Rules, Rules and More Stupid Rules.....

So I'm watching a football game today (big surprise, I know)....and it just seems like the rules keep getting dumber and dumber. Don't hit too hard, someone might get hurt. It's fucking FOOTBALL. Anyway, the "rule" I am referring to (and I use the term rule loosely) is this. The guy catches the ball....in the endzone, gets both feet on the ground, extends his full body length and hits the ground. Touchdown. The defender lands on him and the ball pops out. The referee runs up and signals an incomplete pass....WTF? How in the hell is that incomplete? The challenge flag is thrown and as the refs review the play, J and I debate how the call will go. I say TD. J says incomplete, "The guy didn't make a football like move." Again, WTF? Last time I checked catching the f-ing ball in the endzone would be considered football like. Much to my annoyance, of course J was right and the call stood as an imcomplete pass. And the referee actually used the words the receiver, "Did not make a football like move." while catching the ball. Seriously....the dumbest fucking thing I've ever heard. Just let the game be played. Throwing, catching, kicking and of course hitting. Stop with the bullshit, dumbass rules already.

Warrior Football :(

None for me this week. The boy child(ren) are in California on a "Football Field Trip". They are playing some team from Monte Vista High School...WTF? From what I remember fieldtrips when I was in school were to actually learn things. Not play football and go to Six Flags...

Warrior Football

The boy childs first football game was last Friday night. Unfortunately my boys got slaughtered, but they were playing a team that had 22 returning seniors. (We have 10.) They seemed in OK spirits after the game though, which was nice. I spent the first half down on the sidelines taking pictures. (Nobody saw that coming, right?) I try really hard when I am down there to be quiet, take my pictures and stay out of everyones way. I don't talk to the players, especially B.

I broke some of my rules however because it's always hard to lose a game in that fashion and secondly the officiating left something to be desired. My first mistake was to tell B that I wanted him to hit someone so hard they came out of their shoes. He told me to shut the fuck up. (He apologized later, don't worry.) I said nothing more to him and he still wouldn't have been in trouble if he hadn't apologized. I know better than to talk to the boys in the heat of battle. Then my language got colorful as usual. I try to keep it under my breath, but we all know that's not gonna happen. What did happen was that someone told me that a team rule for dropping the F-bomb was 10 push-ups. Great. We haven't even started the second quarter and I owed the team 130 fucking, shit, 140 push-ups. During the second quarter one of the coaches heard me say fuck. Dammit, caught and once again making my son look bad. I apologized to the coach, told him I knew the rule and would pay up as required. I said I was fairly confident that I would fail before the 140/150 mark, but I would do my best. This guy looked me right in the eye, told me that I was too beautiful to have to do push-ups for 40 stinky boys and that I didn't have to do any at all. He is now my favorite coach :)

Burger F@$%king King!!!

Made plans to go out dancing again. C was coming back into town and we had two dances and two private lessons lined up.

Everything was going according to schedule. Went to the more mellow dance on Friday night. Took our lessons Saturday afternoon. Went clothes shopping (his request, I swear) and then prepared to hit the town Saturday night. This Saturday night dance is a little more fun, simply for the fact that there is a bar available. A couple of beers and my dancing gets much more wiggly and entertaining :) Only two though. More than that and it goes beyond entertaining to dangerous. Free spinning me on 3 or more beers and all of the sudden a social dance floor becomes a bowling alley. I'm pretty good too...I can usually take out at least 4 or 5 people on one good triple spin. As usual, the "social" ends at midnight and C and I are always at a loss as to what to do.

First we decide food is in order...."Burger King" C says. The closest one is over by Mall 205. In our semi-inebriated state as we circle the blocks of one-way streets to get into Burger King, C notices/remembers that Club 205 is right across the street. I think his exact words were, "A nudie bar....let's go to the nudie bar." I'm good with this so in we go. I'm making my way to the rack to sit down and C is trying to figure out where I'm going. I inform him that I never sit in the back and up to the rack we went. I think at one point he told me he was in heaven....it was the liquor and naked girls talking, I'm pretty sure.

Now for the really good part of the story. We leave Club 205 and go across the street to Burger King. Just to be clear, Burger King. You know, where they serve hamburgers. We pull into the drive through and up to the speaker. I start with, "I'll have a #1 with a Coke, a #8 with a Coke..." and the squawk box cuts me off with, "I'm sorry, we're out of burgers." What the fuck?!? C and I look around like, OK...where are the cameras? I repeat back to the squawk box, "You're out of burgers? Isn't this Burger Fucking King?" The squawk box responds with, "I'm sorry, sometimes this just happens." The box then asks me if I still want my #8 meal, which was chicken. I asked the box if that now made them Chicken King? The box seemed to find little humor in that. I said that, "No." I did not want just the chicken meal. I was trying to feed 3 people and 2 of them wanted, oh I don't know, fucking hamburgers. So I pull away from the squawk box, around the corner of the drive-thru expecting to just be able to pull away. Not so much. There was a car stopped at the window. Apparently Chicken King was OK with them. This didn't sit so well with C over there in the passenger seat. He started honking my horn and yelling at the people in the car in front of us to get the hell out of our way. (3 beers and 2 rum and Cokes is good stuff for him.) After the car in front of us pulled away, we proceeded to the next Burger King to get something to eat. I told him we should have eaten at the strip club, but those damn girls took all my money again.

Just A Thought...

This is a story my dad told me a long time ago. I blogged it once before on MySpace, but I think it bears repeating.

There's this little Bluebird and he and all his little Bluebird buddies are starting to talk about going south for the winter. They are talking about how much warmer it is down south, etc. etc. Well, the one Bluebird is pretty sure he doesn't want to go. Too far to fly, winter can't be that bad, I'll just tough it out here he thinks to himself.

So all of his little buddies fly off south for the winter and leave him alone. Well, about December when it's freezing outside, the little Bluebird is really starting to regret his decision not to fly south for the winter. About that time, he becomes so frozen that he falls out of his tree. He's lying there on the ground thinking to himself that this must be the end. He's going to freeze to death, all alone. He's thinking of his buddies and how much he is going to miss them, when all of the sudden a cow wanders by and shits on him. With cow shit being fairly warm, the little Bluebird starts to warm up and feel a little bit better. He starts feeling so good and so optimistic that he starts chirpping and singing from under that pile of cow shit to let the world know that he's there, and he's going to be OK. About that time a fox wanders by, hears the chirpping and singing and digs the little Bluebird out and eats him.

The moral of the story: Not everyone that shits on you is your enemy and not everyone that digs you out of the shit is your friend.

What Is A Washlet?

Well...let me tell you. Apparently toilets are a really big deal everywhere except here in America. Maybe that's why everyone all over the world thinks Americans are uncouth. So here I am, looking through a magazine and I see an add for a "Washlet". According to the ad, this thing does everything but powder your ass when you're "done".

The ad read something like this, "...the Washlet is a toilet seat that fits virtually any standard toilet...clean water and amazing technology to clean and pamper you like never before...heated seat, and when you finish your business just reach for the remote control. Select the area you want to wash.......and a small wand extends from underneath the seat." That's the first problem right there. I can for sure say that I do not want anything extending itself from underneath my toilet seat. What if it malfunctions and I get a colonoscopy? And believe me, if anybody's "Washlet" was going to malfunction, it would be mine. The ad goes on to say that you will be..."cleaned with a gentle stream of aerated water. Precisely. Comfortably. Completely. Push another button and warm air drys you."

Ok. I have a few questions for these Washlet people. What happens when the remote control migrates to the space between my couch cushions? A perfectly legitimate question since that's where all of the remote controls in my house end up. And now for the real question. I could see this particular item as useful if say we were dealing with Taco Bell issues. Or morning after drinking issues. "Pandareha" as I also recently heard it referred to. But what about the times when it takes aproximately 1/2 a roll of toilet paper to clean your ass? You know, the day after you ate a huge steak. And your ass still isn't clean. (And don't pretend it's never happened to you, it's happened to everybody.) What then? If it's going to leave skid marks in the bowl after you flush you can bet your ass (pun intended) that no "gentle stream of aerated water" is going to get the job done. What then?

So Many Things...

Where to start? Hooked up with an old high school friend...so excited about that. Always loved him :) Turns out he is learning West Coast Swing (my favorite...well, second favorite dance.)

Went to dinner with him, J and B last night and then he and I moved on to a very mellow West Coast Swing "Social". The dance is held at the Sunnyside Grange. Wide variety of people to dance with, everybody dances with everybody. Like I said, very social and the rules of "Dance With The One That Brung You" do not apply here. Married, single, young, old we are a very friendly group. C (the high school friend)and I then decided that we were not ready to call it a night when the nice social ended.

This is where it went wrong...or really, really well if you want to know the honest truth. We went to The Refectory. Or as some you know it, The Ref@$%tory. Dear God, that place hasn't changed in 25 years. When it's listed in Bar Fly Magazines category of "Meat Market", they weren't kidding. It's described as, "A dance floor of thirty-something delights or a charitable portion of Hell." And the exterior design is referred to as, "Garrish, resembling a Fisher Price STD Factory." How could I not have fun there?

C and I actually went to swing dance, because we like the faster "dance" music. The floor was a little full, but swing me around a few times, let me throw a couple of elbows and we found a slot to dance in :) As the crowd (and myself) got drunker, the elbows became bad because I start to throw them a little too hard. Time to go sit, talk (yell over the music) and people watch. Holy SHIT!!
The people watching was fucking fantastic. There was of course the, "Tiny go-go dancing old man", (as described by Bar Fly Mag). I actually have him on video doing the robot...on stage. Then there were the two skeezy "thugs" (and I use the term loosely because I could have kicked their asses...at the same time) dressed as twins (they weren't), in white Yankee hats, white shirts with large embossed $100 bills on them, the fake-ass 400 pound "gold" necklace and the requisite jeans, 18 sizes too big and belted aroung the lower 1/3 of their ass. Not sure about the shoes...the jeans ate their feet. Oh, and they were like 5'2" and maybe 110 pounds soaking wet. That's why they carry guns...they can't run in those pants and they're the size of 10 year olds. The awesome part was that they just hung out at the edge of the dance floor, standing about 6 inches away from it, totally waiting for crotch shots. Which, much to my amusement were not far away. There was the totally loaded, 40ish to 50ish lady in a flowered dress that looked like she would just roll out of bed (or the backseat of her car)and walk right into church Sunday morning, that literally lifted the dress from behind, did a spinning dance move and showed the entire bar her pantyhose covered ass. There was a young guy that was apparently feeling moved enough by the music that he repeatedly kept taking his shirt off and "riding" it. And my personal favorite, "Black Skirt Girl." She was the star. Even C couldn't help watching her. Her skirt was so short that just standing still you got ass cheek. God fobid she should start dancing...which of course she did. Ass everywhere. She was young. I felt kind of bad...like maybe I should tell her that if she did that in a different club she'd be making $500 a night. Hee hee. And you can't forget about the girls that escaped from the stock yard. You know, the ones that weigh about 250 pounds and wear clothes for someone that weighs aproximately 130 pounds. Good God, I can't wait to go back. Maybe I'll even get my own nickname some day.

Then, as if I wasn't feeling old enough already, I come rolling in at 3am to be greeted by B who promptly reminds me that since it is past midnight (ie: now August 9th) that it is his birthday. His 16th birthday. Fuck me, my baby boy is 16 and I just came home from The Refectory. I can't decide if that makes me pathetic or awesome in the parenting department?

And In Other News...

According to a news story out of Wisconsin, the Oscar Mayer Wienermobile (giggle) crashed into a house. The woman driving drove down a dead-end street, got stuck and as she tried her 86 point turn to maneuver the Wienermobile (giggling again) out of the cul-de-sac/dead-end, she thought she was hitting the brakes, but instead hit the gas causing her to crash into this house.

Since I've already firmly secured my place in hell, I'm just going to say it. I'm pretty sure that you could start any sentence with, "The Oscar Mayer Wienermobile crashed into...." and people would laugh.

Breaking news. The Oscar Mayer Wienermobile just crashed into a school in Southeast Portland. No children were hurt and they are trying to extract the Wiener now. We'll bring you live coverage as the story develops.

This just in. The famous Oscar Mayer Wienermobile crashed into a convent, injuring one nun by accidentally causing her to break her oath with God. Again, they are trying to extract the Wiener.

Seriously if the words, "The Oscar Mayer Wienermobile" don't make you giggle just a little bit all by themselves you need to get out more.

Wiener, wiener, wiener!!!

WTF Is A Dueling Piano Bar?

Holy Hell (shout out Sybs) did I find out the answer to that question this weekend. Went to Tacoma to see my best friend from grade school, that I haven't seen in 20 years or so. She hasn't changed, I haven't changed and that poor piano bar will never be the same.



M had big plans for the weekend. Friday her and I went out, using her sister as the designated driver. Went dancing, got pretty liquored up, had a really good time. The next day M was having a hard time deciding exactly what we should do and/or where we should be doing it. Drive to Seattle? Go down to the Waterfront? The Piano Bar? Her husband was the driver that night and that poor man got stuck driving five drunk women first to a place called Johnny's (I think it was called Johnny's, I was buzzed before we left the house) for dinner and more drinks, and then to an establishment called Longhorn's. Longhorn's strangely enough was the creature being referred to as the piano bar. Kind of like when American Cowgirls Bar and Grill played rap music, but whatever. Apparently a dueling piano bar is a place where two pianos are played simultaneously, you make (and sometimes pay lots of money for) requests for your favorite songs to be played. They then play the songs, often change the lyrics to things that are completely pornographic, leaving your drunk ass totally confused as you try to sing along.



Once again I did my very best to make an excellent first impression on people I had never met before. (M invited two of her other friends along, her sister came again and don't forget her husband. That man deserves a Medal of Honor for dealing with me.) Although I did get him into the bar for free by asking for a "buy five get one cover charge free" kind of thing. I told the bouncers they should feel sorry for him for getting stuck driving us around and they totally fell for it. Silly bouncers. M (his wife/my friend) is hot. I don't do too badly in the looks department, both her friends were gorgeous and her sister is a 22 year-old hottie that has this strange ability to make boys drool by just walking by them. Tough duty he had that night, him and his harem :)



Anyway, the real story. Of course I request the song "Crazy Bitch" by Buckcherry. As all (or most) of you know already, that would be one of my favorite songs to pole dance to. There was something close to a pole for me to play on, I figured all was well. Just in case, I even asked if I could use said apparatus to dance on and was granted permission by the afore mentioned bouncers. Participation from the audience was encouraged, even begged for by the piano players. Silly me, I should have known better. Here is a picture of my "pole".



The song starts playing, the lyrics got much naughtier than originally composed (which I really didn't think was possible) and I jumped on my "pole". As you can tell from the picture I couldn't actually use my normal climbing method to get into my pole sit due to the 5x5" square table leg portion at the bottom, so I had to grab the platform you see at the very top of the picture (already secretly load tested to insure my safety of course) and lifted myself up there. There I am, sitting on my new toy and I swear both pianos skipped a beat or two. The bouncer sees me and from 20 feet away, gives me the evil eye, points to the floor and says, "Get DOWN." I smiled at him and promptly complied with his request...by flipping off the pole backwards into a cross-ankle release, sliding down to the ground in an upside down position until my hands touched the ground and perfoming my normal dismount. I will admit that I was a little less than graceful towards the end, due to the fact that I was trying not to kick a piano, fall off the six inch riser referred to as a stage or re-injure the torn ligaments in my ankle. And the corners on the square portion of that thing almost killed me. All of this took place in less than 30 seconds. The bouncer walks over to me and says, "I told you to get off of there." Umm, OK genius, my feet are on the floor. I am down. Then he tries to give me a lecture about how I wasn't supposed to be up there at all. I pointed out to him that I had asked for and been granted permission to pole dance. He tried to tell me that I was given permission because they weren't aware of exactly what I was planning on doing. OK Mr. Rocket Scientist..."that's not my problem" was my response. That seemed to confuse him so he went back to his "post" at the door. After about 5 minutes of letting him pout, I went over and made nice so we wouldn't get kicked out. He admitted to me that what I did was really cool and, "Definitely a first, never had anybody do anything like that before." Then he told me he'd worked there for 5 years. I told him if that little pole trick was the coolest thing he's seen in 5 years, he needs a new job.

I want to go back....it was really fun but I'm not sure if they'll let me in again. Like I said before, never underestimate the power of a good first impression.

NOTICE TO ALL WOMEN!!! Never Date A Guy Who Spends This Much Money On His Vehicle

Saw this thing driving down the road yesterday. The rearview window at the bottom of the picture is mine, and I drive a Honda Accord. I'm a midget, so my rearview mirror is aproximately waist high for me. This truck was FUCKING HUGE. Like I said, I'm a midget (5'3") and I don't think the top of my head would have reached the bottom of the door jam. How in the hell do you get into that thing? Hovercraft comes out of the bed? Rope swing? Extendable ladder? My bet was a tiny escalator that pops out when you open the door. But wait...how do you get the fucking doors open? The handles were at least 7 feet off the ground. Maybe eight. Hard to judge as I was trying to drive, gauge heights and take pictures. (But I always use my hands free device when I talk on the phone while driving, I swear, for safety's sake.)

Anyway, my original point of this post was ladies, NEVER DATE THIS MAN. All he has time and money for is this magnificent vehicle. (His words, not mine.) A "date" will entail driving around all night so everyone can see how cool his truck/car is. You will pay for everything because he just had to put a new (insert vehicle modification here) on the truck. And if you are not content for every date to either be driving around in said vehicle, or home on the couch watching rented DVD's then he will kick you to the curb faster than you can say, "Nitrous Oxide." And I would also like to take the time to point out that he was driving around alone. He didn't even have a dog and a jar of peanut butter to ride shotgun.

I still want to know how you get into the damn thing though.

MJ Rest In Peace...or Hell depending on your thoughts

I've pretty much stayed away from this topic, but when I found out that LA County was asking for "donations" to cover the cost of MJ's memorial I pretty much lost it. They have actually set up a Pay Pal account to help offset the costs of the police motorcades, crowd control, ticket printing costs and whatever else the "star-studded memorial" cost them.

First of all, did it ever occur to anybody that LA County did not have to put on this fucking production in the first place? Second, did it occur to anyone that LA County has paid plenty for "productions" related to Mr. Jackson? I believe they could have been referred to as Trials Number One and Two. To think that the citizens of Los Angeles are now being gouged for the third time to "honor" the King of Pop is bullshit.

I'm not saying that I wasn't a fan of MJ back in the day. I liked and still do like some of his older stuff. You know, when he was still a black male entertainer. He lost his appeal when he started sleeping with little boys. To those of you that say he wasn't convicted I say, "FUCK YOU." Nobody makes a $20 million payout to "avoid the embarassment of a trial." Somebody accuses you of something like that and you fight until the bitter end to prove your innocence. Never mind that it happened twice. To quote a friend of mine, "No 10 year old kid comes up with the term 'Jesus Juice' on his own." And if I remember correctly, during the second trial the victim identified a picture of MJ's "member". And by "member" I mean dick. Penis. Cock. Whatever term you prefer. And the kid wasn't shown just one picture, he was shown several...like a police line-up, for lack of a better term. As traumatic as that sounds, I'm sure it wasn't any more traumatic than being fed wine and fondled by an adult man.

Honor him for what he used to be if you want. But also remember him for what he became. A pedophile. A pedophile who got away with what he did because he was an "icon". Apparently Icon Court is different than the court system the rest of us regular people have to use.

Our Countrys Birthday

Went to a Fourth of July party last night. It was out in Canby at some friends of my brothers. (Those of you that know me know I don't have a brother, but he used to be married to my sister, he's my nephew's dad....long story short I just call him my brother to make things easier...at least I think it's easier.)

Anyway the host, Lamont, has his backyard set up like a baseball diamond. Homerun fence, foul poles, actual bases....the whole nine yards. Or I guess you could say the whole 90 feet. Anyway, it's a smaller "park" and it's mainly used for friendly whiffle ball games. It was awesome. Played on my sprained ankle, got a hit but was out at first because the house rules include cross outs. Those blow ass. First time I've played ball in 25 years and I'm out on a stupid cross out. I would have made it too, sprained ankle and all. Screw this I'm going to go drink beer.

That would be putting it mildly. I'm fairly confident that I polished off a half rack of Becks by myself. I challenged my nephews friend Jon to a wrestling match. He only outweighs me by 20 pounds....oh, did I forget to mention he's a national champion that has been invited to the Olympic Trials. I lost. In like 10 seconds. I think I may have even still had my beer in my hand. And I have the grass burn on my face and bruise on my eye to prove it.

Then for my next trick I decided I was hot and was going to go for a float in the kiddy pool. With my clothes on. Still with my beer. At some point the boys decided that it was time for a game of ring toss and I was it. You would think that by now I would have learned not to drink with teenagers. My brother called this morning to check that I made it home OK. (I had a designated driver, I had to set a good example for the kids.) He proceeded to tell me just how hammered I had been and that I was hysterical to a large group of people that had never met me before. Never underestimate the power of a good first impression, I say. I told him I figured that I was probably not invited back for next year and I was sorry if I embarrassed him. He told me that I was invited back, but they needed my RSVP early because they were planning on selling tickets to the show. Nice.

I need a nap.

The New "Smart" Mercedes

I'm sure by now you have seen it advertised on TV. The "smart" car. The intelligent, mighty Mercedes. You know, the one that has a sensor to know if you are starting to go to sleep (pass out) at the wheel and sounds an alarm to wake you up. The car that has a sensor that can tell if you start to wander out of your lane of traffic, in their words if you become "distracted". (Distracted to me translates to beating your children while driving, but whatever.)

I think this is all code for: You CAN beat a DUII rap if you buy this car. That should actually be their advertising slogan. Think about it. Wakes you up when you start to pass out. Keeps you in your own lane when you start to wander, even after you've closed one eye and you're still seeing 3 extra lanes on the highway. I'll bet it even senses your body temperature, sees your red face in the rearview mirror and rolls the windows down for you.

Drunk fucks everywhere will be staggering to Mercedes dealerships to buy this car. Shit, if I wasn't so close to paying off my car now I'd go buy one.

My Special Place In Hell

I'm pretty sure that there is one for me. I'm firmly convinced that when I die there is a trap door that will appear under my feet, open instantly and drop me directly to hell. No St. Peter, no Pearly Gates, just straight downstairs. I spend a beautiful day with J. Driving the Historic Columbia River Highway, taking pictures. This was the view at Multnomah Falls....I never did see any waterfall. Is anybody out there sure that there actually is a waterfall up there? J and I just kept hoping that nobody was missing any pets or small children.

Seriously?....

Really?...I saw both of these images on the same day. Within 5 minutes of each other. I'm thinking that permanent retina damage is right around the corner for me, the body, mind and soul can only take so much. And never mind that Bubba and Junior (the two dudes in the jeep) were blaring Toby Keith's song, "She's A Hottie (Got A Smokin Little Body)". I think I threw up in my mouth a little bit.

Must be nice...

...to just be able to nap anywhere, anytime. B and I found this guy racked out over his finished Taco Del Mar basket at 4:15 Thursday afternoon. We didn't even have to be sneaky to get the picture. Actually that kind of took the fun out of it. I need to get out more.

Don't Tell Me The 80's Aren't Coming Back

Oh my God!!! Or should I say, "Oh my Gawd", very rapidly and in the most shrill, obnoxious voice that I can muster? This is a photo that E surreptitiously managed to capture while B and I pretended to debate over whether or not a pair of shoes was appropriate for me. Obviously what we were really doing was trying to block the throwbacks view of the camera so she didn't come over and beat us with the chains from her jacket.

Stupidity At Its Finest....?

A little portion of the police log that comes out in the small community newspaper where I work. All (or just the stupid ones, I don't know) of the calls that come into the local 911 line get published in the paper. I have just one question. How much of this shit do you actually have to smoke to be this stupid?

Sports Mom

For those of you that know me, you all know that I love sports. (Real sports...soccer is not a sport to me.) And my true love comes from watching my kids play. Actually the love comes from watching how passionate the kids can be. Professional athletes have nothing on Little League, Pee-Wee Football and highschool athletics. Every few months I dread the start of yet another season of something. Freezing my ass off at every football game. The stench of 30 sweaty boys in a mat room. Freezing my ass off at spring baseball games. And then at the end of the season there is a huge letdown for me. I seem to get attached to all the kids and then am sad when I know I won't see them until next season. This year was Reuben's last season of anything because he will be graduating and I think I cried for 2 days after his last football game. The girl child has pretty much given up on sports all together which broke my heart. She could have gone to college on her softball playing abilities. Lucky for me the boy child has three seasons of baseball, two seasons of football and two seasons of wrestling left. After that I'm sure you'll find me in a psych ward, wrapped up in the boys lettermans jacket yelling, "What are you, f-ing blind? That was a strike." Or, "Where are the take down points? He was in control!" And quite possibly, "Jesus f-ing Christ, he had him by the f-ing facemask, what are you, f-ing blind?" At imaginary officials that are robbing my kids of points and not calling penalties when they should. Good times. Lucky for me I have insurance with mental health coverage :)

Chains? Required? In March? WTF?

This was the view coming down Timberline Road last Saturday. March 7, 2009. MARCH!! Chains were required to drive up to the lodge. I admit it, I am a spoiled skier. I was a ski bum on and off for a few years when I was younger...wake up, look out the window and if the weather sucked, well, no skiing that day. Just rolled over and went back to bed. So now in my golden years :) I like to spring ski so I don't have to deal with this crap. But I bought the spring ski pass for both B and I, $99 to ski as much as you want from March 2nd until May 25th, so up we went. It's a hell of a deal since a single day ticket for me is $52, but I was expecting sunshine and beautiful weather, not sleet frozen to my goggles to the point that I seriously couldn't even see through them. Screw this I'm going to the bar. Going to try to ski again this Thursday. Supposed to be sunny. We'll see....

I Really Am A Blonde

This would be my stupid ass sitting outside GI Joes's (sorry, I mean Joe's) waiting for Pop-A-Lock after locking my purse, which happened to have my keys in it, in my f-ing trunk. Just how I wanted to spend a sunny Friday afternoon. The boy child better appreciate those skis :)

Local Marine Stationed In Hawaii Severely Beaten While Off Duty

Normally I wouldn't write about things like this and I will attempt to link to the video, although with my limited computer abilities I may not be able to. The Marine that was attacked was/is my neighbor, Brad. I have known him since he and his family moved in when Brad was 12. As neighbors we weren't really close, the occasional conversation out by the mailbox, things of that nature. Brad was always a nice kid though. My favorite memory is when I was taking all the boys to the waterpark for my boy childs birthday and Brad was so excited that he got to ride in my Jetta that he almost couldn't sit still. "I get to ride in the Jetta. I'm riding with Kelli in the Jetta...that is such a cool car. I'm going with Kelli in the Jetta." He made me laugh, it was really cute. When I found out that he was going into the Marines after he graduated from high school, all I could do as a mother was worry, hope he wouldn't get shot and killed overseas and remember how cute he was about wanting to ride in my, "Cool, red Jetta."

To find out yesterday that he was flat out attacked, by multiple assailants, in the very country that he swore to defend makes me want to vomit. Apparently there is a "group" of people in Hawaii that do not like military servicemen and will attack them whenever they are alone. Of course there were no witnesses to Brads beating. No one is coming forward anyway. Those fuckers attacked him from behind, focused on beating him on the face and head, broke 18 bones in his face, rendered him partially blind and nobody saw anything. And strangely enough the police have absolutely no leads. A hundred bucks says that law enforcement has had prior contact with every single member of the "group" that attacked Brad.

To think that I was worried about him being shot or blown to bits by some IED seems sort of silly now. I can't seem to wrap my mind around the fact that this happened at home. In the good old U.S. of A. I know that it seems to be a pretty well known fact that Hawaiians don't particularly care for mainlanders, or howli's as we are referred to, but last time I checked those fuckers still enjoyed all of the freedoms that Brad swore to defend and protect. Look at a map, assholes. Hawaii is part of the UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.

Click on the title of the blog, evidently that is the link to the video/news story out of Hawaii.

The Boy Child's Latest Antics

The phone call to me at work went like this. (My husband) "So what hospital do we prefer?". My answer, "Why? Who's hurt (like I didn't already know) and how badly?'. My husband, "B split the back of his head open and he's bleeding all over the place." Me, "SHIT!" Said quite loudly within the front office area with clients present, including a six year old. We went with Portland Adventist because it's closest to the house and I told my husband I would be there in 15 minutes. (My office is at least 25 minutes from the hospital.) I apologized to the six year old for saying a bad word in front of her and she responded with, "It's OK, my mom says that word too when I get hurt." I grabbed my stuff and hauled ass for the hospital. I believe I made it in aproximately 17 minutes. The boys (my "other" son was there too) were impressed by my land speed record and my husband was relieved that there wasn't a speeding ticket. One and a half hours and two staples later B was sent home. He didn't even bleed on my carpet. He's such a good kid :) Oh, and he still wants to wrestle at his high school district meet this Thursday. I figure if we tape it up really well he should be OK, right?

Sony Releases New Stupid Piece Of Shit That Doesn't Fucking Work | The Onion - America's Finest News Source

Sony Releases New Stupid Piece Of Shit That Doesn't Fucking Work The Onion - America's Finest News Source

This is pretty much how I feel everytime some new piece of electronic equipment comes into my home. I had to hijack the four (or was it five?) remote controls from everyone in my family at one point, until someone would sit down and just show me how to watch a movie in my own fucking house. I hate electronic shit. Except my computer and my cameras. And half the time I hate those too because they are apparently smarter than me. Fucking pieces of shit.

'Nuff said.

Business Names...?

These two companies happen to be located right down the street from where I work, right next to each other as it happens. Did the owners not look at the names they had chosen when they filled out all of the paperwork required to open a business? And then to be right next door to each other? You would think that whoever was coming in (no pun intended) as the second business would have had the common sense to look elsewhere. My other two favorite business names that I have seen lately, but have not been able to secure pictures are; Climax Portable Machine Tool(s) and Beaver Heat Treating. Is that like a Brazillian Oregon style? Treat the Beaver but leave the armpit hair? I feel sorry for the poor receptionists that work at these four places. Can you imagine having to answer the phone like that all day? And the questions...it's taken every ounce of self control I have not to call all of these companies and ask for factory tours and demonstrations. What a podcast that would be :)

Desperate for a sponser?

Sorry for the poor image quality...I took a picture of my TV. All I could think was that this was one sponser that I (if I were a guy) would not want plastered across my ass with some other dudes legs wrapped around my waist.

The 3 Muskateers Break the Taco Bell Record

For some unknown reason, my three boys (only one of whom is actually mine) have made it some sort of strange tradition that whenever they are with me, we must go to Taco Bell. Partially my fault...one night I totally employed the "Fourth Meal" philosophy and they have never let me live it down. At least now one of them has a drivers permit so that if "Fourth Meal" becomes a necessity I have someone to drive me. Also part of this tradition has been their burning, unceasing desire to break a "record" in which another group of my "kids" spent $32 and some odd cents at T.B. one evening.

Long story short, they did it. $43.80 at Taco Bell last weekend. I got a $2 burrito and a Pepsi. We were going to get the order to go, but the crew working at the Taco Bell didn't believe that the boys could eat all that food, so of course being teenage boys they couldn't walk away from that challenge. Below is the proof.

Never again.

That's it. I'm officially old.

My girl child turns 18 today. Shit. Happy Birthday E.

Liquid Courage

For some reason this subject has been on my mind a lot lately. You know what I'm talking about...have a few drinks and all of the sudden you are 10 feet tall and bullet proof. You can say anything, do anything and kick anybodys ass. Jose Cuervo and Jack Daniels say so. (And you all know that somewhere in your past you have the shame, the black eyes, the broken bones, the drunken texts or the coyote ugly booty calls to prove it.) Somewhere in all of this you also have the thoughts...you know, those thoughts that run through your mind when you are sober and the liquid courage just pushes them out. I've often wondered if these drunken words are things that you just lack the courage to say when you are sober? Are your drunken words equal to your sober thoughts? I really think they are. These aren't always necessarily bad thoughts or things to say. Jose and Jack sometimes give people the courage to tell someone they love them for the first time. The courage to propose marriage. The courage overcome shyness and talk to someone for the first time. But then there comes that time when the Jack and Jose open the flood gates and it is not pretty. The drunken words are hateful and full of venom. They hurt. And usually it is hurt that cannot ever be repaired. The person who throws the words that injure soon forgets, the person that was hit remembers forever. And again I find a question. If the drunken words are your true feelings, then why would you deliberately put yourself in a situation where there were people that you hated? That you felt were not your friends or worthy of your company? Why would you do that? Wouldn't that somehow fall under the definition of crazy? Or if not crazy, it at least qualifies as being stupid and having no respect for yourself.