I've been listening to "Michael Jackson Radio" since I got to work this morning...and I honestly forgot how much I enjoyed it when I was younger. The "Thriller" album (actual album) was the very first in my collection, along with Tina Turner - Tiny Dancer and Bruce Springsteen - Born in the U.S.A. and played all three on my record player until they were warped.
I remember seeing the video for the first time - back when MTV had actual videos on it - and thinking how freakin' cool it was.
Do you remember how the album cover opened up - and the inside was a big picture of him with like a baby tiger or something? I TOTALLY wanted a baby tiger when I was a kid. And as hard as I tried - I could never master that damn moonwalk thing.
Now, I'll admit I would never have allowed my kid to go to his house....But I do have fond memories of his music....and I really think I'm annoying the crap out of everyone in the office right now.
I bite my nails. Have for about 35 years now. Well, no, I suppose that's exaggerating slightly. I doubt seriously I came out of the womb biting my nails. You want to talk about giving a new mother a complex..."How BAD was it in there!?!?"
Anyway, the good news is, I don't anymore. About five months ago I was driving around in the hot van, and was casually changing the station and was just suddenly appalled at the site of my hand. I screamed out "ARGH, STOP BITING YOUR NAILS"
And shit on a shingle. I did.
I've tried this method in a few other ways since my nail biting break through.
"Stop Eating Donuts!"
"Stop Watching Bad T.V"
"Stop Drinking Beer"
"Stop Fantasizing about Shia LaBeouf"
Apparently this yelling at yourself 1 step program only works once in a lifetime. I'm fine with that really. Personally - bad tv, beer, donuts and Shia go rather well together.
So, now I have nails. Nails I'm rather proud of. But now I'm faced with a whole new set of problems.
Now what do I do?
Apparently just GROWING them isn't all I'm required to do, like that wasn't hard enough. I have to CARE for them too! And I've never experienced this whole "damn, I just broke a nail" thing before....Let me tell you something....It's pretty horrific.
So, I dropped a whopping $36 dollars today and got a pedicure and my very first manicure. Interesting experience all around.
First they made me pick a color. Forgot about that part. Personally, I think they should divide the colors into "Over 30" and "You're Too Fucking Old For This Color", because now I'm sporting this bright pink/orange shade that I swear I just saw another girl wearing in my daughter's kindergarten class.
Then you spend the whole time trying to pretend that you aren't offended that they are probably talking about you and how much you smell, but since you don't understand the language, you just pretend you are watching CNN.
And lastly, I never knew my eyebrows were that bad. But APPARENTLY they are. She must have asked me 4,000 times to wax them. I thought the first few times it was just them trying to make a buck or two - but clearly after that many times - I MUST look like Sylar.
So, now I'm sitting here, pulling my eyebrows out, with color in my hair, because my grays don't match my nail color.
My idea this week was to post our many adventures from working on the house, however, while dropping the kid off at school today, I caught an interesting conversation on the radio that I wanted y'alls take on.
Before I get into it, I need to start off by saying, I was born in Texas. Regardless of how long I've lived in another state, I will always consider myself a Texan - as is the majority of my family. So, I suppose by most standards you would consider us southern. That might be important later.
Apparently at some point in time over the weekend, this woman on the radio, required help of some kind at some store, and at some point someone had the audacity to call her ma'am...or maybe it was madam...I'm not entirely sure. And while I will admit there is a difference between the words ma'am and madam (I'm thinking brothel), this woman was BESIDE herself. She apparently even had a problem when considered a Miss, or a Mrs.
To her, the phrase or word, Ma'am, represents AGE. So, therefore if I was to call someone Ma'am, I am clearly saying that they are OLD.
I STRONGLY disagree with this. I was raised to understand that Ma'am and Sir represent respect. To this day, my parents are STILL Ma'am and Sir. And while that may give off the impression that my family is cold and uptight, let me assure you, that if my Mama calls for me down the hallway and I answer "Yes Ma'am", that's not say my follow up response isn't "Kiss My Ass".
If a woman drops her wallet outside the grocery store, and I see it happen....chances are I'll chase her down in the parking lot and say "Excuse me Ma'am, I think you dropped this."
Not "Yo Lady, This yours?"
This has been something that my sister and I have talked about many times. The countless times we've been asked to NOT call someone by their proper name...(Don't call me Mr. Smith, that's my father's name), only to get our butts kick later by our folks for being so informal with adults.
Obviously I don't know what the divide is. I know back home, it's a non-issue.
What I DO know is that when I holler up the stairs to my daughter and get a "WHAT?" instead of a "Yes Ma'am?".....I silently wish I had cattle in my back yard.
I realize that's it's been forever since I've posted anything - but the truth is - that today is the first time I've been able to lift my arms in about five days, let alone type. Once a year my husband and I take our annual "take a week off to get shit done around the house", and this last week was that week. We've been in our house for about two years now, and there have been so many projects that are just impossible to get done with a small child running around, that we started this tradition.
They are typically large scale projects. Projects that usually require monster power tools that could cut limbs off. So, I feel better knowing that she's at school and not going to zip around the corner to show me Barbie's naked boobies.
This last week proved to be no different in the hard work and power tool category - expect for the fact that the power tools were our arms and legs. I have many stories to share of our adventures, and many pictures to post of our progress. Far too much for one post.
You may remember that a few weeks ago I posted how my office was actually our formal living room, and that all of my craft and art supplies were housed in one armoire. It was only about 30 minutes after I posted that I thought "Why the hell IS my office in the formal living room??". We have a spare room upstairs, which we had planned to renovate into a guest room, however it dawned on me that we have one guest....ONCE a year. I find it pretty stupid to give an entire room up for once a year.
So, screw the guest. I took the room.
Here's the room before.
The original idea was to have these really rich walls - and all white bedding and furniture, which I thought was going to be a really nice contrast. However once I got all my office and craft stuff in....The dark purple against my stuff turned the room into a room of doom. Almost impossible to be creative. All I wanted to do was take a nap under the desk.
Here's the room now. Here are the details (if you care about that stuff)
- The desk and filing cabinet is actually a few years - but it's the Mission Style line from Office Depot (I think)
- The wall color is Behr, primer & paint in one, "Mellow Yellow". Took about 5 to 6 coats to cover that deep purple - but I like it a lot more than I thought I would.
- All the pictures in the frames are pictures I took in my Mom's backyard - zoomed in, cropped and printed out to 8x10 - crappy frames I was allowed to steal from work.
- The drapes on the window, if you can see it in the picture, still needs to be hemmed - but it's yellow & white striped Alvine Smal from Ikea.
More from this week: My first trip EVER to IKEA. How to sod your backyard without spending a dime - and how to break your ankle while doing it.
A few weeks ago I had posted that I was coming down with a horrible case of bronchitis....which ended up being true. What I didn't tell you was that I ended up getting to the peak of the sickness during the weekend, and dragged my ass to the local Urgent Care. The medical professional there told me I just "had a cold" and sent me on my way.
Three days later I went to my regular doctor and was given all sorts of drugs and an earful of the lovely medical professionals that took an oath to do no harm.
I've been off the antibiotic for a week now. And yesterday it came back - with a vengeance.
Now, because I'm nothing if not honest (and my mother will never let me live it down) I will be truthful and tell you that I didn't exactly finish the whole ten days of the antibiotic. However, in my defense (which there is little of) they were really big ass horse pills, and I really was feeling better....and seriously....shouldn't seven days of a big ass horse pill be enough!?!
Anyway, so I called my doctor this morning and basically begged and pleaded to please not make me drive all the way back in. It's exactly what it was before, and clearly we didn't kill it off the first time. I did, however, conveniently leave out the part of not taking all the prescription.
She took pity on me and decided to "bump it up a notch" and "let's make sure we kill it all this time" and prescribed me something new.
I'm curled into bed with my big jug of water, and just read the back panel of this new drug that she gave me.....
....used for treating infections caused by certain bacteria....also used to prevent or slow anthrax after exposure.....
Now THAT is what I'm talking about!!!! An antibiotic that is also used for freakin' anthrax! I'll be sleeping soundly tonight with the knowledge that I'm not only treating my resistant bronchitis, but if there is a biological attack on my small town...I may be the only survivor.
Today is my brother in law's birthday. I have absolutely no idea how old he is - and truthfully, even if I did, I don't think he would care if I told you. He's bizarre, often makes no sense, makes off the wall jokes that no one understands, and thinks he's far funnier than he really is. And I love him dearly. In honor of his birthday - our beginning together.
15 years ago, in a small town, a young girl was turning 21. With no desire to hit the big city and "go crazy", we made plans to stay local and hit the pool bar. My sister, who was extremely pregnant at the time, was the prefect designated driver, so my brand new brother in law, older sister, best friend (now my husband) and myself hit the local hot spot.
Fun ensued. We had music, the pool tables and each other. Now, as most people know, when you are the ONLY sober person in the group - the fun grows very thin quickly. Needless to say, when you are THAT pregnant and THAT sober....she didn't stay long. It wasn't that big of a deal, since my folks house wasn't too far away - and we were convinced that the three of us could walk back home....And I was SURE that my parents wouldn't mind if the of us crashed in my bedroom.
Everything is SO clear when you're half lit.
She left. We stayed. Everything at this point, I will admit, is a little foggy.
I know we walked home. I know at some point, my brother in law tried to start a fight with some thug in town. I think Michael and I talked him down and ran down the street. When we got back to my house - I'm sure we were VERY quiet walking up three flights of stairs to my room. This is where we tried to figure out what the appropriate sleeping arrangements.
I had a big king size bed.
I couldn't sleep with Michael. He and I weren't even dating at the time. If memory serves I actually had a boyfriend at the time ( come to think of it....why wasn't he there?) So, we decided that my brother-in-law and I would share the bed, and Michael would take the floor.
We all laid around for a while, laughing and giggling about the evening events, slowly wearing down - the booze quickly taking it's effect.
And then I farted on my brand new brother in law.
Happy Birthday Jeff, next time I'll pee on you.
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