Friday, February 27, 2009

If found, please return to.....

As if often the case with the written word, things get lost in translation. This has happened on occasion to me, and most recently it seems that I duped the lovely Kerrie over at Minivan Soapbox. See, I thought I was asking her to do a guest post for me (suckered another one in), but she thought I was asking her to come for a visit. I know right?

So because of my incredibly unclear message and the resulting fallout, I received this lovely letter from Kerrie. Seems that the intended message was not the only thing lost in translation....we lost an entire country!! So, if anyone finds it, please send it back. In the meantime, I'm off to put together a package of proof for Kerrie (complete with pictures of moi).


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Hi Meg,

I was thrilled when you invited me to your place for a bit – but then I checked out the airfares to Victoria…and holy shit – it's almost $800 dollars to get to Canada. So, I decided to just write you a letter instead. I realize that it's really no comparison to an actual visit from the Minivan Soapbox, but given the state of our economy, and my bank account, it'll have to do. But then my husband pointed out that you probably weren't exactly inviting ME to your house exactly, but that the invitation was strictly for my online persona, to your online persona…and then I got a bit embarrassed for even checking airfares in the first place. But I guess knowing how much it costs to get to Victoria is always good information to have in case anyone ever does in fact actually invite me, the real person, to their house.

Speaking of Canada. I'm not entirely sure it's real.

You see, ever since you pretended to invite me to your house for a visit, I've been busy planning my trip and have been asking my friends and colleagues if they have ever visited, and if so, where I should ask you to take me. You know, all the Victoria hot spots. No one has ever been there. Not. One. Person. And I work with quite a few well traveled folks. What are the chances that every single person I know has never been to Canada? I mean, the closest I got is that my sister knows all the lyrics to the "Oh Canada" song to the Canada Pavilion at Epcot Disney … and just between you and me … my sister is a bit off.

However, in Canada's defense, I've been watching a lot of Lost lately. And by a lot, I mean, I've re-watched all 5 seasons in less than 3 weeks. Paused and taken notes. Created theories. Called my "off sister" and relayed those theories. Debunked those theories and created different ones. I've watched interviews with the producers. I've read forums and recaps. Right now…everything is a conspiracy theory.

What was I talking about again? I guess it doesn't matter.

So, my daughter and I were driving the other day and she was telling me that at school they are discussing "what they want to be when they grow up". She, of course, wants to be bathed in pink and be given a Tiara so she can be some Princess or something. Interestingly enough, she asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. Without thinking I said I wanted to be The Bloggess when I grew up. She, of course, wanted to know what that was. Realizing that I couldn't explain to a four year old about fisting, kitten mittens, and meth addiction…I said "never mind, she's my imaginary friend". Which I suppose loops really well with this letter…as these days I'm not really sure what's real and what's not.

I'm sure once this TV. season is over, I'll be better.

If you could send proof that Canada is real, I would appreciate it. Other than a map that is…Charles Widmore has enough money to fake those.

And if you could also send proof that YOU are real, that would be helpful as well.

Actually, you can disregard both of those requests….Just send me Sawyer.

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Sunday, February 22, 2009

A not very easily flowing post.....

It may not have escaped your notice that I have been a tad slack of late when it comes to doing anything here. I try to tell myself that it's because I've been incredibly busy with all that life has thrown at me, but really it's not true. I am no longer so involved with Girl Spawn's school, I've had time to drink inordinate amounts of gin, tequila, vodka and rye at a party, and I've even had time to sleep for 16 hours straight. So really, the only reason I can honestly throw your way for my lack of posting is the fact I really am just plain lazy.

And you know what? I'm totally fine with that. Well, not totally but I'm fine enough with it that I don't feel the need to go find myself a piece of barbed wire and give myself 80 lashings. Self flagellation was never my thing. Self pleasure maybe (sorry family) but never self flagellation.

You see folks, I am a major procrastinator. And I now see it coming out in my children. I'm really not overly surprised when I ask them to clean their rooms or some other mundane chore, only to find that three hours later it still hasn't been done. Because really, who wants to be cleaning their room when Hannah-freakin'-Montana is on TV swinging her hips and acting like a tool? Well, I know which I'd prefer but then I'm not really a fan of the whole Miley Cyrus circus. It stinks of exploitation. No, not of Miley...of us. We're being exploited. To think we buy into all the crap spewed forth by her PR people. It's ridonculous!

Speaking of exploitation, I fear I may have done the same with Hotty Hubby's poor fragile, and overtired, being the other day. As part of our move, we were both required to have criminal record checks done. These needed to be based on our fingerprints, so off we trotted (well not so much trotted as sauntered innocently) into our local cop shop and had a rotund, gnome looking guy manhandle our poor hands as he covered us in ink and pressed finger to paper. Having mailed these forms off, we were then in a waiting game. By the time mine arrived in the mail giving me the all clear, we were beginning to joke about how his were taking so long because of some deep dark secret of his. Really people, he left the door wide open!! His arrived back in the mail this past Wednesday while he was at work. I, of course, chose to break federal law and open his mail so that I could make sure they were clear. Then, I started plotting.

Later that evening, as we sat on the couch vegging in front of the boob tube, I commented idly on how my younger sister had better get used to waiting for packages to arrive slowly as they'd be coming from overseas for awhile yet. As he casually asked why in that disinterested tone that I've come to love so, I took full advantage and went in for the kill.

"Well, your fingerprint check came back today and apparently it's connected to some ongoing criminal case."

I managed all this with a straight face (a feat unto itself) and watched with evil delight as the expression on his face became one that I imagine would also suit having his nads ripped off with a set of pliers.

"WHAT?!?!?!?!"

As I dissolved into fits of hysterical giggles, I took a moment to fully embrace the power that I had (albeit temporarily) yielded over the poor unsuspecting schmuck.

He assures me that I will live to regret April Fools day.

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Friday, February 6, 2009

Enter the world of.....Mutant Sperm!!

Now that this little space is a year old, I started to think about how I could change it up a bit. I already have the rockin' new layout (thanks Badass Geek!), and I have gathered my first troll. So what could I possibly do? It just doesn't get better than this right? *snicker*

Aha! Guest posters! I'll ask people to drop their very busy schedules and do something for me! That's right. Now, who will go for it? Without bribery.

Well, the first fool lovely person to fall for it jump for joy and practically BEG me to let them was Cathi over at Mumma Boo x 2. And the wonders she brings with her? Mutant Sperm.

Read on McDuff......

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Who Needs Diamonds?

When the Mad Woman asked me to guest post, I thought, "Wow! My first guest post! Wow! It's for Mad Woman Meg! Wow! What the hell am I going to write about?"

Thankfully, I have a secret inspiration. They're creepy little things that resemble sperm with legs. We call them mutant sperm around these parts. Yes, that's right. I have mutant sperm living in my house. Some folks might call them Sea Monkeys. Those folks are much kinder than I am. (Folks like my sister who gave the mutant sperm to my daughter for Christmas. I'm taking suggestions for revenge gifts. Really. I am.)

The mutants live in a little plastic tank. A tank that can't be cleaned. A tank that has a layer of mutant sperm poop on the bottom, mutant sperm poop floating in the water, mutant sperm food (really! food for sperm!) floating on the top, and, oh yeah, mutant sperm. Lots of them. More of them each day. Against all odds, the little suckers are surviving and reproducing. Why against all odds? Because they live and swim in their own excrement. Because they totally skeev me out. Because if they weren't parked near the coffee machine, that heavenly dispenser of caffeine-laced goodness that I use on average 5 times a day, I wouldn't see them. Or remember to feed them. Or add water when the crap to H20 ratio leans more in favor of the crap.

They're mutant sperm, people! I have nightmares about the tank spilling. I get the creepy-crawlies whenever I look at them. Yet, for some reason, I can't stop looking at them. It's like a watery, poopy, hairy-amoeba-spider train wreck in there.

These are not like the Sea Monkeys of my youth. Those Sea Monkeys went belly-up within three days. These genetically-altered bionic mutant sperm have lasted more than a month and show no sign of leaving this mortal coil any time soon. We have two from the first hatch that are enormous - Gigantor and Magna. Gigantor and Magna have spawned several offspring that are rapidly catching up to their parents in size. I'm going to need a freakin' thesaurus to come up with names for all of them. And now the offspring are having offspring. Last night I noticed itty-bitty hairy amoeba-spiders dodging floating poop balls along with the big kids. At this rate I'm going to need a bigger tank, and I might actually have to purchase food for the disgusting little buggers. Did I mention that the food can only be purchased through the mail? For the low, low price of $3 plus $1 shipping, I can have a postage-stamp sized pouch of mutant sperm food sent to my door. Joy.

But, wait! There's more! Along with the food, I can order vitamins, in case they're a little sluggish. And if the bachelors aren't pumped up to pump, I can get mating powder. Yeah, like I want more of them. Now, every good pet owner worries about what to do with their pets when they have to go out of town. Not a problem for me. I can get a fabulous wearable tank in case I ever want to take the biohazard to Disneyworld for some fun. But which one to choose? The watch or the keychain? Need a little something to finish off that evening wear ensemble? Diamond earrings? Check. Diamond necklace? Check. Diamond tennis bracelet? No. Darn. I can't go out with naked wrists. Wait! My Sea Monkey tank bracelet! Perfect! Those bitches at the charity function will be green with envy that they didn't think of it first. Now, where did I put my keys? Oh there they are - leaking all over my Prada handbag.

So there you have it, Mad Woman readers. Mutant sperm. The gift that keeps on giving. Hours of fun and lifetimes of bacterial infections. Blecch.

(Thanks for the guest-post honor, Meg!)

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