To all my girlfriends (single and otherwise)

Ladies, ladies, ladies.  I don't know how many times I have to tell you this, but here it is again:

If you have a problem with a man...and you attempt to solve that problem with the assistance of another man...you end up with two problems.

So ends the lesson. You're welcome.

Speaking of bad decisions, I've been feeling the urge to do something stupid and reckless lately.  I don't have anything specific in mind (yet), but I'm feeling awfully domesticated these days.  And frankly, it sucks.

How domesticated, you ask?  The wildest thing I've done lately is apply a generous amount of curly hair product to my hair and then straighten it.  Somebody stop me!  Last night I turned on the TV instead of reading and Jeff said "Holy crap!  You're watching TV!  You're a wild woman."

I can't even remember the last time I was kicked out of a bar.  Oh, wait.  Yes I can.  But that was years ago.  And It's been months since Jeff and I have had to drive around on a Sunday morning looking for my abandoned car at a local watering hole (the best decision I ever made was to buy a house close enough to bars that I can walk home).

I'm feeling an awful lot like a grown up these days.  This, my friends, will not stand.

I may have to get a girl gang together and stir up some trouble.  Who's in?

LAB vs. Jeff's Psychotic Break

I try not to post things that make Jeff look like anything less than the Superhero he is, although clearly I fail at this effort regularly.  I wasn't even going to share this story, but Jeff assumed I already had and since he already gave me hell for it I'm pretty sure it's fair game now.  So here it is.

Last week Jeff was working nights, which means he's less Superhero and more Grumpy Bastard.  But I deal with it, because when you don't get married until you're 32 years old you tend to overlook the small stuff.  It also meant that he slept all day on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day and then left for work as soon as he woke up, which isn't exactly my idea of a fun, old-fashioned Holiday but at least he gets a paycheck. 

When he finishes with a week of working nights, he usually elects to stay up all day following his last night of work to get back to a normal sleep schedule as quickly as possible.  This means that a few times a month he's awake for 36 hours straight.  His behavior at the end of this 36-hour period can be unpredictable (at best).

We were finally at the tail-end of last week's Grumpy Bastard 36-hour streak and he took a shower and got ready for bed.  I was sitting in the den watching TV, assuming he was asleep, when he shot through the room wearing sweats and a jacket.  Here's what transpired:

LAB:  I thought you were in bed?
Jeff:    I was, but the squirrels screwing in the gutters woke me up.
LAB:  *blink* *blink*
Jeff:    I could hear them.  Screwing in the gutters.
LAB:  Squirrels?
Jeff:    Screwing in the gutters.
LAB:  How do you know they're screwing?
Jeff:    I COULD HEAR THEM!
LAB:  *blink* *blink* *then thinking about moans of squirrel ecstasy*
Jeff:    I'm going out there to pull off the gutter guards.
LAB:  In the dark?  In the rain?
Jeff:    Yep.  Then they'll leave.
LAB:  Are you messing with me?
Jeff:    Squirrels.  Screwing.  Gutters.

At this point I had two choices:  Tell him he was having a psychotic break and try to convince him to go back to bed, or let him go outside, get on a ladder in the rain, at 9 p.m., after no sleep for 36 hours and pull the gutter guards off the gutters.

I selected Option 2.  Because at the time it was Jeff vs. the imaginary screwing squirrels, but if I had tried to intervene it would have been Jeff vs. the screwing squirrels and me.  This is how you stay married, people.

He really did go outside and pull off the gutter guards.  And I really did let him.  Apologies to any squirrels who may have actually been screwing at the time.  Guess they'll have to find another spot for their rodent relations.  Apparently our gutters are off limits.

You Don't Have to Call Me Darlin', Darlin'

Dear Coworkers, Contractors, Vendors and Other Interested Parties Who Possess a “Y” Chromosome:

There seems to be some confusion regarding how you should address me.  Recent monikers have included: “honey”, “baby”, “sweets” and *ahem* “love”.

At this time, I’d like to note that my name is Leigh Anne.  I’ll also gladly answer to Leigh, L.A. and LAB (which is what my family & close friends call me).  Did you notice that none of the aforementioned names to which I’ll respond include “honey”, “baby”, “sweets” and *ahem* “love”?  No?  Let me break it down for you.

Below is a quick questionnaire that will assist you in determining the proper name to use when addressing me.  Give yourself 1 point for each “yes” answer.  The higher the score, the more appropriate it is for you to use the endearment of your choice when speaking with me.

1. Are you related to me?
2. Do you share a bank account with me?
3. Have you seen me naked as an adult? Give yourself 2 points if your answer is yes…and you liked it.
4. Did you walk me down the aisle at my wedding?
5. Have I ever asked you if “my ass looks big in this”?
6. Did you pay for my college education?
7. Have you known me for 40+ years?
8. Do you routinely wake up in bed next to me?
9. Have you ever walked my dogs?
10. Do the words “I love you” routinely occur in your conversations with me?

Now calculate the number of “yes” answers to find your total.  I bet it’s zero. Although more blog readers than I’d like to admit can probably answer the first part of #3 in the affirmative. *ahem* again.

Do you get my point?  If you’re not my father, brother or husband…I’m not your “honey”, “baby”, “sweets” or  “love”. 

I know what you're thinking:  Gosh, Babe LAB, why don't these rules apply to women? Because it's not skeevy when another woman calls me "honey", you moron.   Guess that makes me a Sapphic Sexist.  Deal with it. 

I know it may have rocked your world a bit to hear that ladies don't get all weak-kneed when you call us "Darlin".  I think I hear your paradigms shifting.  Sorry to be the bearer of bad news.  When you call me "baby", I assume a) you can't remember my name and you're too afraid to just ask me to remind you what it is, and b) you're a douchebag sleazeball.  Not necessarily in that order.  In other news...MY EYES ARE UP HERE, MISTER!  But that's a lesson for another day.

Hugs!

LAB

Gift Wrapping Makes Everything Better

Recently heard in my household:

Jeff:  Did you get a new purse in the mail today?
LAB:  Of course it's new.  Who would want a used purse?
Jeff:   That's not what I meant. Who's buying you purses?
LAB: I bought it for myself.  They didn't have one in the store, so the sales lady had one shipped to me.
Jeff:  But it's gift wrapped.
LAB: Gift wrapping was free.
Jeff:  You had a purse gift wrapped and shipped to yourself?
LAB:  I had a gift card enclosed, too.
Jeff:  Oh, Jesus.  Hand it to me.
LAB:  *hands over card*
Jeff:  *reading* "I hope you enjoy this as much as I think you will".  You wrote yourself a damn gift card?
LAB:  Also free.
Jeff:  What did the cashier in the store say when you told her what to put on the card?
LAB:  She said I was a genius with a great sense of humor.  Seems you're the only person who disagrees.

Wait till he sees what I put on the gift card for the boots being delivered next week.

The One Where I Run Down the Highway Like a Moron

You've probably figured out by now that I love dogs.  I can't explain it.  Dogs appeal to me on some visceral level that people just don't.  Most people kind of suck, and most dogs don't. I'd choose a bad dog over a good person any day of the week.

My newest dog pal is my new neighbors black Labrador Retriever puppy named Amos. Like most young dogs, Amos has boundless energy and not a lick of sense.  That's part of his appeal.  Also like other young dogs, he's a damn Houdini figuring out new and improved ways to escape their back yard fence and finding his way to our yard.  Our yard = Valhalla for dogs, but instead of Valkyries we have copious amounts of poop.

We live on a fairly busy street, and Amos' welfare when he gets loose has been an increasing concern of mine.

This morning on my drive to work I pulled onto the local highway (Peachtree Industrial Boulevard, for those who are familiar with Atlanta), and I spotted Amos weaving through four lanes of traffic.  My heart dropped just about to my knees, and I made a quick U-Turn to try to corral him.

I pulled over to the side of the road and called him, hoping the idea of a ride in the car appealed to him as much as it does to my dogs.  No dice.  So I started chasing him down the side of the highway to see if I could stop him.  I initially tried to call him to me gently, but when that didn't work I started screaming "AMOS STOP!  AMOS STOP!", hoping he might find it in his heart to turn around.  Amos thought the chase was a fabulous game and took off running.

At this point both Amos and I are weaving through traffic, but only one of us looks like a moron doing it in a bright floral dress and kitten heel sandals.  I think it goes without saying that I didn't catch him.

Eventually I was sweaty and out of breath and Amos didn't look like he was even remotely getting tired, so I decided I'd just go to Amos' house and get his family out to find him.

I hurried back to my car and turned back onto my street to get to Amos' house as quickly as possible.  I pulled in the driveway and his Dad was standing next to his truck.  I jumped out of my car, took a minute to catch my breath and yelled "Amos is loose on the highway!  Amos is loose on the highway!"

Amos' Dad looked at me and then looked into his backyard, where Amos was staring back at him.  Then he looked straight at me and said "Nooooo.  I'm pretty sure that's Amos right there."

Um, yeah.  So I  just spent half an hour chasing a strange dog through traffic on the highway.  No wonder he didn't stop.

I'm just going to go ahead and admit that Tuesday made me her bitch in record time this week.  Is it happy hour yet?