - every self-respecting woman knows that you can't get a really good Coach bag for $300, anyway, and I'm still kind of pissed about how crappy the new line looks.

Which brings me right back to the unfortunate departure of Spring. There's nothing worse than fabulous new clothes mocking me from my closet while I bundle up and go to work day after day. I had to wear a frigging parka to walk the dogs yesterday morning. WTF?!?! I'm seriously considering returning all the clothes in an attempt to coax Spring back into action. That should work, right?

Inconspicuous Consumption

2011-03-25T11:29:00.000-04:00

Jeff just told me how proud he is that I made a case of wine last for two weeks. Guess this probably isn't the best time to tell him that the same day he bought that case of wine I went back out to the store and bought 9 more bottles.

I know what you're thinking: What's up with only 9 bottles? Why not get a full second case of wine to get that sweet 10% discount? Because the prospect of buying two full cases of wine causes my conscience to scream "LAB, you dirty, dirty lush. What the hell is wrong with you?" Bet you didn't know I have a conscience, did ya?

If I was a "glass half empty" kind of gal, I'd be appalled that I drank more than 12 bottles of wine in 14 days, but since I'm a "glass half full" kind of gal, I'll just focus on the good news is that I didn't consume all 21 bottles of wine in two weeks. I'm actually more of a "glass completely filled to the brim" kind of gal, but you probably already knew that.

Wonder if they offer mini-bars in the rooms at Passages? I already know they take my insurance.

Have a great weekend everyone!

SB 10: My Precious

2011-03-24T13:23:00.000-04:00

Update on SB 10 (for those of you too lazy to check online or buy a newspaper): The House Rules Committee didn't consider the bill in their meeting yesterday (slackers!), but the Committee is scheduled to meet again on Monday and is expected to consider the bill then. The Rules Committee decides which bills are sent to the House floor for a full vote, so until the bill gets through the Committee there won't be any progress.

Full House vote could occur as soon as Tuesday, and if the vote is affirmative the bill goes straight to Gov. Deal (who says he'll sign it if it makes it to his desk). And then...get to the polls, people! And frankly, I should get to vote at least twice on this issue based on my efforts to get it passed. May be even three times.

I have to admit I've kind of been in love with championing Senate Bill 10 (AKA "My precious") and the subtle civics lessons I've received as a result. I'm tempted to find a new issue to embrace once (if?) SB 10 passes. After I sober up, of course.

Go, Senate Bill 10, GO!!!

2011-03-23T09:33:00.001-04:00

An update on Senate Bill 10 (AKA Legislation to give Georgians rights they should have had all along):

After passing the Senate last week (and it only took 5 years of wrangling - nice job, Senators!), the bill is headed through two House committees this week and is expected to hit the floor for a vote by the full chamber next week - possibly as early as Monday. It passed the House Regulated Industries Committee with less than 10 minutes of discussion and minimal opposition. Guess some of my fellow tipplers serve on that committee!

It's not a slam dunk, primarily because if the House makes any changes whatsoever the bill would have to go back to the Senate for another vote. God help us all if this happens. If I have to face another 5 years of stocking up on booze every Saturday afternoon, watch the news for stories about a 40-ish woman in North Atlanta running naked through the streets screaming "I wanna voooooooooote!".

The president of the Christian Coalition continues his dumb-ass whining about how there will be more fatal car wrecks if the legislation passes (which is bullshit, by the way - he's using faulty data from another state to make his case) and when that didn't work he said that House members who vote for the bill are being paid for their vote by the alcohol industry. Nice display of Christian ethics, Mr. Luquire.

I still don't see what the big damn deal is in the Legislature. They're not voting to allow retail sales of alcohol on Sundays, they're voting to allow citizens to vote to allow it. Know what that's called? Democracy!

Shamu-Kung-Fu

2011-03-21T09:33:00.001-04:00

Jeff started Shamu-ing me this weekend.

If you're not familiar with the concept of Shamu-ing, I read about it around 2008 when I came across a book by Amy Sutherland called "What Shamu Taught Me About Life, Love & Marriage: Lessons from Animals and Their Trainers" (hilarious book, by the way).

The book claims that humans can be trained using the same techniques used at SeaWorld to train dolphins and killer whales. Specifically, trainers reward the behaviors they want and completely ignore undesired behaviors.

I know this method. I use this method on Jeff all the time. And he finally realized what I've been doing and is giving it right back to me. He's not even trying to hide it! The worst part (or best part according to Jeff) is that my Dad was at our house on Sunday and there was a serious Shamu-conspiracy going on. No wait, the worst part is that Jeff admitted he was doing it. He finds it hilarious, especially because I get so annoyed when he does it.

Here's a little example: I cooked dinner on Saturday night and he heaped praise on me like I had just served The Last Supper on a Silver Platter. Way over the top gratitude. Then on Sunday, I accidentally set fire to the toaster oven (again) and he completely ignored me. I repeatedly yelled for him to come help me but he kept ignoring me until I took care of it myself.

This? Will not stand.

Jeff's Shamu-Kung-Fu is not strong. This killer whale is about to beach his ass.

Endnote: If you Google "Shamuing", you'll also find this awesome (and completely unrelated) definition in the Urban Dictionary: "Someone who tells obvious lies about everyday life and lies about anything and everything just to make themselves look good thus looking stupid and pathetic purely because they think everyone actually believes them". Thankfully, this type of Shamu-ing is *not* going on in my marriage. As far as I know.

The gatekeeper

2011-03-18T09:13:00.001-04:00

My office lost our last remaining construction person in the most recent layoff, which means that sometimes I'm asked to do crazy things like blow sh*t up or have port-o-potties emptied (by contractors, of course). Occasionally I'm asked to do things that are well outside my skill set or comfort zone, but so far I've been able to manage pretty well. Until yesterday.

Boss Man called me and said "Just heard that there's something wrong with the gate at the back entrance. Can you see if you can take care of it?"

The back entrance gate is actually just an old cattle gate that we use to block the entry into some undeveloped land. I figured it was off the hinges or the lock was broken. My handyman skills are rudimentary (at best), but I knew that if he thought I could fix it then it must not be damaged too badly. I jumped in my car and drove to the gate.

Here's what I found:

I know we're trying to save money these days, but I'm calling in reinforcements for this one.

Coalition Kryptonite

2011-03-17T09:32:00.001-04:00

Holy Buckets, people. Senate Bill 10 Passed! You can thank me later. If don't live in Georgia, SB 10 is the proposal to allow local communities to vote on whether to allow retail stores to sell alcohol on Sunday (and oh, baby, do I ever love a referendum!). It's not a slam dunk - the bill still has to clear the House of Representatives and the Governor has to sign it (he has already said he'll sign), but it's looking like this is the year Georgia finally stops kowtowing to the Christian Coalition and starts recognizing citizen's rights. All of which will give us...the same rights that 47 other states have. Thanks, GA Senate, for bringing us into the 19th Century.

Holy spitballs, I love GA Legislature Crossover Day almost as much as I love coconut vodka (well may be not almost as much, but you get the picture). Kind of makes me wish that the House & Senate would only meet three times a year: Once to introduce bills, once for crossover day to vote, and once more to vote on bills that come over from the opposite chamber. Imagine how much would get done! No time for posturing or debate, just read the bill and vote. Does debating ever change anyone's mind? I think not.

I'm so hoping that the county in which I live decides to have Town Hall meetings to discuss the issue. Because guess what I am? Christian Coalition Kryptonite. My friends, I'm identical to the majority of the members of the Christian Coalition in every way except one: my beliefs. So when they show up all squeaky-clean and ready for battle, my squeaky-clean ass will be right there with a defense (or an offense, depending on which side you're on).

Don't believe me? Take a look at this:

Granted, this was a handful of years ago, but have you ever seen a more all-American couple? I'm wearing flannel and we're posing with a glass of sweet tea for Chrissakes! Jeff looks like a televangelist and I'm all Stepford wife.

Here's a recent one (and apparently someone's been hitting the Cheeto's a little too hard lately):

Look at that, Christian Coalition: We're the people who want to buy booze on Sunday. There's nothing to fear from us!

So when my well-scrubbed, over-educated, professionally-dressed, sober (I can do it, I swear) ass steps up to the podium at the next Town Hall meeting, they're going to think I'm one of them - because according to the Christian Coalition only godless, thieving, baby-raping-sons-of-bitches would buy a bottle of Pinot Grigio on the Lord's Day. Certainly not long-married, professional college graduates who live in the burbs! Like, say, me for example.

And then I'll remind them that they can't protect their rights by infringing on mine. If Sunday sales become legal in the county in which I live, they still have every right not to buy beer, wine or liquor. It's a win-win. You still have your rights, but now I have mine.

Time to dust off my favorite adjective and say that the future for Sunday liquor sales in Georgia looks....awesome!

Perfection isn't really a reasonable goal, anyway.

2011-03-16T09:48:00.000-04:00

Oh dear God, I saw the best sign *ever* on the way to work today.

You know those giant signs in front of gas stations on which they change the price for a gallon of gas as prices fluctuate? It was one of those signs at a local BP, but it also had room above the prices for them to list items on sale or put a stupid tag line or write whatever they want to in an effort to bring in business. It usually says something like "gal milk $1.99" or "carton cigs on sale".

Today's tag line? "Persue Perfection".

No, I did not just make a typo. They actually spelled a word wrong while advising people driving by to strive to be their best. For a brief flash I though they were being ironic (which would have been 18 kinds of awesome), but this is a gas station we're talking about.

I've never loved a tag line more in my life. It's my new mantra.

Persue Perfection, People! Try to be the best, but don't try so hard that you put in any actual effort. As I always say at work, some days it's enough just to show up. And if you're showered and dressed appropriately? Bonus!

Groundhog Day, marriage style

2011-03-10T09:35:00.002-05:00

Jeff and I have the same conversation just about every day. We’d probably have it every day, but we don’t see each other that much. LAB’s secret to a healthy marriage = a lot of time spent apart. The topic differs from day to day, but the conversation is basically the same. Since you (never) asked, I thought I’d give you a little peek into the inner workings of a marriage heading into the 10-year-mark.

LAB: (looking out the back door) Hey, my Jonquils are coming up!
Jeff: What the hell is a Jonquil? Do you mean the Daffodils?
LAB: They’re called Jonquils. I know because my mom grew them at her house, too.
Jeff: They’re Daffodils. And as I’ve mentioned previously, just because your Mother said something doesn’t make it true.
LAB: Google it, Jack Ass.
Jeff: (goes to computer) Here it is. Botanic name is Narcissus, also commonly called Daffodil.
LAB: Scroll down, Yankee Boy. It says ‘the name Jonquil is sometimes used in North America, particularly in the South’.
Jeff: It says Daffodil first, which makes me more right. And why do you always think being Southern makes you smarter than I am?
LAB: I think I’m smarter because I’m smarter. Being Southern is just a bonus.
Jeff: When you start a sentence with the words ‘I think’, it pretty much guarantees that anything you say afterward is bullshit.
LAB: Being wrong makes you so pissy. Do you think my Jonquils will die if there’s another frost?
Jeff: No, but the Daffodils will.

Clearly we were meant for each other.

Can't tell the difference between visage and vagina

2011-03-09T09:03:00.001-05:00

I'll be the first to admit I'm not a baby person. I adore toddlers & kids, but babies just aren't my thing. I don't get all squishy when I see a newborn in a stroller or a babe-in-arms at the grocery store. Sure they have that new-baby-smell, but that's only about 10% of the time. The rest of the time babies smell like a cross between mildew and sewage - sickly sweet and mildly unpleasant. The only good thing about babies is that when you put one down you can come back later and find it right where you left it.

Anyway, I saw my pregnant friend yesterday and she showed me a bunch of pictures from her ultrasound. Ultrasound pictures look like abstract art to me: I know there's something there but I just can't make sense out of it. I know enough about being a good friend to make an effort, so I looked through the pictures and then pointed to one that I thought was the face and said (in all sincerity) "oh, look at the sweet face!"

My friend gave me the "LAB, you're a moron" look and said "That's the crotch. The doctor took a picture to show me that it's a girl."

Whatever, people. I tried.

The one where Jeff becomes a welder

2011-03-08T09:36:00.000-05:00

Jeff has been buying "how to" books about welding recently. I'm not sure what to make of it. Should I be worried?

Late yesterday he asked me if I wanted to go to Barnes & Noble with him for more welding books. I declined, primarily because I was already well into the wine cabinet but also because I was afraid to find out what kind of people we'd encounter in the welding section of a bookstore.

After he went to bed last night I opened one of the books he bought because I thought may be "welding" was a metaphor for something awesome. It's not.

I don't know what kind of trouble he's stirring up this time, but I know I should be afraid. Very afraid.

The one where I get a couple of extra dollars

2011-03-04T09:09:00.000-05:00

Guess what I got yesterday? MY (petite) BONUS!!! That's right, folks. In the 2010 world of real estate land development there was a bit of "scratch" left over, and some of it trickled down to me.

Do you know what this means? We're going to LIVE people! Sure, it's not the same bonus I received in 2007 (the last time bonuses were paid by my employer). It's barely 10% of the bonus of yore. But still! It's money I didn't have a couple of days ago. Although technically I don't have it now either, since Jeff took the check away from me as soon as I showed it to him. *sigh*

I've got a good feeling about this year, especially since at this time last year I was just happy to have a job that didn't require a hairnet and a vinyl apron. Bring it 2011!!!

Things I’d like to kick in the cojones, v. 2011.02

2011-03-02T09:38:00.001-05:00

You (never) asked for it…you got it! More of my 2011 “cojones list”:

People who try to reach me by calling every possible phone number in quick succession: This one drives me absolutely crazy. I’m not going to name names here (although the person most guilty of this offence is commonly referred to in my family as “Dad”), but if it’s not an emergency why is it necessary to call my office phone, then my cell phone, then my home phone? Seriously. Why, why, why? I was leaving work in a hurry on Monday trying to get home before the impending tornadoes when my desk phone rang. I recognized the number and figured I’d return the call when I got home. On the way to my car, my cell phone rang. Same caller. I finally got home (after driving through the onslaught of rain) and there’s a message on my home phone from said person as follows: “Just checking in. No big deal, catch you later.” GAH!!! I’ll admit that I’m guilty of ignoring phone calls. One of the benefits of not having kids is that it’s nobody’s damn business where I am or what I’m doing. But if you need me, just call my cell phone and leave it at that. You don’t even need to leave a message! I’ll see that you called and get back to you (eventually).

Journalists: As the proud owner of a (much wasted) Journalism degree, I’m appalled by the news industry today. Do you know who determines what news is? Journalists (and producers and editors et al). Apparently these douche bags believe that “news” is Lindsey Lohan and Charlie Sheen and John Galliano. It’s not. And those “what would you do” shows? Those aren’t news stories. If you’re paying people to act from a script, it’s entertainment. And it sucks. Here’s a little tidbit to get journalists headed in the right direction: If the word “rehab” appears in a story, cut it from the program (or the newspaper or any magazine that doesn’t feature gossip). I’d like to propose that the news industry make a clean break from the entertainment industry and just report the damn news. You know, world issues and shit. It’s out there!

The horizontal lines slowly creeping across my forehead. What. The. Hell. I’ll admit that I’ve been hoping for something to distract from the vertical lines that recently appeared between my eyebrows, but this isn’t what I had in mind. “Aging like an old suitcase” used to be a punch line for me. Not so much anymore. Now I know why women of a certain age (i.e. 40’s, like me) wear long bangs. F*ck you tiny lines. Don’t even think about turning into wrinkles. You and I are headed for the championship bout…and you’re going down! Ding! Ding! Ding!

Things I’d Like to Kick in the Cojones, v. 2011.01

2011-03-01T09:53:00.004-05:00

I didn’t post yesterday because I was generally pissy and didn’t have anything to say. Today? Still pissy, but much more specifically. Today I know what’s bothering me and it’s a list full. Been awhile since I’ve posted a “cojones list”, so here you go:

Mall Kiosks and Carts: No, you may not see my phone. No, I don’t want to try your sea salt scrub. I don’t care if it came from the Red Sea, the Salton Sea or Chicken of the Sea, stop approaching me with a palm full of dubious goop and attempting to rub it on me. And a big double hell no, I do not want you to whiten my teeth right here in the middle of the mall walkway in front of a boatload of strangers. I know my teeth could be whiter, but I’m not letting some high school dropout who couldn’t find a better job stick his hands in my mouth. Screw all of you! Move your ass out of my way so I can buy my overpriced lotion at Bath & Body Works and go home.

Twitter: I tried it (@StarkRavingLAB). I didn’t like it. May be I’m not sufficiently needy or desperate for attention. I don’t need to know about the last time a celebrity took a dump or where everyone I know in the Twitter-verse is at any given time, and I’m certainly not sharing those things about myself. It’s impossible to follow a “conversation” with all the Tweeting and Retweeting and blah, blah, blah. It’s all just noise to me. It gives morons (present company excluded) an opportunity to spout off about things they don’t understand without offering any backup or rationalization. It’s like diarrhea of the keyboard. Quick, dirty and forgotten in a flash. No thank you.

And while I’m on the topic of social networking, People who share a Facebook account with their spouse: What the hell? Is there a reason you don’t have individual accounts? Does one of you have no friends? Is there a level of mistrust in your relationship that prevents you from communicating with others without your spouse’s review and approval? I don’t get it. And that ridiculous smashup of your two names that you use as your FB account name? Lame.

People who come to my office, ask me for a favor and then bitch me out while I perform said favor. A couple who lives in the community in which I work recently stopped by the office to ask if anyone here is a notary. I told them that I am, and while I was notarizing their paperwork they started bitching me out about how crowded the pool is, how they need a bigger clubhouse and how their new fence didn’t get approved. Really? So glad I could stop what I was doing (i.e. my job), perform a free service that you would have to pay for elsewhere and get my ass chewed out for my trouble. It also happened to me when I agreed to drive to a resident’s home to notarize a document for their ancient mother who couldn’t leave the house. Seriously. I got in my car, drove to their house, notarized their documents and got treated like shit about things over which I have no control. Lesson learned. My notary seal is officially expired for them.

Snakes: I hate them. They love me. The live in my yard and greet me on dog walks. They live in my attic and shed their nasty skins. Much like Visa, they’re everywhere I want to be. Want to know the last time I saw a live snake? Yesterday at 5 pm while I was walking to my car after work. It was right there on the sidewalk like it had every right to be in my path. It was a baby snake, so I’m really looking forward to meeting it again when it’s all grown up this summer. I’m like a frigging snake magnet. If you have kids who want to see a snake just have them stand next to me and one will be right along.

All Atlanta drivers except me: Hang up, wait your turn and for the love of God use your damn turn signal. That is all.

More cojones targets to follow later this week. Previous lists can be found here and here.

Whew! I feel better. Thanks for letting me vent!

Ambitious Weekend Plans

2011-02-25T11:07:00.001-05:00

Jeff headed out of town for the weekend, which leaves me with a glorious stretch of two days in which to do whatever I choose.

Things I should probably do:

Clean the house
Finish pulling out items from my closet to give to Goodwill or trash
Scoop Great Dane poop out of the front & back yards
Laundry
5K on the treadmill or long walk outside at least one day
Continue looking for a local volunteer opportunity (since the USO rejected me. Bastards!)
Pick up sticks in the back yard: Jeff always asks me to do this. I still haven’t figured out if he wants me to actually pick up sticks or if it’s a euphemism for something else. Either way, I never do it.

Items noted on the list above have a 10% (or less) chance of being accomplished. I might clean the toilets since I like a clean bowl. I’ll probably also do laundry. The beer fridge is in the laundry room, so I’ll be in there frequently anyway.

Here’s what I’ll actually do this weekend:

Download dirty movies on Netflix and let the dogs get on the couch with me to watch
Drive the dogs around in my convertible to get BOGO Blizzards at Dairy Queen (one for now…one for later!)
Put exorbitant amounts of bird seed in the feeders outside. (Jeff still doesn’t know I spend $60 every month on birdseed. He thinks birds just really like our yard).
Sleep late without feeling bad about it.
Put a dent in my backlog of reading. I have a stack of New Yorker’s mocking me from the table next to my favorite chair, and I just picked up the third Stieg Larsson book.
Catch up with my brother and go somewhere to eat (which should be interpreted as hitting a bar for drinks)
Front porch / back porch / backyard swing drinking
Read blogs / Facebook / news online

You might read that list and think I’m a lazy, drunken slug. BINGO! You know me so well!

Have a great weekend everyone!

So now I'm a dealer?

2011-02-23T09:04:00.000-05:00

Subtitle: How I became the proud owner of six years worth of prescription painkillers that I neither want nor need.

I try to follow the rules. I swear I do! But as usual, following the rules bit me right in the ass. All I wanted to do was refill a 30-pill prescription for painkillers for the horrific headaches that I occasionally (more like rarely) suffer . Thirty pills lasts me a year, and that includes sharing with Jeff when he strains his back. I normally get a 30-pill prescription at my annual doctor's appointment and take it to the Target by my office and I'm all set for 12 months. I've been doing it for years.

Over the summer I received a letter from my insurance company informing me that I could no longer take my prescriptions to a local pharmacy and that I would now be required to use their mail order program for all prescriptions in order to get full coverage and the best price. Whatever. I use the mail order pharmacy for a prescription antacid that I take every day, so I already had an account set up.

When it came time to refill my painkillers, I called my doctor and asked them for a new prescription. The prescription was for 30 pills and read "Take one pill twice daily as needed." That's exactly what my prescription has always said. I sent it in to the mail-order pharmacy and a few days later I received an e-mail from them requesting permission to contact my doctor because the prescription wasn't written in the correct format for their service. I told them that was fine.

Three days later I received my prescription in the mail. The package contained 180 pills. ONE HUNDRED EIGHTY. Who do they think I am? Courtney Love? I called the mail-order pharmacy and they said "We only fill 90-day prescriptions and your doctor wrote the prescription for 2 pills a day. That's 180 pills. We contacted your doctor and they approved the larger quantity." Apparently "twice a day as needed" means something different in the world of mail-order pharmacies. Jeff took one look at the bottle and said "I'm going to have to get you out on the street with that. Show me the money!" I'm pretty sure he was kidding. I hope.

Don't get me wrong, 15 years ago my best pal Suzy and I could have run through 180 painkillers over a long weekend in Miami. But I'm older now and these days I get my high from stress, alcohol and lack of sleep. Like a grown up.

On the bright side, they only charged me $20 for the prescription. Anyone need a pill?

GA Senate Flushes $$$ Down the Toilet

2011-02-22T11:55:00.003-05:00

Today's AJC "Truth-O-Meter" featured the potential economic impact of Sunday take-out liquor sales. For those of you who don't live in Atlanta, the Atlanta Journal Constitution is our local newspaper and the "Truth-O-Meter" is a daily feature in which a reporter investigates the validity of a statement or opinion from a local politician or pundit and then rates the results. The highest rating is "True" - for a quote or opinion that is proven to be correct. The lowest rating is "Pants on Fire." You can probably figure out what that one means. It can be quite amusing.

Today's statement, compliments of the Distilled Spirits Council of the U.S.: "Sunday liquor sales could generate $3.4 million to $4.89 million a year in additional sales tax revenue for Georgia."

The AJC rating: MOSTLY TRUE (it fell slightly short of a rating of TRUE because a handful of experts believe the additional revenue will be slightly less, but still substantial).

Regardless of whatever moral opposition or chickenshit excuse the Georgia Senate Republican Caucus has for not sending Senate Bill 10 to the Senate floor for a vote, they're flushing a potential cash windfall straight down the toilet. Millions of dollars. (Senate Bill 10 is the bill that would allow local citizens to vote on whether or not to allow Sunday take-out liquor sales in the area in which they live). Is it possible that the Senate Republican Caucus isn't aware of Georgia's desperate need for cash? They haven't noticed the joblessness? The teachers and police officers and firefighters suffering from forced furloughs? The general sense of economic despair? May be they're more out of touch than I originally thought.

As I've stated in the past (ad nauseum), denying citizens the right to vote is a self-serving act of pandering to the Christian Coalition and the local liquor lobby. But at this point it's pretty clear that it's something else as well: Economically Ignorant.

I can't believe I voted for those assholes. Shame on me.

Open letter to the Georgia Senate Republican Caucus

2011-02-20T15:41:00.001-05:00

Dear Georgia Senate Republican Caucus (AKA chickenshit senators who think decisions are best made by voting in secret):

Re: Senate Bill 10

I few days ago I blogged about how excited I was that citizens of our state might finally have the right to vote locally on the issue of Sunday take-out liquor sales. I just wanted to write you a quick note to say “Thanks a lot” for being the douche bag cowards I always knew you were and deciding that I shouldn’t be allowed to vote on the issue. I voted for you assholes, and this is what I get in return? I feel duped.

All I ask is for local citizens to be allowed to vote on a local level about whether or not take-out sales on Sunday can be allowed in the area in which we live. I’m aware that it won’t pass in every locality. I’m fine with that. But the citizens should be allowed to decide.

We finally have a governor who says he’ll sign the law allowing a local vote if it gets passed through the legislature. I’m not asking you to approve or disapprove Sunday sales. I’m just asking for my right to vote on the issue. You remember citizen’s rights, don’t you? They’re one of the things you’re supposed to be protecting as a Senator. It’s part of your job!

You jackasses didn’t even have the stones to put it on the Senate floor. Your stupid anonymous “caucus majority” vote doesn’t actually reflect how each senator will vote if the bill is sent to the floor. It reflects how each senator will vote if nobody ever finds out how he or she voted. Perhaps you could use a little refresher course on the topic of transparency.

Your vote denied me the right to make my voice heard. Luckily, all I have to do is wait until you’re up for re-election to let you know how I feel about it. I don’t care how you voted: if you oppose, that’s your right. What I do care about is that you were too cowardly to vote on the record.

There are currently three states that prohibit take-out liquor sales on Sunday (Georgia, Connecticut and Indiana) and the other two are steamrolling toward changing their laws, which would leave Georgia as the last state with this ludicrous prohibition. Do you understand how backwards and stupid that will make our state seem to the rest of the country? Even Utah (Utah, for Chrissakes!) allows Sunday sales by local option.

You might try to make a case that pressure from the Christian Coalition and the liquor lobby didn’t influence your vote. If that’s so, then why don’t you pass a bill that says that take-out sales can be made six days a week, and the store can choose the days they choose to be open, (like New York)? I bet most of them would choose to be closed on a weekday. Wait. You don’t think you want to do that? Then don’t say you’re not slaves to the pressures (and campaign donations) of the lobbyists and religious right. There is absolutely no valid reason for you not to allow a local vote on this issue. None whatsoever.

What I really don’t understand is why it’s perfectly legal on a Sunday for me to drive to a strip club and drink my ass off while ogling naked ladies performing simulated sex acts onstage, but I can’t buy a bottle of Riesling at my local Kroger to enjoy with my family dinner at home. If you don’t understand how stupid the Sunday take-out prohibition is, please re-read the previous sentence (or have someone read it to you, if necessary).

There’s also a second consideration: All of the states surrounding Georgia allow Sunday take-out sales, and when citizens cross state lines to buy alcohol on a Sunday it hits us right in the economy. Remember the economy? It’s in really bad shape right now and every dollar counts. Every. Single. Dollar.

I’m just one person. I’m not important or influential, but I know that your choice to protect the rights of lobbyists and special interest groups over the rights of citizens is despicable. We want to vote. Guess I’ll see you next year when we do this crap all over again….and again and again until you do the right thing.

Hugs!

LAB

Marital Zingers

2011-02-18T09:06:00.002-05:00

I don’t have much time today, so I thought I’d share some of the “Marital Zingers” delivered by Jeff this week. And before you start thinking that I’m an abused wife, I should note that I was raised from birth on a steady diet of good-natured ribbing, and I’ve never spent more than five minutes with a guy who can’t both take it and dish it out.

And so, without further delay, I give you the wisdom of my hubby of almost 10 years, Jeff:

“LAB, the problem with you is that you live your life on 8.5 and I, along with the rest of the world, prefer you at around 4 or 5.”

“You’re asking an awful lot from those spiky heels, aren’t you? SHHHH!!! If you listen closely you can hear them screaming.”

“I don’t know why I’m wasting my time trying to reason with a woman who firmly believes that no family is complete until they adopt a 125-pound dog.”

“OK. I can’t believe we’re covering this again, but the proper response when someone asks if they can drive through our yard is ‘NO’. Nnnnnnnnnn. Oooooooo. Got it? Practice in the mirror if you need to.”

“You think you’re Colonel Potter, but it’s pretty clear that you’re really Radar.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! Are you about to tell another story about how smart & creative you are because you had an imaginary friend as a child? Because I can’t take it. Can’t. Take. It.”

“Didn’t you just get approved for overtime? Go back to work. Back to work!!!”

“Are you sitting there watching YouTube videos of dogs sledding? Seriously? Just for one day I’d like to live in your world.”

“I don’t know how one woman can leave so much hair in the tub and on the bathroom floor and not be completely bald. It’s like some kind of self-renewing energy source. You’re a freak of nature.”

“You do understand that sitting in a rocking chair with a glass of wine while watching ‘What Not to Wear’ reruns isn’t the highest and best use of your time, right?”

And, my personal favorite: “You better not be blogging about this!” God help me, I really do love that man!

This? Is not OK.

2011-02-17T09:21:00.002-05:00

Have you seen the latest Luv's diapers commercial? The world of "Lowest Common Denominator" advertising has hit a new low.

Here's the premise: Three cartoon babies are participating in the "Heavy Dooty Championship". Yep - you read that correctly. Cartoon tykes competing to see who can make the biggest poop. And it goes rapidly downhill from there. Next, each baby takes a turn sticking his or her baby ass out at the audience, leaning over, and taking an explosive cartoon diaper dump. One baby even appears to strain with effort. Sweet Mother of God.

After each baby takes a cartoon crap, a panel of judges rates them. Then, a voiceover announcer says some ridiculous tagline like "What happens in diapers should stay in diapers." Thank you, Captain Obvious, none of us realized that diapers were intended to catch and contain poop until you pointed it out. Did I mention that the background track to the commercial contains the lyrics "Poop, There It Is" to the tune of "Whoomp! There It Is" by Tag Team? Tacky, tacky, tacky.

I wish I could have been in the room for the brainstorming session at the ad agency.
Ad Exec #1: "Know what would be great for the Luv's campaign? A cartoon child crap contest with an old school rap back beat!"
Ad Exec #2: "Holy shit! You're a genuis. What parent doesn't take special pride in the quantity of their baby's dump."
Ad Exec #1: "I know, right? I better clear off some shelf space for my CLIO".

May be I just don't get this ad because I'm not a parent, although I seriously doubt it. I enjoy a good lowbrow joke as much as the next gal. But there's a difference between lowbrow and just plain low. What's next? An ad featuring senior citizens taking a nice, long piss into their Poise pads? No thank you.

P.S. Hey, Luv's: You spelled Doody wrong.

This is not an Infomercial

2011-02-16T09:34:00.001-05:00

As I mentioned a while ago, after 13+ years of hard-fought sleep wars Jeff finally seceded to the guest room. He gets much better sleep now, but I can't say that I'm thrilled with the arrangement. I don't see how it's my fault that he can't get any sleep when I'm rolling around all night kicking him. Men can be such babies!

Anyway, a couple of weeks ago we were watching TV and a commercial came on for the Sobakawa® Cloud Pillow™. I can remember saying something like "That looks like the least comfortable pillow in the history of mankind. What dumbass would sleep on that?"

A couple of days later Jeff handed me a Macy's bag and said "Here's a little something to keep you company at night." I opened the bag and found....my very own Sobakawa® Cloud Pillow™. Apparently he thinks I'm the right kind of dumbass. He has a strange sense of humor.

We opened the box and tossed it around a couple of times and made all the requisite jokes. Then I set it aside, fully intending to return it and spend the money on something I really need (like Smirnoff Ice).

That night I decided, just for laughs, to give it a try. And......Holy crap - how much do I love that thing?!?! It's the best pillow ever. Best. Pillow. Ever. The only thing I don't like about it is the size - it's really small. I think it comes in bigger sizes, so I'm totally buying a bigger one. All that bullshit in the commercial? True. Completely true. You can even put it in the freezer if you like a cold pillow. I freaking love it. Love it!

Naturally, Jeff takes full credit for his genius idea. Whatever. He out smart-assed himself, as usual. He better not try to take my new pillow to the guest room. I'd hate to have to start sabotaging his nights. Again.

Disclaimer: A lot of people make money by monetizing their blog or doing product reviews for pay. I'm not one of them. I don't have a problem with bloggers making money, but it's not my thing (and it wouldn't really work with what I do here). This entry is just my opinion about an item my husband gave me as a joke, nothing more.

Booze on Sundays: the final frontier

2011-02-15T10:06:00.001-05:00

I was all stoked about the prospect of finally being able to buy alcohol at the grocery store on Sundays in Georgia until I received today's Atlanta Journal Constitution. Right on page one (above the fold, no less) I read the headline I've been fearing: "Booze bill not a done deal." Guess what the subhead is? "Christian Coalition clear about opposition."

Curses! My arch-nemesis is making their stand.

Here's what I don't understand: How does my desire to buy a 12 pack of Smirnoff Ice at the local Publix on a Sunday have any effect whatsoever on their desire to celebrate their personal brand of Jesus? I just don't get it.

I think it's great that other people have faith. Good on ya' peeps. Go to church, sing some hymns, do your thing. I, however, don't share your beliefs. And when you tell me I shouldn't be allowed to exercise my rights on a Sunday because it violates your faith, well, we've got a problem.

Yes, I can plan ahead. I can buy my beer on Saturday or during my regular weekly grocery run. But why do I have to? Because of you & your God. That's my beef. I have zero problem with people whose religious beliefs differ from mine. None whatsoever. But when those other people's beliefs spill over into my everyday life? Ding ding ding....problem!

I have a second point I'd like you to consider: It's perfectly legal to buy liquor by the drink in bars and restaurants on Sunday in many parts of Georgia. So say I want a drink, but my liquor cabinet at home has run dry (not likely, but stick with me here). In order to get a drink, I have to get in my car and drive to the local watering hole. And then I have to DRIVE HOME you jackwagons! Do you see the problem here? I'm not saying I go out drinking & driving every Sunday. I don't. But there are a lot of less organized folks out there who see only one way to drink on your Lord's day. (I should note that I firmly oppose drinking & diving, and I generally cab it or walk home when I've been drinking. However, many of my fellow soused citizens don't have the same restraint).

There is some resistance to Sunday sales from other groups, such as the liquor lobby. To them I say this: Nobody says you have to be open on Sundays. If you don't think you'll make money, stay closed. But don't deny me the right to buy booze on Sunday because it doesn't fit into your business model.

I guess my real point is that you can't protect the rights of one group (the Christian Coalition or liquor store owners) by infringing on the rights on another (me and my fellow tipplers). Right? But may be that makes a little too much sense for the legislature these days.

Dumbest. Holiday. Ever.

2011-02-14T09:16:00.003-05:00

Jeff and I don't do Valentine's Day because, frankly, it's stupid. If you need Hallmark and Teleflora to remind your husband to tell you he loves you, then you have problems that a card and a dozen roses probably aren't going to solve.

That being said, I still drew a Valentine's version of Lunch Art on Jeff's lunch featuring Boomer biting Cupid on the ass (and saying that it "tastes like chicken").

I also hid a card in his briefcase. I refuse to spend money on an actual Valentine for the above-stated reason, but I still wanted to do a little something. Last year I gave him a Halloween card for Valentine's Day - I'm a sucker for a "Holy Sheet!" joke.

This year I bought several greeting card options, including a Bat Mitzvah card (welcome to womanhood!) and a new baby girl card (because we don't have kids, so I'm the only baby girl he's getting) but neither one of spoke to me when I was considering my options last night. I really wanted to give him a Quinceañera card and I came up with some hilarious commentary to write on it, but I couldn't find one.

Here's what I finally decided on:

It's hard to read my girly handwriting, but the note says "So sorry that you're stuck married to me. SUCKER!". I also added this note on the back: "As agreed, if Gabrielle Reece ever becomes available, you're released (but only if)".

We did it ATL!

2011-02-11T09:02:00.000-05:00

Big props to my fellow citizens of Atlanta for proving yesterday that we can operate on a "Business as Usual" basis while a bit of the white stuff is on the ground. See? That wasn't so hard, now, was it?

Now I'd like to raise you one: Can we all start using our turn signals when we're driving? I know it's way too much to ask to use turn signals all the time, but how about we start by all using them when we change lanes on the highway? I use mine all the time. It's easy. I swear! If I can do it, so can you.

While I'm at it, I'd like to give a great big (theoretical) Jesus hug to the current Georgia legislators and new governor Nathan Deal for nutting up and telling the liquor lobby (who strongly opposes) that they're going to pass legislation to allow local voters to decide on liquor sales on Sundays in Georgia. May be it will pass at the local level and may be it won't, but we're closer than we've ever been to showing the rest of the country that we're not all a bunch of bible-thumping, dog hunting, grit eating, cousin marrying rednecks. Although some of us are (present company excluded).

Now if we could just get people to stop referring to us as "Hotlanta". The person who coined that term should be locked in a box and shipped to North Korea. C.O.D., of course.

Pretend I'm Jackie O.

2011-02-10T09:00:00.001-05:00

I was talking to my brother Scott on the phone a couple of nights ago and he told me he's got a lot of big decisions in his future. I told him "Whatever you decide, I've got your back. There are two people in this world who, no matter what they do, I will always support unconditionally." He replied "Me & Jeff?". My response? "No, dummy. You & Suzy." (Suzy is my best pal, commonly referred to in this blog as "my best pal Suzy".)

After my phone call, Jeff came in the room and we had the following exchange:

Jeff: "Did you just tell your brother that there are two people you love unconditionally, and neither one of them is me?"
LAB: "Yep."
Jeff: "You don't see anything wrong with that?"
LAB: "Nope. I love you completely. I love them unconditionally."
Jeff: "There's a difference?"
LAB: "Of course. Say, for example, you're JFK and I'm Jackie O. If I found out you were boinking Marilyn Monroe, you'd better hope she has cab fare, a spare bedroom and some folding money to lend you because your ass is out the door. Now say Scott is RFK and Suzy is Lee Radziwill. If I found out one and / or both of them was boinking Marilyn Monroe, not only would I think it was awesome, but I'd want explicit details, photographic evidence and, if possible, video that we could watch repeatedly over glasses of wine. That's the difference."
Jeff: "Never mind. I'm sorry I asked."

Lunch Art: Back by Popular Demand

2011-02-09T09:52:00.001-05:00

There's one feature of my blog that I'm asked about more than anything else. More than stories about drinking. More than tales of giant dogs. More than questions about how Jeff can possibly still be married to me after 10 years. More than anything. Can you guess what it is? That's right: Lunch Art.

For those of you who have yet to be initiated into the cult of LAB's artistic skills, here's a little history: like many Southern women, I love with food. Always have. If I love you, I'll cook my ass off to show it. That's how it's done in my family and some traditions never die. I can't say I'm the best cook in the world, but I can hold my own in the kitchen.

As part of my culinary capabilities, I make a homemade lunch for Jeff to take to work every day. Every. Single. Day. But it's not enough just to pack a lunch for him. I like to add a little something extra: hand drawn artwork. It's not good artwork. It's not even decent artwork. But it comes from the heart, it makes him laugh and his coworkers think it's hilarious, which is a bonus.

It's been about a year since I posted any of my masterpieces, so here you go peeps. Lunch Art, Vol. 4:

"Don't blow each others asses off"

"Items required to be married to me"

"I didn't break your stupid garage"

"Boomer says f*ck you, Mom"

"Lime tree with imaginary grass, just like at home"

"Bikini biscuits"

"Mayo and mustard hook up and make a baby"

Double feature: "They Killed Kenny (ham eating ham)" and "Beef stick: High Road"

"It's raining yard sale money"

"Ice Cream & Cake? Nope. Just cake"

"Jeff & LAB in 10 years"

"Our future in a '71 Ford"

I offer no apologies. Think you can stand more? Check out previous offerings here, here and here.

Take one down, pass it around

2011-02-08T09:37:00.002-05:00

Yesterday was a mad house at work (in a good way), and when I got home I was exhausted. I usually try to get things done around the house after work and then settle in to my favorite chair to watch TV around 8 p.m., but since I was pooped yesterday I went straight to the chair with a glass of wine.

As the night went on, I had a few more glasses of wine and enjoyed two awesome episodes of Intervention (situational irony at it's best). By the time I was ready for bed I tossed an empty wine bottle in the trash and noticed two additional empty bottles already in the garbage can. You read that right: Three. Empty. Bottles.

Three bottles in a few short hours is excessive, even for me. Hell, it's excessive for Charlie Wilson and Axl Rose. Combined. Not to mention that three bottles of wine per night will send me quickly to the poor house, immediately followed by divorce court.

In my defense, one of the bottles was already open when I got home from work so the most I drank is 2 3/4 bottles of wine (now I'm rationalizing). I can tell you exactly how much wine I can drink at night and still feel OK the next day, and it's considerably less than 2 3/4 bottles in three hours. OK, somewhat less - but still less. And I didn't feel drunk at all. Not even tipsy.

I stood there staring mutely into the trash can thinking "Uh oh. Things don't look good for tomorrow." I made a beeline to the fridge and downed three bottles of water in quick succession in the hopes that I could put a stop to the inevitable monster morning in my future. Then I emptied the kitchen trash bag into the outside can (is one of the signs of alcoholism covering your tracks?). I went to bed steeled for battle, with two bottles of water and a handful of Advil on the nightstand.

And this morning? I feel fine. Great, even. I got a decent night's sleep, except that I got up three times to use the restroom (which I should have expected). There's no way I can drink three bottles of wine and escape the inevitable day-after suffering. No way! I'm the luckiest (over-served) girl in the world!

It occurred to me on the way to work that Jeff was very likely downing a few glasses of wine himself last night. He was in his office working most of the night, so he could have been drinking right along with me and I wouldn't have noticed. I hope to God he was!

In celebration of my hangover hiatus, I offer to you two of my favorite drinking quotes (by two of my favorite drinkers):

"First you take a drink, then the drink takes a drink, then the drink takes you." - F. Scott Fitzgerald

"The whole world is about three drinks behind." - Humphrey Bogart

Cheers!

UPDATE: Just talked to Jeff and asked him if he drank wine last night. His response: "Nope. Why? Are you missing some?" I guess that's one way to put it.

Movie foul

2011-02-07T16:14:00.000-05:00

I had some time to kill yesterday because Jeff was working nights and therefore sleeping all day, so I decided to hit the movies to see Black Swan.

The movie was really well done and I can see why it was nominated for boatloads of awards, although I will say that by the end of the film I pretty much didn't care what happened to any of the characters. There was seriously not one sympathetic character in the whole film. It was kind of grim.

Using the (not) SAG-approved LAB Method of Film Critique, which is based exclusively on how many times I look at my watch during a movie, I give Black Swan a 1 (zero is the best rating on the LAB scale). About 70 minutes into the movie I caught myself sneaking a peek at my watch because I felt like I had been sitting there forever. But it did pick up in toward the end and was well worth seeing.

But that's not the real story.

When Jeff's working nights I like to go to the movies for the earliest possible show on Sunday mornings. I usually decide at the last minute what to see, so I just hop in the car and go alone. My current favorite theater is Great Escape Hamilton Mill because I usually have a decent chance of being the only person in the theater, which is better than a hug from (theoretical) Jesus. I saw Shutter Island all by my lonesome a few months ago and it was like I was in my own personal home theater. I only wish I could have found someone to pause the projector so I could go to the ladies room!

I figured I may be the last person in Atlanta who hasn't seen Black Swan and I wasn't surprised to walk into an empty theater after I bought my ticket (and my popcorn & Diet Coke). I picked my favorite solo seat - center seat in the center row. Heaven!

The previews started and another woman joined me in the theater. No biggie: there's a whole theater of room in here. Plenty of space for both of us!

Or so I thought.

She headed up the aisle to the row after mine and took her seat. Directly behind me. As close to me as she could get without sitting on either side of me. What is wrong with people? She could have gone two rows behind me or two rows in front of me and we both would have felt like we had all the space in the world. She could have sat in the row behind me but a couple of seats away and it still would have been fine. But instead she plops down right behind me and chomps on her popcorn, chews on her ice and clears her throat for the duration of the film (it's possible that she was making a normal amount of noise, which was amplified in my mind because of my annoyance). I guess I could have moved, but I was there first and I was in my very favorite seat in the theater. I could really only hear her during the quiet parts of the movie, but still. Some people seriously suck!

Net 15: My Kryptonite

2011-02-04T11:42:00.000-05:00

Work is driving me crazy today. Serves me right: I *knew* I shouldn't have blogged about how much I love my job yesterday!

I know this is petty, but we have a vendor who always submits their invoices with the due date written as "Net 15". Who the hell uses Net 15? Just say "Due on Receipt" or "Net 30" you jack ass. Even "Net 10" would be better. Is it to much to ask for you to put an actual *date* as your due date? Bastard.

It's a giant pain in the ass to add 15 days to the invoice date every time I enter one of their invoices. GIANT pain in my ass. You'd think it would be easy, but 15 isn't a nice, round number like 10 or 30. When I'm rolling through a big batch of invoices it stops my flow and really, really pisses me of. And if I get it wrong, even by a single day, the accounting gods in our corporate office come down on me like Zeus hurling a thunderbolt (Jupiter if you prefer the Roman version). It's humiliating.

I can come up with the date pretty quickly if the invoice is early in the month, but if it comes late in the month (which rolls the due date into the following month) I'm pretty much screwed. And it's February. Does that mean the month ends on the 28th or the 29th? Now I have to add AND look at a calender. GAH!

I have a Due Date Calculator printed in my accounting notebook, but even pulling that out slows me down. And also reminds me that I suck at doing math in my head, further annoying me.

I'm already crabby because it's raining and there won't be any super-fun explosives detonating today. No blasting + Net 15 = the suck.

The one where I get paid to blow sh*t up

2011-02-03T09:16:00.001-05:00

There are a lot of things I really like about my job, but one of my favorite things is when we blow shit up. I can’t explain it. I just really love it when we call in a blasting company and have them turn big rocks into little rocks with explosives. Really loud explosives.

I get all tingly when I’m sitting in a meeting and someone says “Looks like there might be a lot of rock on those lots. We may have to get someone in to blast.” It’s like Christmas Eve to me. I know something awesome is in my future. We get some bids, I send out a contract and then it’s Game On.

I love sitting in my office working away and hearing “BOOM!!!” It literally makes me giggle like a schoolgirl who just got away with passing a note behind the teacher’s back. Sometimes I go watch. And I get paid to do it! I even like it when residents call and ask “What are those crazy loud explosions we keep hearing?” because I get to reply “Explosives. We’re blasting today.” How often do you get to answer a question about your job with the word “Explosives?”

I love knowing that there are people here blowing shit up because I asked them to. I’m practically drunk with power from it.

Blasting is a BLAST!!! It makes me feel like a bad ass.

Recycling the Happy

2011-02-02T09:14:00.000-05:00

Exactly one year ago today I wrote the post below. The fact that it's still 100% true made me want to post it, verbatim, again. Apologies for the recycling but I had to re-post it just for me, because it makes me smile.

From Feb. 2, 2010:

While I was driving to work this morning the strangest thought came to me: Right now, today, with circumstances in my life exactly as they are, I’m happy.

The thought wouldn’t normally have given me pause, but in a time when I come across so many people who hate their job...or are dealing with a failing marriage...or refuse to accept the fact that they’re never going to be the size of a supermodel...or are just plain struggling with life...it seems to me like being happy goes against the norm.

Lately I feel like all I see in the news is joblessness and bankruptcy and bickering and greed and failure, so it seems odd that there’s even a place to find happiness any more. But for some inexplicable reason, right now I’m happy.

Sure, things could be better for me. I’d love to have more money. I’d love to finish (start?) renovating our house. I’d love to have more job security. Hell, I’ll even acknowledge that as much as I say that I accept myself “as is” (and I do), I’d love to be thinner. But I don’t *need* any of those things. And frankly, who’s to say I’d be happier if I had them?

I’ll admit that there are things that could probably make me happier: I wish my Mom was still alive (God, how I wish it!). I wish I could find my way back to some type of religion (not likely, but I’m putting it out there). I wish I had a maid (even if all she did was vacuum and mop). I wish a lot of things. But I can’t miracle any of those things into existence, so I’ll just make my way the best I can in the circumstances I’m given. And I’m gonna kick ass doing it!

Have I settled for less in my life? Possibly. Do I want more? Who doesn’t! But can I make a great life out of my current situation, exactly as it is? Hell to the yeah, people!

Somehow the planets fell into alignment, and the gods smiled on me a bit, and fate decided to cut me a break (just this once) so that right now, today, I’m right where I need to be. May be tomorrow I won’t be. But right now…this very minute…I. Am. Happy.

Endnote: I initially wasn’t planning to post this blog. Who the hell wants to hear about how some other person is smugly satisfied with their mediocre existence? Probably no one. But I’ve had my share of shit in life (as have we all), and I’ve struggled with depression, and I’ve faced failure, and I’ve had days and weeks and months when just putting one foot in front of the other was as much as I could manage. And I’m sure I’ll face all that crap again.

So when I find a way to screw things up (and I’m sure that day is coming), I’m going to pull up this blog and I’m going to remember that there was a time when I was happy. And it was good.

Idiot of the Day, Tuesday edition

2011-02-01T10:33:00.000-05:00

This morning before our office opened a guy knocked on the door and asked to use the phone. Apparently he hasn’t heard of this great new device by which you can call someone from the comfort of your car without coming into an office and inconveniencing the people who work there. The cleaning crew let him in and I headed to the lobby to show him how to use the phone (he looked like he could use an assist).

Here’s the exact conversation:

LAB: “You need to dial 9 to get an outside line.”

Idiot of the day: “Outside line?”

LAB: “Yes, dial 9 and then the area code & number.”

IOTD: “Area code?”

LAB: “Just dial 9 and then the number.”
IOTD: “Dial 9?”

LAB: “9”

IOTD: “9?”

LAB: *stares in disbelief*

He finally said “Thanks” and dialed the number. I walked back to my office and he started talking on the phone in the loudest voice possible. Literally screaming in the lobby. Not angry, just talking at loud-ass, turned up to 10 volume. He was having a normal conversation but he was bellowing as if he was standing in a wind tunnel. It startled me so much that I stopped in my tracks and looked over my shoulder at him in case he was coming after me (which reminds me: where did I put that damn panic button?).

I couldn’t help but overhear his conversation (and if you’re anywhere in North Atlanta you probably heard him too). He was asking someone on the phone for directions to a home in the community in which I work. Dude. If you needed directions you could have just asked me for a map. We have maps specifically made for this purpose. There’s a big sign right out front of our office that says “Information Center” because our role is to give people the information they need to get where they want to go within the subdivision.

He got off the phone and was out the door before I could run back up to the lobby and offer him a map. About 20 minutes later I saw him wandering around in our parking lot again. He didn’t come back to the door and eventually he got back in his truck and left. I have no idea what he was doing out there. May be he was looking for Moses or a Sherpa to lead him to his destination.

I try to help people. I swear I do! But some folks are beyond my help. I guess if he comes back I’ll just force a map on him before he has a chance to do any more independent thinking. I’d hate for him to hurt himself.

Oops! I did it again.

2011-01-31T11:32:00.002-05:00

First, a little back story: A few years ago there was an incident that is now commonly referred to in my family as “The Sauerkraut Geyser”. It started out innocently enough. I was making Reuben sandwiches for dinner and the only sauerkraut I could find at the grocery store was a really big bag. Like family-reunion-size big. But you can’t have Reuben sandwiches without sauerkraut, so I bought the bag and took it home.

After I made the sandwiches I had roughly 3/4 of the bag left over. I knew it would stink up the thrash to high heaven so I did what any normal sandwich-making wife would do: I shoved it down the garbage disposal. All of it. You can probably see where this is going.

The sauerkraut went down OK, but then strange things started happening. There was a slight gurgle and the disposal started to back up. “No problem”, I thought, “I’ll just turn the water on stronger and flush it all down.” But that didn’t help. The gurgling was getting louder and louder and I took a step back from the sink. I knew full well that I should immediately turn everything off and call Jeff for help (he was in the front yard at the time, blissfully unaware of my activities). But I didn’t. I stood watching in mute horror as both sides of the double sink slowly filled with a soapy mix of sauerkraut and water. And the smell! My God. The smell!

I was still thinking that it was all going to wash down eventually. And slowly, very slowly, the water in both sinks started to recede. I was overcome with relief at the thought of escaping another “LAB, you’re a disaster” lecture from Jeff. And then it happened. There was a loud WHOOSH and a massive explosion of sauerkraut shot up from the sink. And by massive I mean that I had to take another step back and crane my neck to take it all in. It wasn’t even on the disposal side of the sink – it had worked its’ way through the plumbing and shot up from the opposite side.

This was the point at which I realized I was going to have to tell Jeff what I had done. Let’s just say he didn’t take it well. After a brief profanity-laced tirade (which included foot stomping and hand gestures), he started on damage control. He had to take all of the under-sink plumbing apart and clean it all out, getting soaked in stinky, soapy, liquid sauerkraut in the process. Then he went straight to Lowe’s and bought a new industrial-sized garbage disposal and installed it so that it could never happen again. As penance, I conducted the massive kitchen cleanup. Have you ever cleaned sauerkraut off the ceiling? I have.

I can count on one hand how many times Jeff has been genuinely pissed off at me. This incident topped the list. Until yesterday.

Last weekend Jeff was called in to work on both Saturday and Sunday nights because a coworker was sick. With two days of unexpected alone time on my hands I was inspired to do some house cleaning. I did the usual things: vacuuming, mopping, dusting, laundry. I even refreshed my front-porch planters. By noon on Sunday I had completed everything I wanted to accomplish. I decided I’d use the extra time to clean out the pantry. When I was finished, I had several bottles and boxes of expired food to throw away. Jeff hates it when I make the trash bags too heavy, so I turned to my old nemesis: the garbage disposal. As I mentioned, it’s the Mack-Daddy disposal from Lowe’s that can handle just about anything. Or so the salesman told us.

I dumped all the expired food down the disposal without incident until I had just one item left: a box of very fine bread crumbs. I emptied it into the drain and down the disposal. Do you know what you get when you mix tiny bread crumbs with water? Apparently, you get cement. And do you know what bread crumb cement does? It blows out the under sink plumbing.

And so the Sauerkraut Geyser fell to #2 on Jeff’s “LAB is a Disaster Shit List”.

Beef with a side of awesomeness

2011-01-28T10:43:00.001-05:00

I’m having a hard time processing the fact that some people are stunned (STUNNED!) to hear that Taco Bell’s beef products aren’t 100% beef.

Seriously, people. If you can go to a restaurant and get an entire meal for a couple of bucks, I think you should adjust your expectations accordingly. Want to pay 49-cents for a menu item? That’s fine, but take what you get and shut the hell up.

I especially liked seeing the CEO of Taco Bell on Good Morning America today claiming that their beef products are actually 88% beef, not 35% as the lawsuit states. Sorry CEO dude, but 88% is still gross. Not everyone agrees – my pal FRT firmly believes that Taco Bell beef is “35% beef mixed with 65% awesomeness”. Apparently he has lower standards than mine (in many areas).

When I make tacos at home, they’re 100% beef. I may add some taco seasoning, but my tacos are damn sure not somewhere between 12% to 65% seasoning (with oats, starch, sugar, yeast, citric acid and “other ingredients”). Ewww.

I’ll admit I was surprised by the Newsweek article last year that featured a photo of chicken nuggets pre-deep frying - which appeared to be a cross between silly putty and strawberry soft serve ice cream (mmmmmm….mechanically separated meat!), but I am in no way shocked by the fact that Taco Bell is selling less-than-the-best-quality beef. Anyone with even a minimal grasp of economics and reality should have seen that one coming.

That being said, I can’t guarantee that I won’t be asking my DD to hit the drive through for some Nachos Bell Grande the next time I’m headed home from a night on the town. I figure copious amounts of booze can ward off whatever evils are in the questionable 65% (or 12% depending on who you believe). I’ll order a extra side of awesomeness, just to be safe.

Best. Dream. Ever.

2011-01-27T09:07:00.000-05:00

I had the most *awesome* dream a couple of nights ago (so great that I had to dust off my favorite adjective)!

I was sitting on a hill with Kate (future queen of England) Middleton and we were watching a bicycle race consisting of men on white 10-speed bikes go past us. Kate stood up, walked down the hill, pushed one of the riders down and took his bike away from him. She hopped on it, flipped her hair over her shoulder, looked back at me and said "I'm off to see William." Then she rode off.

After she left, I went over the hill to our campsite and went to bed. My Dalmatian, Marley, woke me up by standing on her front paws on the side of the bed and she said (in a perfectly understandable voice): "I know you told me not to leave the camp, but I went down to the lake and there are zombies there. We should leave." So we left.

Then I woke up.

That may all sound like crazy gibberish to you, but it makes perfect sense to me. Except the camping part, of course.

Aging Disgracefully

2011-01-26T15:21:00.003-05:00

I don’t know about you guys, but if I get one more slap in that face reminding me that I’m aging (rapidly) I’m going to scream. Or kick someone in the nuts. Or both. Simultaneously.

Today I called my dermatologist to refill my “face crack” (the awesome homemade Retin-A concoction they sell by prescription to keep me from aging like an old suitcase) and knowing that they increase the strength of the product with each refill, I mentioned to the receptionist that I needed an increased dosage. Her response: “Honey, you’re on the one we give to 80-year-old women. The next product comes from the mortician”.

Sure, that comment would have been hilarious if it had been directed at anyone other than me, but ouch. That one stung so much it almost left a mark! I’ll grudgingly give her credit for using a three-syllable word, but calling me “honey” negates any bonus points. Sometimes I wonder if this stuff only happens to me or if I’m just the only one who broadcasts it. And don't tell me to change dermatologists. The homemade face crack is only $30, compared to $130 for the stuff my last doctor had me on. For $100 savings per refill they can heap bullshit on me with a snow shovel.

Later this morning I was listening to the radio at work and the discussion turned to the upcoming TV remake of Dallas. The entertainment reporter mentioned that Larry Hagman had agreed to appear on the remake, and there was a brief period of radio silence, followed by several people saying (in unison, no less): "Who’s Larry Hagman?" The reporter replied “he was on the original Dallas, which ran from 1978 to 1991”.

Two things immediately popped into my head:

I’m so old that a show that was a cultural phenomenon for my entire high school and college career is completely irrelevant to people old enough to have jobs in radio. GAH!
Holy crap! Was it that long ago? Dallas premiered when I was 10 frigging years old! I remember “who shot J.R.” like it was yesterday! It was Kristin, by the way. Hope I didn’t ruin that for you.

It’s not that I want to be younger. I just don’t want to be constantly reminded that I’m getting older. Is that too much to ask?