Not that kind of therapy

Further evidence that my friends think I have serious issues:  a couple of days ago I was running late to meet some friends for lunch.  When I got to the restaurant, I apologized in the following conversation:

LAB:           Sorry I’m late, I was at therapy.

Friend 1:    You’re finally in therapy?

LAB:           Yep – I know I waited too long.

Friend 2:    No shit.  Did you tell them about how you freak out when strangers touch you?

LAB:           What?

F1:              And about how many times a day you wash your hands?  It’s just not right.

LAB:           What?

F1:              And about how you won’t touch babies because you think they’re unsanitary?

LAB:           *WHAT*?!?!

F2:              And all that crap about how you think your parents really hated you and just pretended to tolerate you and how now you’re sad that you can never ask them?

LAB:           What the hell are you guys talking about?  I was at physical therapy for the tendonitis in my right hand from when I injured it last year.

F1:              Oh.  Never mind.

F2:              Um.  I was just kidding.

This may be my very favorite conversation of all time.  At least I got a free lunch out of it.

V.D. for all!!!

Happy Valentine's Day, everyone!  We don't normally do much for V.D. at our house, but I did send Jeff a special Valentine's-themed lunch art:

I didn't think I'd be able to top the sympathy card I sent him last Valentine's Day, but I found the most God-awful giant, sparkly card with some kind of ridiculous sentiment written on it in Spanish that plays an extremely (screeching) loud sappy Latin love song.  That should go over well with the guys at his office when he opens it.  It's so loud that the dogs came running into the room when I was signing it.  Perfect!

In other V.D. related news (not the Valentine's Day kind of V.D.), did I tell you guys that when I was at the emergency room getting my finger stitched up last month there was a girl there who "thought she had caught something"?  And by "something",  I mean down in her Business District.  Her Chamber of Commerce, if you will.  Something was definitely rotten in the state of Denmark.  Gross!  But it certainly begged a question:  Just what kind of rotten crotch symptoms was she experiencing to make her run to the emergency room at 9:00 on a Thursday night for treatment?  Blech!!  As an aside, they should really make those emergency room divider curtains thicker.  I was worried about her squirrel stank getting through!

Anyway, enjoy Valentine's Day.  And if you don't have someone to love...you can always love yourself.  They make toys for that.

Teenagers: Not as Dumb as You Think They Are

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

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 who 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!

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):