Part Six.

That's right, I am still not done telling the story of Costa Rica. Here are Parts One, Two, Three, Four and Five. And there's more to come after this.

So I wake up Monday morning around 6am and go to the bathroom and have loud, unadulterated, grotesque waterpoop.

HA! Did you think you'd be reading about someone else's bowel movements today? If the answer is "no", you clearly are a new reader. Thanks for your patronage!

Anyway, I think, "Aw, diarrhea, this sucks. Oh well." I somehow didn't realize that the waterpoop was nature's signal to drag the dull-as-fuck Casa Colores kitchen machete across my throat and get it over with. I go back to the bed and start to sweat. Then I start to cramp. Then I sweat AND cramp. Then I sweat AND cramp AND waterpoop (in the bathroom, not in the bed) all at the same time. Then I hyperventilate and force Jason to stay with me at the house instead of going to do anything fun, anything besides laying next to me while I roll around in the bed tooting at will. BECAUSE IT MADE ME FEEL BETTER TO TOOT AND IT MADE ME CRAMP WORSE TO HOLD IT IN.

Marriage: Suck It Up, Fuckers.

ANYWAYS, I cramp and sweat and waterpoop and toot all morning. The cramps are really intense, so much so that I have to walk around and take deep breaths akin to those of a woman in labor BUT I HAVE NO EPIDURAL, I'VE NEVER DONE THIS WITHOUT THE DRUGS, JESUS. Finally around one o'clock (count 'em, that's seven hours of cramping and waterpooping) Jason asks if I think I should go to the doctor.

We're in Montezuma, Costa Rica: a place where, according to the internets, they're "building an atm", and we're pondering going to the doctor. The cramps have overridden my brain and we walk up to the main house and ask the owners where the closest/best/most likely to understand gringo doctor is. They tell us to go to Cobano, home of the MegaSuper. Chris agrees to drive us on account of Jason has the stage fright about driving the truck. Kristi is taking a nap because her rash is acting up (for God's sakes, you can't take us anywhere), so Chris lets her know we're leaving and we go.

It is fucking hot and there isn't an air conditioner within a bajillion mile radius of us, and we bump along to Cobano where we find the Clinico and go inside. It is somewhat crowded with native Costa Ricans, pregnant ladies and nice young men and no one looks sick.

Enter Buffy: writhing, breathing heavy, sweating, rolling around in the floor leaking waterpoop. They recoil just a little. The lady at the front desk doesn't speak any English. Except she's a liar because when I stand there and start to cry she says exasperatedly, "DOCTOR?" I say, "Si, I need a doctor." She takes my passport and looks at her little book and says, "dos" and holds up two fingers. Luckily Chris speaks the Spanish kind of ("Dos beeros, por favor!") and is there to be like, "Two." So I give her a wilty gracias and take a seat. Where I writhe and sweat and double over and moan. Then I have to get someone to tell me where the bathroom is ("Bano?") so's I can go waterpoop all over their hotass bathroom.

So finally the nurse calls me back and mother mercy, her little room is so air conditioned, so cool and dim and quiet that I almost offer her all my money just to let me hang out back there for an hour or two. I ask her if she speaks English (I say "Habla Englais?" which is TOTALLY INCORRECT, fucking Spanish classes were like, 11 years ago, I totally looked at the nurse and said, "He/she/it speaks English?"), and she smiles [at my stupidity] and says yes. So I say, "I'm having really bad cramps and diarrhea." She looks at me for a minute, after that bitch in the front being all "DOCTOR" I don't know if I can trust these people, and she nods and writes some stuff down and tells me to go back to the waiting room.

I go back out and almost immediately the doctor calls me back. The best is that I don't even recognize my name in that heavy accent, and some random guy next to me sort of nudged me and pointed at the doctor. Apparently they were all very aware who the sick white girl with the sick white girl name was. So I go back there and sweet, sweet Mary, his room was all air-conditioned and dim and cool, too. I said "Habla Englais?" (God, what a fucking moron I am) and he smiles and shakes his head. And we sit there staring at each other.

So, genius that I am, I say very slowly, "Okay, I'm having really baaaad craaaaamps," at this point I'm pressing my hands into my lower abdomen, "and diaaaarrheeeeaaaah." and here I lean over and wave my hand around behind my ass.

I wonder why other countries think Americans are such stupid assholes?

So he has me lay on the table and he pokes my tummy and squeezes my arms and legs for a while, and then says a whole bunch of shit I don't understand, hands me a piece of paper, and sends me on my way. He had said "farmacia" several times so I go straight to the farmacia (which is also inside the Clinico) and try to hand them my little sheet. They point me back to the liar up front, who crossly takes my sheet and stops acknowledging my presence.

Then some nice lady leads me back to the back of the building to the billing lady. BOY, WAS SHE GLAD TO SEE ME. Not really, she didn't speak English and was very snippy and didn't like me at all. Finally I figured out that they only take colones, so off to the Banco we go where we navigate through hoardes of uzy-toting, smiling and friendly policemen to change some dollars for colones, then back to the Clinico where I pay and get my medicine and we head back to the house. I continue to cramp and writhe for the remainder of the day, and I wait until that evening to take any of the medicine and even then I only use some of it because I can't read what it is or what it does and God knows I am entirely too anal and obsessive to just start popping random Costa Rican pills without even knowing what they made of. So, you know, a whole day of illness and a few hours at the doctor: time well spent, right?

Incidentally when we get back to the house Kristi comes out onto the porch sweating her ass off, and we all kind of stop and look at her and she's like, "Y'ALL TOOK BOTH OF THE GODDAMN LIGHTERS AND THE DECK OF CARDS." Apparently when she awoke from her nap she thought, "I guess I'll play solitaire and smoke cigarettes until they get back." (Keep in mind that she is in the middle of the fucking jungle on top of a mountain in super heat with no tv, so company, no radio, no car, no books, no nothing.) No no no NO, this can't HAPPEN. Upon realizing that Chris had taken both (he didn't know Jason had the only other lighter and he thought he and Jason would play cards in the waiting room at the Clinico- who IS this guy?) Kristi proceeded to WALK DOWN THE AFOREMENTIONED, GOD-FORSAKEN HILL to buy a lighter in Montezuma and then WALK BACK UP THE GODDAMNED HILL AGAIN with her shiny new red Costa Rican Bic. She had the courtesy and foresight to leave a note just in case we got back while she was gone; it said, "I walked down to get a lighter, ASSHOLES. Be back soon. Love, Kristi" She told us that it was by sheer rage alone that she made it back up the hill.

But what about Kristi's rash? What happens with that? Do I wake up well and refreshed? More tomorrow.

Part Five.

So this is even more of the story of our trip to Costa Rica. Here are Parts One, Two, Three, and Four. This is Part Five. And we're only starting the fourth day of the trip!

We wake up Saturday morning and go to a farmer's market in the park in Montezuma and buy things like cherry tomatos, pineapple, cheese, and lettuce. Jason and I head back to the house and hit the pool, while Kristi and Chris head to Cobano and the MegaSuper (their "big box" grocery store). They come home bearing rum, papaya, mango, bananas, and avocados, and we have a nice lunch of sandwiches and fruit rummy smoothies.

That evening we get dolled up and go to Chico's Bar in Montezuma, hoping mainly to have a good time, but also to maybe see Joaquin and Casey again. By now we've figured out that Montezuma consists of about two small blocks of mostly restaurants, and Chico's is the only disco in town. We see fire dancers in the street; the boy who made our necklaces is one of them. We go out and dance the night away. We decide to roam the streets in search of our famous friends and step out to policemen everywhere, carrying huge guns and blocking off the street. We ask if we can get out to go home. They politely escort us out. I guess we were all in agreement that they didn't need a bunch of gringos gumming up the works of whatever the hell they were doing. I have had too many margaritas and I pass out when we get home.

Sunday morning Jason goes for a walk and unwittingly tries to thumb a right from Casey Affleck. Apparently Casey Affleck doesn't pick up hitchhikers.

We decide to visit Rainsong, a wildlife sanctuary in Cabuya. We were told it was a five minute drive from Montezuma. We set out, Kristi and I bouncing around in the back of the truck, and drive. And drive. And drive. After about 20 minutes of driving, we stop for directions. Yes, we're going the right way. Kristi has figured out that the loud banging of the rear hatch isn't so bad if we prop our feet against it. We keep going for about 5 more minutes 'til we find it. We go in and play with baby squirrels, a friendly ant eater, a sleepy kinkajou, a lonely howler monkey named Mona Lisa, and lots of other animals.

We leave and decide to eat lunch in Cabuya, a tiny town with one restaurant. Jason and I order mahi mahi, and Kristi and Chris order sushi. They have one waitress serving the whole place, and one large table keeps ordering beers, and the waitress has to go across the street (to someone's house? a market?) to get the beers every time they order them. At one point she goes to get them four more beers, and as soon as she gets back they say, "Oh, wait, we need one more!" and she goes across again to get one more beer. This is the kind of job that I would have no-call no-showed when I was her age (maybe 18). It takes FOREVER for the sushi to come. It comes, and then we leave.

Back to the house. Swimming and naps. Kristi has a nasty rash on her arms, red and bumpy and hot and itchy. She worries that it's a flesh-eating bacteria. She takes two Claritin and drinks beer until she sings a song about her butt and goes to bed.

The next day is the worst, hardest, hottest, scariest of the whole trip for me. What happens? Tune in Monday.

Part Four.

This is the story of our trip to Costa Rica. Part One is here, Part Two is here, and Part Three is here.

Jason drives us down the hill, and we're all clutching and screaming because apparently first gear is really loose, and ALL the gears are really hard to find, and the stick will pop out of gear at any given moment. Kristi and Chris are bumping around in the back, seatless. Jason manages to get us down and park, and declares that he will not drive that truck again.

We had a nice, calm, quiet dinner and then walked around Montezuma a bit. We came across a table of really beautiful hemp jewelry that Kristi and I both liked. The fellow selling them was a tiny, skinny boy with dreadlocks to his waist. He proceeded to talk to us in Spanish, all in Spanish, and somehow we picked up quite a bit of it. His jewelry is all totally unique, and you'll never never ("Nunca, nunca!") see anything else like it in the world. Each one is totally individual and no two of his necklaces are alike. The necklase that Kristi likes took him three days to make. The one that I like is the "purest stone".

He made the mistake once of letting someone take pictures of his work, and the next thing he knew he was in Mexico and saw a girl wearing a necklace that someone had copied from him. He stopped her and said, "That's my work." She said no, she bought it from someone else. He said, "Yes, that's my work." She said no; he said emphatically YES ("SIIII."). So now no pictures are allowed.

Kristi and I both fall under his spell and buy necklaces. We stand outside the market where Jason and Chris are buying beer.

We're standing there waiting, and I glance into the street and see a boy walking towards us and think, "Wow, that boy looks like Casey Affleck." Something makes me double-take, and IT IS CASEY AFFLECK. WALKING PAST ME IN MONTEZUMA BEACH, COSTA RICA. He passes and I grab Kristi's shoulders and say, "DO YOU KNOW WHO JUST WALKED PAST US? RIGHT THERE, THAT'S CASEY AFFLECK." Kristi says something hilarious like, "I don't think I've seen him in anything," and then Jason and Chris come out and I tell them the same thing. Jason immediately says, "Oh, where's Joaquin Phoenix?" About three seconds later, Kristi's eyes get really big, and she starts jerking her head towards the market that we're still standing around in front of, and there walks Joaquin Phoenix into the market, where he proceeds to start shaking hands with and hugging all the people who work there. We're pretty sure that he heard everything that we were saying about Casey and him. He has one stupid dreadlock sticking out of the back of his head (I love you, Joaquin, but it's stupid). He looks CRAZY. Even Puffy can't deny it.

And guess what? For this particular outing, this one fucking time, we left our cameras in the safe at the house. WE WERE PHOTOGRAPHERS WITH NO CAMERAS STANDING TEN FEET AWAY FROM JOAQUIN PHOENIX AND CASEY AFFLECK.

So I'm standing there trying to figure out how to approach them, and Jason and Kristi decide we need to go because it's pointless for us to stand around in the road staring. I kick them in the balls and then tackle Casey Affleck and lick his face, and then I spray Joaquin with Lysol. NO, WAIT, I whine about it a little and follow them to the truck and we go home and drink beer and FREAK OUT on the front porch about seeing famous people. And I'm like, "200 CIGARETTES CASEY I LOVE YOU and Joaquin I WAS IN LOVE WITH YOUR BROTHER AND I CRIED WHEN HE DIED. And also I hear Space Camp is pretty good."

Then we plan how we're totally going to see them the next night and we're totally going to party with them and take their pictures and hang with them and they'll come back to our house and drink our beer and play cards with us.

Does it happen? More tomorrow.

Part Three.

This is the story of our trip to Costa Rica. Part Two is here and Part One is here.

So we're riding further and further into the jungle, into nowhere, dust and hot sun and our cab driver giving us a thumbs-up with some huge, ruby ring on his finger, when we see the sign for Casa Colores where we're staying. He drives us right up to the door, helps us unload our luggage, and hands our hostess a card.

Our hostess walks us up to our house (no air conditioning) and shows us around the property, including the pool and the breezy, shady cabana with a fridge full of water, soda, and beer. The owner looks at our clothes (jeans, t-shirts and sneakers) and says we better change, because it's very hot. NO SHIT. As we knod, sweat drips off our chins. She tells us that she doesn't recommend walking to Montezuma because of the heat, dust, and degree of incline.

We unpack and settle in and sweat, sweat, sweat. We shower and change and decide to walk down to Montezuma in spite of the owner's warnings. Clearly we know better than a lady who lives there.

We proceed to walk down the steepest, hottest, dustiest hill I have ever encountered in my whole life. There is one stretch of silt where your entire foot will sink down into the dirt. By the time we get into Montezuma we are totally soaked with sweat and covered in dirt and I am seeing stars from the heat.

We eat supper and have a few drinks, then go to the supermarket and buy some food and beer. We are at a loss about how to get back up the hill with all our crap, and I've decreed that I shall not walk up or down the hill ever again. We go to a tourist information spot and ask if they can call us a cab, and the girl there calls one of her friends to take us up. The fellow pulls up within about a minute of being called, and silently drives us up the hill for a couple of dollars. I take aspirin and throw myself into the pool in protest. Actually we all sit at the pool and drink beer until bedtime. I sleep better than I've slept in ages.

The next day we wake up and head to the pool. We're drinking beer by 11. Kristi and Chris rent a car from the owners of Casa Colores. It's a manual shift Suzuki Samurai with windows that won't roll up, no radio, no air conditioner and no backseat. The first time we take it out, Jason drives us in the dark down the treacherous mountain to get dinner in Montezuma.

Does he kill us? NEARLY. More tomorrow.

Part Two.

This is Part Two of our trip to Costa Rica. Part One is here.

So we're standing at the bus terminal with all our luggage with no clue what to do. This Costa Rican cab driver who barely speaks English starts shaking us down to take us to Puntarenas for $100. We are hesitant, and he finally says $80, and we take it (keep in mind it's a two-hour drive). The four of us and our five suitcases squeeze into his tiny red car and take off for Puntarenas. He is playing a mix cd that is all American 70's and 80's music and includes Journey's Faithfully and Billy Idol's Eyes Without a Face. He drives like a mad man to try and get us to the nine o'clock ferry. I fall asleep about half-way there. When I wake up we're pulling up to the ferry terminal as the ferry is pulling away. They tell me that the only reason we missed it is because some bitch on a scooter was driving really slowly and wouldn't let us pass.

So there we are, standing in the middle of the street with five suitcases, and the cab driver points out a restaurant where the food is supposed to be good. We drag all our shit up the long, metal staircase and take a seat in a lovely, open-air place that overlooks the water. The next ferry leaves at twelve, so we have a few hours to kill. We order gallo pinto with juevos, with sour cream, or with beef in sauce, and the waiter suggested we use this sauce. It is GOOD STUFF. We eat slowly and drink hot, strong coffee and smoke cigarettes until twelve.

It is HOT on the ferry, espcecially after dragging all those suitcases up the black, metal stairs. We sit inside and rest. I realize that I still get a little seasick, and curse everyone who ever told me that really big boats don't rock. YES THEY DO.

We get to Paquera and it is HOT. Dripping sweat. A swarthy little man tells us he'll take us to Montezuma for $50. He points at his SUV and says, "That's me." We take him up on it.

He proceeds to take us on one of the wildest rides I've ever been on (from this Wikitravel article: Driving in Costa Rica is, by American standards, dangerous. Costa Rica has one of the highest deaths by car accidents in the world.). He drives very fast on small dirt roads, passing people and honking and giving them dirty looks. He keeps giving us the thumbs-up and saying, "Montezuma! Pura Vida!" (from this article: Costa Ricans use the phrase to express a philosophy of strong community, perseverance, good spirits, enjoying life slowly, celebrating good fortune, whether small or large.)
He turns off the main road onto a red clay road that is so bumpy, so much like off-roading, and Kristi says, "Um, is this a short cut?" He replies, "Si. SHORT CUT." When we discuss it later, we realize that we were all thinking the same thing: he was taking us out into the woods to rob us and maybe kill us.

What happens next? More tomorrow.

Part One.

Crazy morning.

We're back from Costa Rica! It was a pretty wild trip.

San Jose is bizarre, with crazy drivers and scary policemen and cold winds at night and really tasty casados. We stay there the first and last nights at Hostel Pangea, a fucking awesome place with a rooftop bar and restaurant that is cheap and really good. They also have complimentary music at night- apparently there is either a tiny odd venue or someone's practice space very close to the window of our room and we are treated to free, shitty reggae. This particular hostel also has a lot of safety features, because apparently San Jose is somewhat unsafe. Bueno!

The real excitement starts the second morning when we all get up early to take a shuttle to the bus station, where we we are supposed to catch a bus that will take us all the way to Montezuma beach, where we were staying for the bulk of our trip. Apparently the internet can't be relied upon for totally up-to-date information like bus schedules, because our bus leaves an hour before we get there. So we're standing around at a bus station, which is really just a metal shed with a bunch of buses parked outside, and we can't decide what to do.

You see, it's a two-hour drive to Puntarenas, where we're supposed to catch a ferry and ride it for an hour over to Paquera and then it's another hour's drive to Montezuma. In other words, we have a long way to go and not much clue how to get there, since we have missed our planned mode of transport, the bus. So we're four gringos, standing there with five huge suitcases, surrounded by native Costa Ricans who are looking at us like we're crazy gringos with a bunch of suitcases at this tiny bus station that might as well have chickens pecking around in front.

What do we do? More tomorrow.

Did y'all know that I used to work in a library? I worked in a couple of libraries, actually.

Anyway, I discovered these Dispatches from a fellow who works in a public library on McSweeney's, and this one here hit the nail on the head. I'm going to try and remember some good library stories and post them here as they come to me.

I'm burnin' up, burnin' up for your love.

I haven't always loved hot foods. In fact, up until I was about 22 I never ate spicy stuff- no hot sauce, no jalapenos, only mild salsa, etc.

Then I was at my Aunt CJ's house in Pensacola and she was making nachos for everybody, and she said, "You want jalapenos?" My friend piped up and said, "No, she doesn't eat spicy stuff." I don't know why, I don't know what changed, but I immediately said, "YES, I DO WANT JALAPENOS. I LIKE THEM." And it wasn't a matter of proving anything to either of them. I just suddenly liked the jalapenos.

Since then my love of spicy things has grown exponentially. Some times I crave jalapenos so much that I try to think of something to eat them with. I like hot salsa, hot sauce, spicy foods, all kinds of peppers.

Point is, I just discovered this website, and I'm intrigued.

Jeepers creepers.

In honor of the fact that I am currently sleeping in a place where they advertise BIG ASS MOSQUITO NETS ON EVERY SINGLE BED!, I figured I'd write a buggy post. Prepare to get the heeby jeebies.

My mom once woke up in the middle of the night with an intense pain on her throat, and when she moved her hand to her throat she felt something fat and long and warm on her neck- she said it felt like a "big, fat finger" there. She grabbed it and slung it and lept out of bed, turned on the light, woke my dad up. They searched and couldn't find anything anywhere, but she had a big red mark on her throat. The next morning when she was making her bed she moved her pillow and there was a fat, dead centipede.

One of my friends recently told me a story about her brother getting his morning cup of coffee and then feeling something odd in his mouth when he took a big gulp. Apparently there was a big, fat roach in the cup and he poured his coffee over it without even realizing it.

My sister ate a dead roach out of the window sill when she was a toddler. My mom saw what she was doing just a moment too late to stop her.

When I was a kid I was sitting on my bed, eating a piece of pizza and watching tv when a fatass roach fell off the ceiling and onto my pizza that I was just about to shove into my mouth.

When I was a college freshman I moved to an apartment in Montevallo. One night I discovered a large cockroach in the apartment. When I tried to capture it with a jar and a postcard I discovered that it really liked to fly through the air AFTER ME, like chasing me through the house as I screamed my head off. I finally caught it and put it outside. The next day I came home from class and that EXACT SAME STALKING CHASING COCKROACH was in my apartment again. I had a terrible fever and a bad bladder infection so after trying to catch it and being chased by it for about 30 minutes I gave up and drove the hour-long drive back to Leeds to spend the night at my mom's because I was too scared of the roach. The next day I caught it under a jar and left it. I would talk to it every day when I came home from class. After a few days it died. I didn't feel bad.

And finally, true story: Jason busted his knuckle once punching a cockroach in the face.

Kiss him, he's Irish!

Happy St. Patrick's Day! Know that we are on the beach right now trying to think of something green to drink. Jason is wearing a green speedo and thinking of you.

Please, please go read the story about this girl.

A List of Five Things that Society At-Large Likes, Yet I Don’t Get:

1. The Simpsons. Seriously, I have never been a fan. Bart is obnoxious. I've been using that "ducks in long pants" line for a few weeks now, but I got it from Chris, not from the Simpsons. It was funnier when I thought Chris made it up.

2. Sushi. I like seafood, but something about the raw seafood taste and the seaweed is just too much for me. Bleh.

3. Low-rise jeans. Gross. I am just not built for low-rise. I can't stand the feeling that my crack is showing at all times.

4. Thong underwear. Double-gross. I can't walk from the feeling that something is up my butt. Pair the thong with the low-rise jean and I will actually throw up on you.

5. Watching videos on Youtube. I just don't have the patience. People email videos to me; I never watch them. I'll start one and then get irritable and stop it and walk away. No idea why I'm like this.

Say, did you know that a disease is ravaging the tasmanian devil population? Check it out.

Contact!

On my way to Costa Rica!

I've actually scheduled some posts to publish while I'm gone, so don't stop reading. Just know that I'm okay; I'm on a beach somewhere watching Jason and Chris trying to surf, looking fabulous with Kristi in our sweet-ass dresses that we bought to lounge on the beach and drink pina coladas in.

I hope to bring back fun souveniers and rad pictures to show you guys what cool-asses we are. In the meantime, y'all ponder ducks in long pants.

Wow. People are fucked up.

I do not kid.

Things purchased specifically for my trip to Costa Rica (for real):

- New bathing suit- my old bathing suit was purchased on clearance from Wal-Mart four years ago. It was time for a new one.

- Pepto Bismol tablets

- Sunscreen

- Lovely backpack

- Antibacterial hand wipes

- Tiny box of q-tips

- New undies

- Huge, floppy hat

- Haircut

- Two pairs cargo shorts for Jason, plus a pair of trunks

- Shirts, dresses, and shorts, oh my!

- Gallon-sized ziplock bags

- Aloe vera

- Two pairs large, ridiculous sunglasses

- Straw fedora

25 Things.

John tagged me to do this one on Facebook, but I can only do Facebook on my phone, so I deemed it too annoying to work on except to do it here. There's your explanation.

1. I am afraid of the dark. I have always been afraid of the dark. I frequently think I see things or hear things when the lights are out. If Jason isn't in bed yet, I don't turn the light out.

2. I am terrified of ending up alone. I imagine that one day Jason will leave me, and all my friends will be gone by then because I'm so annoying/unfunny/needy/crazy/bitchy/Mexicanfoody/drinky.

3. I eat a lot of Mexican food. What's startling is that I crave Mexican food for pretty much every meal. I dream about cheese dip and a nice taco salad with jalapenos. Jason likes Mexican food okay, but he also has a sensitive stomach so Mexican can mean some interesting bathroom experiences for him for a couple of days afterwards. Still, he'll eat Mexican food with me almost any time I ask. Now we have a child that when I pick him up from daycare will BEG AND PLEAD, "Can't we PLEEEEEEEEEASE go to the messican restaurant?" The staff at the local place knows his name. They also know my voice when I call to order take-out.

4. I have too many clothes. Seriously, I have jeans that I'm too big for AND jeans that I'm too small for. I keep both just in case I gain OR lose weight. Doc Martens that I bought nine years ago? Got 'em. 30 pairs of flip flops, tons of flats, boots that my dad bought me when I was 21: yes, yes, yes. A few things that didn't even quite fit right when I bought them but were on such a good sale and were a style that I really liked but I've still never worn them because THEY NEVER QUITE FIT RIGHT: yes. New stuff on the way: fuck me, yes.

5. I really, really don't like some of the most popular funny movies in recent history, such as Space Balls, Home Alone, Caddyshack, and all those Naked Gun movies. I'm just not usually a big fan of slapstick, goofy stuff. I say this, and yet I LOVE 40 Year Old Virgin, Bring It On, and Wedding Crashers. I don't know.

6. At work, out of about ten bathroom stalls, there is one particular stall that I always choose to go to for number two. It is not the very first one or the very last one.

7. I think perhaps I am a mediocre mom. I don't like germs, I don't like going to the park, I don't like arguing with a midget, I don't like getting kicked in the boob. I hope that what I lack in squee-ness I make up for in super-coolness and intense, loving hugs. There's one thing: I will always let Reed sit in my lap, and I am always up for a snuggle.

8. I am totally obsessed with small electronic items. When Palm first popped up I wanted one, like REALLY wanted one, thought about it all the time. Then it was the Razr, then an iPhone, then a Blackberry. Laptops, stuff for the camera, iPods, these are a few of my favorite things.

9. My most feared illness is anything that makes my stomach feel bad or, PLEASE GOD NO, makes me throw up. I don't like getting any kind of illness (of course), but I can stand a cold, can tolerate diarrhea, can muddle through aches and pains. But if my stomach feels bad or if I'm throwing up, I am a mess, a big baby, a whiny pool of KILL ME NOW that stays in bed and lies very still and covers her eyes with a cool rag and wants complete silence.

10. I really, really like sleeping, resting, and hanging around in bed. There are days in which, if I had a nanny for Reed and no job to go to, I could stay in bed all day long. What time I go to bed at night makes no difference; I can go to sleep at 9pm and still want to stay in bed until 12 or 1 the next afternoon.

11. I really love my friends. The love that I feel for my friends is exactly the same love that I feel for my family. I once had a boyfriend who got mad at me because I spent so much time with my friends, and I explained to him that the intensity and commitment that he felt about going to band practice (several times a week) was the same intensity and commitment I felt about spending time with my best friends. He claimed he understood, but I'm pretty sure that that situation played a large part in our relationship's undoing.

12. I love reading blogs. I read Dooce and Sarah and Antonia on a regular basis. I also read my friend Lindsey's pop culture blog, and my friend Paul just started a really interesting one, and my cousin and my mom. There's my friend Birdie, and then I just discovered this girl yesterday and I discovered this girl last week. I like blogs, and I like reading blogs, and I like writing blogs.

13. Just about the only thing that I know of that I don't like to eat is olives. I'm not a big fan of sushi, but I can eat it. I probably don't like anchovies- I've never tried them. For the most part I like everything else IN THE WORLD there is to eat. I know you guys can come up with some weird stuff that I've never had- pickled pigs' feet and chitterlings and whatnot. But for the most part, I like pretty much anything. For example, I like fried chicken livers. Yep, I said it. When I was a kid I ate an entire jar of sliced dill pickles, which I promptly threw up. I also have always loved A-1 sauce. LOVE IT. When I was young I would pour myself some A-1and THEN try and find something to dip into it.

14. My parents divorced when I was 14 and I was SO RELIEVED because they fought all the time and it was awful and tense and I knew things would get better once they didn't try to be married people any more. Then after my dad moved out, we suddenly spent more time together. He took me out to eat almost every weekend. We still weren't best friends, but it was certainly more time than we ever spent together before. Then my mom and dad remarried each other when I was about 21, and I got really excited because I thought we would be like a regular family, that we'd all be able to spend time with each other and eat dinner together and that kind of thing. Alas, it didn't happen; they were unhappy and re divorced about a year later. Now I never see my dad. He doesn't call and invite me to do anything and I don't call and invite him to do anything.

15. My sister India is really my half-sister; we have different fathers. But when I was born and all through growing up she lived with us and we always just thought of each other as sisters, still do. We just can't seem to see eye-to-eye on things, so we don't get along very well now. But we were pretty close up until about 14 or 15 years ago.

16. My mom is one of my best friends. She irritates the living shit out of me sometimes, but I figure that's probably payback for how much I irritated her when I was growing up. One time I stood next to her and said, "Can I? Can I? Can I?" over and over until she stood up and thrashed me with a newspaper. I think she's entitled to irritate me a little bit. In spite of our mutual irritation we still are best friends, I think. When I am mad or sad or happy, she's one of the first people I call to tell about it.

17. Jason is impossibly cool and so nice and is the best man I've ever known. That's why I'm so sure he'll leave me eventually: there is no possible way that I am cool enough to hold onto this guy. I am dorky and crazy and crotchety and irritable and obsessive about cleanliness. Jason, on the other hand, is laid back and well-meaning and smart and knows tons about music and movies and history and deserving of a nice lady. Unfortunately I'm not sure that I'm a nice lady. I'm nicer than his ex is though, so I guess he's moving closer to the mark. I hope maybe something has happened to his brain that causes him to think that I'm that right one for him, because I don't ever want to be without him.

18. I cannot stand when people mispronounce words. "Nucular" is the worst one, which started when Josh pointed out that Steve said it the wrong way, and then we got a president who said it the wrong way and it's all I could hear, every time he spoke. IT IS NOT "NUCULAR", IT IS "NUCLEAR". It is not "real-IH-tor", it is "real-tor"- no "ih", it is a 2-syllable word, not 3. I could go on for days. When people say "pitcher" for "picture", I throw up in my mouth a little bit.

19. I am terrible at talking to people. With my friends or family I'm usually fine, but at work or in restaurants or stores or on the phone I am TERRIBLE. I lose my train of thought, I get sweaty and nervous, I misunderstand the other person, I can't think of what to say, I make stuff up to try and get out of the situation faster, and I almost always come away from it loathing myself and feeling like I'm going to puke.

20. I believe very deeply in God and Jesus, but I don't go to church hardly ever and I don't quote the Bible. I feel strongly that Jesus loves us and he WANTS to love us and that people make mistakes and that if everyone who said "fuck" or smoked a cigarette went to hell, then hell must be like the Galleria at Christmas (crowded as fuck). I think that Jesus just wants us to try to be good people and that the effort alone means something and God is by definition smarter than us and He doesn't expect us to be as smart as he is, because that wouldn't really be fair, would it? To me the whole point is that Jesus loves me and will forgive me and just wants good things for me and wants me to strive towards those good things to make them happen for myself because you can't just dick around and wait for somebody else to make good things happen for you, and that folks should spread joy around as much as they can because not everyone can find joy by themselves.

21. I love to laugh and I love to make people laugh and I love to laugh with other people, at myself and/or all by myself. That's why I love to read Dooce and Sarah and McSweeney's: their stuff makes me laugh out loud. If this doesn't make you laugh, you are a robot (Chris, you don't count).

22. Reed likes the Vandals, the B-52s, Empire Records, the Office, and Mexican food. My work here is done.

23. 25 things is a fucking lot of things. It took me two days to write this.

24. I have never been good at standing up for myself, at letting people know when they're hurting my feelings or making me mad or sad or taking advantage of me. It is something that I'm working on this year and I am already managing to open my mouth more frequently.

25. Jason started uttering the phrase "That's what she said" several months ago at the appropriate (inappropriate) moments ("I can't fit this into the box." "That's what she said."). As a result, I now say it in my head any time anybody says anything remotely deserving of "That's what she said." My boss said, "No, I don't like nuts in my stuff" last week. FOR FUCK'SAKES. That's what she said.

On 17 glasses of red wine.

So last night I had a dream about a headless dog.

I can't remember all the details of the dream, and I can't remember a lot of the whys, but Jason, Kristi, Chris and I were in Tuscaloosa, but in the dream Tuscaloosa was a big, windy, bustling city, and we were all dressed in nice clothes and nice wool coats and we were in a big hurry trying to get somewhere to catch a bus.

The next thing we knew there were pit bulls everywhere- nice, friendly, sweet pit bulls and for some reason this had something to do with Alabama football or perhaps Bear Bryant. And all of the pit bulls were wearing those wire and gossamer angel wings. And when they ran the wings would bounce in a way that made it look like the wings were flapping or fluttering, so fast that they turned into a blur, and the dogs were waiting politely for the signal to walk across the street.

Then, without warning, one of the dog's heads was on the ground, and its body was still walking around. The head was still animate, it was licking its lips and looking around, the body was walking around wagging its tail. And it wasn't bloody or gross or gory. And I was just standing there staring. Then I turned away for a moment, and when I looked back the dog's head was back where it belonged and he was trotting off with his wings flapping.

The end.

Random thought: Why don't people flush? I mean, what goes on in someone's head that makes them go, "NO WAY am I flushing this when I get through. THIS deserves to be seen."

One week to Costa Rica, you unlucky bitches (unless of course you are Kristi, Chris, or Jason; in that case you are one lucky bitch... or three, whatever).

Don't forget I've started a movie blog that's coming along nicely.

On knowledge.

Recently my boss asked me if I have a college degree.

I always feel like it's something special on my resume, like it gives me some extra oomph or something to have on there "Yes I got my degree in bullshitting just a few years ago. I am capable of sleeping in classrooms for several years at a time." It's funny that I've gotten a job that I really am very happy with and the fellow who probably chose me out of however many applicants didn't even notice that I graduated from college. My position is entry-level; a degree wasn't required. But you'd think they'd notice.

I must say though that I forget sometimes that I have one. I was in college for, like, 17 years; I took it pretty slowly, dropped a few classes here and there when they looked like they might involve much work or the professor was a shit. There were times when I forgot that college actually ended. Sometimes it seemed like I might just go to college forever, especially once I discovered film classes in which I could watch lots of movies and then do some reading on them at home and that was about it.

When graduation time finally came, I was finishing in December, and I just wasn't very interested in participating in the actual graduation ceremony, so I skipped it. They sent my diploma in the mail which kept me from having to demonstrate in front of my fellow graduees that I can't shake hands with my right hand and clasp onto something with my left at the same time- it's like chewing gum and walking: too much thought is required, especially at that time in my life when I was drinking about 43 beers a day and living off of deli food.

When I told my boss that I do in fact have a degree in philosophy, he laughed and said, "So what have you used that degree for?" In truth, I haven't used it for much professionally. I intended to use it for toilet paper, but I keep forgetting. It's one of those liberal arts degrees that is great if you're going to move onto something else, like law school, or teaching, or hanging around in a toga sitting on rocks and coming up with stories about dudes in caves and their shadows and what they were thinking about. But on it's own, it doesn't burst down doors to lots of jobs or anything.

What it has done is teach me a lot about thinking, about how I think and what kind of perspectives I have and how I can change them. Studying philosophy taught me a lot about having an open mind, being able to appreciate lots of differing opinions all at once even if they don't line up with my own. It taught me how to look at my thoughts and beliefs and evaluate what they were based on, strengthen them, even to throw some of them out altogether.

So in the end I think my study in philosophy is invaluable. Well, the value of it is actually about $15,000 in student loans that I have yet to begin to pay back. But who's counting? Say, if a philosophy degree-holder turns tricks in the woods to raise money to pay back her loans, does it make a sound?

The result of an "isolated malicious act."

I was reading this blog and discovered that Tucson viewers of the Superbowl were treated to about 30 seconds of free porn. First, NO FAIR I didn't get any free porn. Second, the article is HILARIOUS if you have the right kind of sense of humor, meaning a wrong sense of humor.

In light of the incident, Comcast says it will issue a $10 credit to any customers who say they viewed the 30-second clip, which featured full male nudity. (SEE BOX) I don't know why I think "SEE BOX" in this context is so funny; I just do.

The Star newsroom was flooded with calls Sunday night from irate viewers who said that the porn cut into the game with less than three minutes left to play. The issue wasn't that there was porn, it was that it cut in to the MOST IMPORTANT PART OF THE GAME.

Callers said that the clip showed a woman unzipping a man’s pants, followed by a graphic act between the two...The Super Bowl was being shown locally on KVOA. The station sends its signals...to Cox Communications. Cox Communications. Perfect.

I don't know how I didn't know about this, but I missed it somehow, and I find it to be hilarious.

"Like a robot dolphin through this flaming hoop, so are the days of our lives. Freaking sweet."

It's a McSweeney's Kind of Friday.

Alternatives to Setting Your House on Fire to Avoid Foreclosure

Porn for Depressives

Text Messages That Would Have Been Helpful

For Jason: Unfortunate "That's What She Said" Precursors in Casual Sports

Rejected Introductions of Days of Our Lives

Twisted Sister: Where Are They Now?

Increasingly Dangerous Cheeses

Twenty-First Century Computing, As Explained By My Mother

Okay, I have to stop. I could do this all day. I hope you'll read these; several made me laugh out loud.

Whatever will be will be.

Oh and here's a blog I like to read, only I just don't read it super-often because she doesn't post nearly enough.

Anyway, I read this post here and it's pretty perplexing, so I clicked on the comments and read through several, and this one made me particularly happy. Good stuff.

Olive oil. Seriously, if it worked for Cleopatra, who are we to argue? This is how I do it:

Pick a night where you're going to stay in anyway. Plan on wearing a button-down flannel or pajama shirt and hanging out in front of some cheesy dvds.

Fill your palm with just about a teaspoon of olive oil, no more. Really you don't need much at all; it spreads like an oil slick (oddly enough). Massage this into your scalp. Don't worry so much about the ends of your hair, but go ahead and dig those fingers into your itchy, grouchy scalp till you start making noises like the lady in that risque Clairol Herbal Essences commercial where she somehow miraculously washes AND DRIES her hair in an airplane bathroom. (Who IS this woman? I can barely manage to wash and dry my HANDS in an airplane bathroom. You should take my advice anyway, though.)

Ok, now it gets weird: take a plastic grocery bag and pull it around your hair till you can knot the handles at the top of your forehead like Aunt Jemima. The heat from your head in that suffocating plastic pretty much melts the oil into your scalp and hair. At first you feel a little goofy, but after a while your head gets all warm and happy and you start grooving with it, especially if you thought ahead and opened a bottle of wine and popped in a movie before your hands got all greasy and now you're watching Roman Holiday through a chianti haze. You want to do this for at least 20 minutes.

Now head to the bathroom, carefully remove the plastic bag, and wash your hair. (This is where the button-down shirt comes in handy, because your hair is a mess and you don't want to try to pull anything over your head. You may also be wondering why on earth you trusted some internet lurker, but it's far too late now so just go with it.) Shampoo twice, thoroughly massaging the scalp again and rinsing the shampoo all the way from roots to ends, and condition once if it's the rinse-out kind. No leave-in stuff this time. (Ok, look, you can always put in tamer tomorrow if it gets out of hand.) DO NOT - I repeat: DO! NOT! use a hairdryer. Towel dry and make yourself a turban and go finish that movie and bottle of wine. Some cheesecake at this point is also nice.

You can go to bed with your hair still wet if you're not particularly prone to cowlicks. Tomorrow morning, after delightful dreams of Gregory Peck on a Vespa, you will wake up with some seriously bodacious cornsilk locks.

Seriously, I might just do this for fun one night this weekend. Anyone who wants to join me, grab a plastic grocery bag and head on over.

On my packing list: butt plugs and pepto.

Only two weeks until Costa Rica.

Two weeks from this moment I will be tired as hell, probably sitting in the airport in Fort Lauderdale, dreaming of a rooftop bar in San Jose.

Right now I am just hoping, willing us all to be well when this trip happens. I want to be well, and I want Reed to be well so I won't be worried about him while we're gone, and I want my family to be well and our friends to be well. JUST BE WELL, for the love.

Mardi Gras, you slutty bitches.

Lindsey sent these to me last week and I deemed them appropriate for this day, Mardi Gras day:

EVERY SO OFTEN YOU SHOULD USE UP ONE OF YOUR SICK DAYS AT WORK TO GO ON A WILD AND CRAZY ADVENTURE WITH YOUR BEST FRIEND.

I stole- I STOLE- this from Dooce. It's a marriage/relationship meme. Leave your answers in the comments!

Also, in rereading this I realized that this whole post illustrates perfectly the manic, a.k.a. entire, side of my personality.

What are your middle names?
Andrew and Claire.

How long have you been together?
We've been married for a little over five years, and we were together for a year before we got married, for a total of six years.

How long did you know each other before you started dating?
I think we'd known each other for about six months, maybe a year, before we started "dating", a term I use loosely because we were horny and broke so there weren't a lot of "dates" there in the beginning- unless perpetual sex with a few cigarette breaks thrown in for good measure counts. Hi, mom!

Who asked whom out?
Hm, who did ask whom out? I can't seem to remember... I'm having these odd flashes of myself standing in a bar asking Jason to come home with me... But I don't think that has anything to do with it.

How old are each of you?
I am 29 and Jason is 14. I don't care, he's 14, with just a little bit of 18 thrown in for good measure with all this motorcycle stuff.

Oh, have I not mentioned that? Jason bought a motorcycle; consequently I've started drinking frequently again.

Whose siblings do you see the most?
I suppose we see my sister the most, on account of Reed's second home is my mom's house where India lives. My mom is Reed's Ma and India is his Da. Ma and Da: So Happy Together.

Which situation is the hardest on you as a couple?
Money, definitely. It sucks that we let it get to us, but it's all very hard, what with my frequent and painful unemployment flare-ups and habitual money-spending, and Jason's I Never Ever Spend Money Ever Except In Secret When You Least Expect It. I think we've magically found a place where we stress out a little less about it, though, and it's been good for our marriage. Our checking account hasn't fared quite as well.

Did you go to the same school?
No. Jason went to somewhat-ghetto, and then somewhat-ghetto-Christian, and I went to possibly-trashy-redneck-or-maybe-just-country. I'm a little bit country, he's a little bit rock and roll.

Are you from the same home town?
If we were out of town and someone asked us where we were from, I think we'd both say Birmingham, so in that way, yes. But really no.

Who is smarter?
It depends on how you're gauging it. Jason can remember hundreds of bread and pastry recipes he has used at past jobs. I can manage to wait until a shirt I really want is clearanced to about 10% of its original price and still get the size and color I want. When the Wonder Twins unite, we form an unstoppable force that will one day rule the world with all our bread and shirts.

Who is the most sensitive?
Well shit, anyone who is reading this who actually knows me knows exactly who it is. It starts with "ME" and ends with "WHAT OF IT, AND WHY DID YOU LOOK AT ME LIKE THAT IN YOUR SLEEP LAST NIGHT?".

Where do you eat out most as a couple?
The local Mexican restaurant, hands down. Jason's butt suffers as a result.

Where is the furthest you two have traveled together as a couple?
Savannah, Georgia, on our honeymoon. But that'll all change in about two weeks when we go to Costa Rica. Have I not mentioned that?

Who has the craziest exes?
Do you people READ this blog? Because the answer is JASON, JASON HAS THE CRAZIEST EX, NO PLURAL NEEDED BECAUSE SHE'S CRAZY ENOUGH FOR ALL HIS EXES PUT TOGETHER AND WHEN YOU THROW HER NEW HUSBAND WHO SHE MET IN THE NUTHOUSE INTO THE MIX THEY CRAZY ENOUGH FOR EVERYBODY'S EXES, EVERY EX I'VE EVER KNOWN, THEY CRAZY MILKSHAKE BRINGS ALL THE BOYS TO THE YARD AND THEY'RE LIKE, IT'S BIGGER THAN YOURS.

Who has the worst temper?
Jason has an Irish temper that explodes like a bomb when he gets mad, and I have a French and Indian temper that seethes and lurkes just under the surface sneering and smoking cigarettes and drinking a cocktail, ready to just SNAP, CRACKLE, and POP YO ASS. And you just shut your fucking mouth if you have anything to say about it.

Who does the cooking?
We both do, really. I never cooked much before Jason came along, and he always cooked, and cooked well, and isn't afraid to experiment and toss a little of this and a little of that, including my salad. BAH! Now I cook quite a bit, too.

But I don't toss salad.

Who is the neat-freak?
Oh, wow, have I ever written here about socks? The socks, here, there, and everywhere? How the socks whisper to me in the night, how I hear the voices of the socks inside my head, all the live-long day? How I live with FOUR BOYS and that's EIGHT SOCKS A DAY?!? Okay, I have to move on; my hives are coming back.

Who is more stubborn?
I am certain that Jason and I would both say that each of us is simultaneously THE MOST STUBBORN and THE LEAST STUBBORN, about ourselves and about each other, at exactly the same time just as loud as we could force our voices to go.

When Jason and I had been together for about two months I still lived in a teeny, tiny efficiency apartment with a little bitty bathroom, and Jason decided to tell me one day how every time you flush the toilet germs and particles and shit from the toilet spray as far as a six foot radius around the toilet. As six feet was the approximate size of the whole goddamn apartment I WIGGED OUT and decreed that from then on, we would both always ALWAYS put the lid down before we flushed NO MATTER WHAT. From that day forward, I have put the lid down every time, every single bleeding time, that I have flushed the toilet. Jason has not done it once, in spite of my constant nagging, my daily complaints, my frequent prophecies that one day we'll all die and it will be because Jason wouldn't put the lid down. NOT ONE TIME. What does that say about our stubborness?

Who hogs the bed?
Jason's favorite sleeping position is on top of me with 750,000 decibel snores screaming out of his nose. I don't want to talk about it.

Who wakes up earlier?
Jason does. He gets a good night's sleep, lying on top of me with his snore-nose screaming in my ear, and he leaps out of bed revived and refreshed at 6am most mornings to have a nice shit, shower, shave, and fresh cup o' joe, while I stay in bed, covered from the top of my head to the tips of my toes with three heavy blankets except for my lone, tiny fist escaping from the edge of the covers, shaking at him in protest.

Where was your first date?
I think I had a clever answer for this, but I'm just so tired after that last answer.


Who is more jealous?
That would be me, YOU STUPID BITCHES YOU BETTER STEP OFF BEFORE I WARP YOU WITH A TIRE IRON.

How long did it take to get serious?
In the first three months of our relationship, I lost 25 pounds because I was so in love with him, so uninterested in eating, so interested in getting into his panties and then having a cigarette, so consumed by everything about him. It sounds melodramatic, but I was absolutely love sick over Jason. It was very serious very fast.

Who eats more?
That's a toughy; I think we eat similar amounts. Jason's metabolism is definitely higher. We can eat a dinner like pasta with alfredo sauce, broccoli, and grilled chicken, and one hour later Jason will pour himself a huge bowl of frosted mini-spooners for dessert.

Who does the laundry?
I do more laundry than Jason does. He can't seem to noodle the fact that I don't dry my work clothes and my nice shirts. I try to be specific and say things like, "You can wash and dry our socks, underwear, t-shirts, and pajamas, and all of Kane, Jude, and Reed's stuff." And, "The pants that I wear to work are not for the drier." Alas, it's still too confusing. The man can take apart a motorcycle and put it back together, he can clean rust out of the inside of a gas tank with naval jelly (ew!) and screws, but he can't train his brain to look at a shirt and decide if it's one that I wear to bed or one that I wear to work. Science. IT'S FUCK ALL.

Who's better with the computer?
Until about two years ago the answer was a resounding I AM. But now Jason has had all this training in all these programs like Photoshop and Microsoft Word and all that, so I think the playing field has been leveled. I can still type his ass into a corner, though.

Who drives when you are together?
It really doesn't matter. Either way the person in the passenger seat is going to be screaming profanities and clutching the arm rest and Reed will be in the back seat saying, "You not post to say that!"

This morning I discovered that someone had searched yahoo for "women who have sex using icecycles" and, for what reason I know not, it brought them to my blog here.

This amused me to no end, so I've added a little section down there to the left titled "Search Engine Terms That Bring People Here". I'll update it as funny stuff rolls in.

I think I'm getting too many gadgets over there, but I really like all of 'em so for right now they're all staying.

"Hang on, let me get my map."

While in San Antonio we didn't have a car, so we took cabs everywhere we went. There are some interesting motherfuckers there, let me just say.

When we first arrived, we took a cab from the airport to our hotel; our boss here had said, "Don't try to wait on the shuttle, because you'll be there all night." So we hop in a cab and tell the driver where we're headed. He is visibly and audibly exasperated and says, "AW, you could have just taken the shuttle." We said, "Sorry, we were told not to take the shuttle. We hope you don't mind." He grunted and said, "I've ONLY been sitting there for two hours waiting for somebody." Then, when we got to the hotel and tried to pay with the company card, he refused to take it. "Cash only." The credit card machine was visible in the front of the cab.

We had more than one cab driver who got lost taking us to our print facility there. One guy pulled over and got his map out. Another had to pull his famous u-turn, which he referred to as "my famous u-turn". That's where I got that.

The fellow who took us to the airport when we were departing was very talkative, very excited, and somehow ended up telling us all about his dog, how his dog always wants to take his pork chops and his steaks, and he could tell from the look in the dog's eye that he was doing it on purpose, that the dog knew he was doing something bad, so he had to give the dog away. On account of the dog always wanted the guy's food. Right.

By far my favorite was this pissy little guy who kept coughing and hacking all over the place and saying, "GOD, I hate getting sick." He asked what all we were going to do for fun while we were there, and I made the mistake of mentioning that I love Mexican food so I wanted to go to some good Mexican places. This really incensed him; he kind of rolled his eyes and said, "Well, there are some really good, really authentic Mexican places here, but I wouldn't want to go to any of 'em." I told him the name of a place that had been recommended to me, and he rolled his eyes some more and informed me that that place is entirely too touristy, I don't want to go there, I want to go to this other place. He then proceeded to dig around in all his crap, his cell phone and some pens and some TISSUES, PROBABLY USED, and dug up a business card for the Mexican restaurant he wanted us to go to. I very nearly told him no thank you, I'm not going to take your germy card from your hand that you've been hoarking phlegm into for the past fifteen minutes, but I gave in and took the card. Which I later burned in sacrifice to the god of Oh Please Don't Let Me Get Sick.

We didn't, incidentally, go to the restaurant he suggested because I looked it up and it was, like, $25 a plate, and that wasn't the experience I was looking for.

Anyhow, if you're going to San Antonio, be sure and take a few cabs, just to spice things up a little bit. But for Pete's sakes, DON'T, whatever you do, go to a Mexican restaurant.

Meh. I'm not feeling great this past couple of weeks, and I can't come up with much good to say. I've been trying to be really positive lately, and I think I've used it all up for the time being.

Three weeks from right now I will be on a plane to Fort Lauderdale on my first leg of travel to Costa Rica. Here's to that.

Sunny day, chasin' the clouds away.

BOOM, February is more than half-gone.

San Antonio was pretty fun. It was my first-ever business trip, so that was a little weird- being out of town without Jason or any of my friends there- and it was my first flying experience, which was okay. All except for getting stuck in the bathroom on the Express Jet.

Yes, that's what I said: I got stuck in the bathroom. It was awesome, because I was doing really well, staying calm and all that, and I just really had to use the bathroom, so I forced myself to get up and go even though it was scary. So I went, and I was feeling all proud of myself for not feeling freaked out. Then we hit turbulence and I thought, "I'm fine. See how I'm fine? It's fine." And then I couldn't get the door open. I could get it unlocked, but the door wouldn't budge. Finally I knocked on the door and said, "Hello?" The guy sitting closest to the door opened it for me, and threw in a good eye-roll to all of the other passengers like, "God, get a load of this dumbass." It's okay; I didn't even mind because I was just so excited to be getting out of the bathroom.

Other than that it was all pretty uneventful. I was somewhat ill the whole time, nasty bathroom experiences and headache and all that good stuff. I was happy to come home; that hotel room was lonely at night all by myself. I watched a lot of tv in bed. It was nice, but I would much rather either have someone with me or be at home.

Reed was really sick while I was gone, and Jason had to stay home from work from Monday to Thursday, then I stayed home on Friday. This stomach bug stuff is really rough, I tell you; the doctor said it has been lasting about five days, and Reed's lasted six. Jason talked to the kids on Sunday and Kane has it now. Someone at our facility in San Antonio had it, someone at my mom's work had it, and now my dad has it. It's going around, folks.

So now things will calm down for a bit until Costa Rica, which is just barely over three weeks away. I got my passport and I'm ready to go. Jason and I still need bathing suits: anyone know where to get a Superman Speedo with a fanny cape?

I made it home from San Antonio to a kid who's been sick for five days. Reed's stomach virus is still going strong, and it worries me and makes me sad.

More on Monday about my trip and about the condition of Reed's butt.

4 weeks until Costa Rica. Jason told me the other night that he's going to wear a Superman Speedo.

I can't wait.

Oh, it's already been broughten!

Oh man, have I been sick the past few days. I think it boils down to a really awful sinus infection that was causing constant and severe migraine headaches and was slowly moving down into my chest. I spent the past few days on the couch, either in terrible pain or dizzy and out of it from all the medication.

Then last night I came out of my medicoma long enough to pack for my trip to San Antonio.

Oh, wait, back up just a tad. You know I mentioned that Kane had strep throat and the flu a couple of weeks ago? Well last week Jude was feverish and feeling bad, and everyone assumed he was catching what Kane had. Then on Thursday their mom asked (in a text, naturally) if we wanted to take them to a sock hop at Jude's school Friday, since they were coming to our house anyways. So Friday, their mom texted and said nevermind the sock hop, Jude was sick, we should just pick them up at the normal time. Jason asked if she had taken him to the doctor; her response: "No, it's a stomach thing. If it gets worse you can take him to the doctor tomorrow." ("Tomorrow" being a Saturday, FOR FUCKS BLUE EYED SAKES)

Listen, back in the day when they lived with us there were more than one occasion in which their mom would say she was sick, not feeling well, and the kids would just have to stay with us for the weekend instead of going to her house.

Now consider just a couple of factors about this weekend: 1) I was terribly ill, and fairly incapacitated by the meds. 2) Reed was ill as well. 3) Jason is still trying like hell not to catch anything from anybody. 4) I am leaving Monday for a work trip, a trip in which all the arrangements have been made, a trip in which we fly and stay at a hotel, my very first flight ever. 5) Kane is still getting over strep throat and the flu. 6) Jude has a stomach bug.

So I was the bad guy, the mean guy and said, "Listen, I'm sorry, but I'm sick, Reed's sick, Jude's sick, and Kane's sick, and I have to pack and prepare and then manage to GO on a trip on Monday. Kane and Jude need to stay at their mom's this weekend. I can't handle this. That's just the way it's going to have to be."

So of course Jason said that to his crazy ex-wife, and she said, "Oh, I don't think it's a stomach flu or anything. He went to a party Thursday night and had too much cake."

So OF COURSE I was overruled and they came and Jude moped around feeling like shit all weekend.

And today, as I am about to get on a plane for the very first time, Jason is at home with Reed who is squirting poop and throwing up, and I am squirting poop and cramping and having chills and sweats.

FUCK YOU, EX-WIFE. It is on now. I hope you don't think that what you've witnessed to this point was me bringin' it, because NOW I AM GOING TO BRING IT.

P.S. Everybody wish me luck flying. Posting will be light this week as I'll be out of town. Let's hope I make it there and can chug margaritas and regret getting drunk in front of my boss.

You Americans, you're all the same. Always overdressing for the wrong occasions.

5 weeks until Costa Rica, and 5 days until San Antonio. I can't believe all this traveling that I'm doing. Since Jason and I have been married (five years ago), we had a nice honeymoon, a five-day trip to New Orleans, and a five-day trip to Gatlinburg. Besides that, it's just been a couple of weekend trips to friends' houses a few hours away. Not that those aren't nice, but it's very different from getting on a plane and staying in a hotel (or a house in the jungle) and all that. I'm terribly excited, which is why y'all keep having to read about it.

I'm also a little sick. My chest is hurting and I'm feeling pretty low; I think I'm calling the doctor today.

Reed has a really nasty sinus infection. We've been watching a lot of Indiana Jones, or Marianna Jones, as he's determined to call it, and last night he kept saying "I want to watch the one with all the steaks!" He said this over and over, and was totally frustrated that I was like, "I don't think there IS an Indiana Jones with steaks..." Finally I figured out that he was talking about SNAKES, the one with all the SNAKES. Actually there are snakes in pretty much all of the Indiana Jones movies, but I figured out he was referring to the Raiders of the Lost Ark. We happily snuggled under a blanket and watched it for bedtime last night.

When I really think about it, get myself down to the bottom line, this life is the life I've always wanted, with just a few snags here and there (crazy ex-wife, her crazy husband, no-money-having, etc.). We're working on the snags, and it feels good to be able to say that.

San Antonio, birth place of Robert Dyer.

So I have six days until I leave for San Antonio.

I figure this trip will be like dipping my toe in the water as far as being away from Reed for so many days in a row. I'll be gone for four days, and it will be the longest I have ever gone without seeing my baby. I told him last night that I was leaving with work for a few days next week, and he was like, "Yeah. But can I have TWO carters [quarters] for TWO gumballs?" So, you know, he's real sad.

It will also be the longest I've ever been away from Jason. He went on a work trip once, but as I recall he was gone for three days.

It will be weird, sleeping alone in a fancy hotel room (they're putting us up at the Hilton, for pete's sakes), no coughing or talking in sleep or snoring or pitter-patter of feet who have learned to climb out of their crib to wake me up. I hope it will be restful; we do have to work, but we only work eight hours a day which leaves plenty of time for sleeping. And drinking. My boss is about to turn into my drinking buddy, I believe, so this will be an interesting trip.

I just feel so fortunate to have a job at all, and even more fortunate to have one that I like and that is teaching me stuff, and EVEN MORE fortunate to have one that wants to fly me places, basically pay for a vacation for me. It's nice and incredibly different to work for a company that has interest in my life, in my having a life outside of work, that values me as an employee and as a human being. That might all sound like a load of melodramatic crap, but it's very true, and it's a big deal to me.

So, I've been looking at San Antonio weather, and it's been sunny and in the upper sixties and lower seventies for the past several days. Lordy, I hope that weather will hold out for me.

And now for the Micro Wrestling Federation.

For fuck's sakes, if Kane and Jude's step-dad continues to send these assy, threatening text messages to us, I'm going to visit Pelham with a large bag of poop. I cannot stand this any more. See here for further explanation.

Somehow lately I frequently feel like I'm standing in the middle of a crowded room screaming, and no one is noticing. It's lonely and sad, this feeling, and I'm afraid that feeling it this frequently for this long is starting to make me a shitty person. I feel vindictive, mad, self-centered.

There is a lot going on in the next couple of weeks. There's Midget Wrestling this Thursday (click that link, scroll down to see the poster), we have the kids this weekend, I'm scheduled to go to San Antonio with work February 9th through the 12th, and then Valentine's Day is that weekend. Plus, there are three birthdays in a row from the 14th through the 16th (Josh, Deanna, Johnny). Busy time.

I know some people were having trouble getting to the Cutting Room Floor, and I've checked and re-checked and I'm not sure why that is. I'm linking here again just to see what happens. If that doesn't work, just go to www.flickr.com/photos/cuttingroomfloor.

I'm glad y'all are looking. It makes me happy.

He'll cut you.

He'll cut you.
Originally uploaded by buffpuff

There's my baby.


Without further ado, a big huge pile o' new pictures on my flickr, and also on Cutting Room Floor.

Six weeks until Costa Rica. Bitches.

Now for movies and crap.

W.C. Fields. Smart dude.

Today I bring you quotes from this article on Wikipedia.

I am free of all prejudice. I hate everyone equally.

If at first you don't succeed try, try again. Then quit. There's no use in being a damn fool about it.

When asked, late in life, if he believed that there was intelligent life on other planets, he remarked: "There better be, there's none on this one!"

When the Japanese struck Pearl Harbor, Fields brought a hand truck to a liquor store and bought 6 cases of gin. When a friend saw him returning, he asked why he bought 6 cases. Fields replied. "I think it's going to be a short war."

A man's got to believe in something. I believe I’ll have another drink.

Upon being asked "Do you like children?", he once replied: "I do if they're properly cooked."

Marriage is better than leprosy, because it's easier to get rid of.

See that girl, watch that scene, dig in the dancing queen.

Happy birthday to Stephanie! Happy birthday to Barry!

Saturday night we celebrated Stephanie's birthday, as well as Kristi's Uncle Barry's birthday, at the Phoenix. I feel obligated to tell you that it's the most fun I've had in a long time. The bartender was probably the best bartender I've ever had in that he was sweet and nice and funny, brought fresh beers without even being asked, and put all my drinks on Chris' tab.

Chris, I owe you guys dinner.

The drag show started at 11 and lasted until about 1:30, and was RIGHTEOUS. Imagine my aunt CJ (if you know her) as a drag queen- that's what that was like. Well, that's what Libertee Belle was like. I drank entirely too much and stayed out entirely too late and don't regret a minute of it.

Well, it was regretable that I had to get felt up by some guy who, when I protested and told him to stop rubbing his hands all over my body, kept saying, "I'm GAY. I'm not STRAIGHT. God, loosen up." Keep in mind that I was seated at the bar, not dancing or even standing up, and he repeatedly rubbed his hands ALL OVER me, getting mighty close to the family jewels on more than one occasion. The first couple of times I smiled and kind of nudged him away- I've learned in these situations not to go straight for the righteous indignation- but he would not be deterred. Eventually I was saying, "I DON'T CARE IF YOU'RE GAY, I DON'T WANT YOUR HANDS ON ME. You need to go and find someone who wants you to put your hands all over them, because IT IS NOT ME." He just thought the whole thing was hilarious. I was not amused. It went on for about five minutes and finally he sort of moved on to someone else.

In somewhat related news, I got a thumb drive and have 119 photos on it just waiting to be uploaded. I have stuff from Halloween, election night, our anniversary party, our Christmas party, Christmas time, New Year's Eve, Mexican Train dominos night, inauguration night, the drag show, and of course lots of various pictures of Reed. I'm hoping to get those uploaded onto my Flickr, some on my own and some on the Cutting Room Floor, in the next couple of days.

Do you like sex and travel?

I'm going to get my passport this afternoon. It's only turning into kind of a pain in my ass, but it'll be okay. I ordered my brand new birth certificate off the internet last week seeing as how mine is just a copy of whatever was laying in the floor in Shreveport. I already got my passport photo from the drug store, and it looks TERRIBLE. So all is right with the world.

I'm starting to think a lot about packing for a nine day voyage to another country, and it baffles me just a little bit. Logically I'd really like to pack as little as possible, but I am TERRIBLE at packing light. I do a whole lot of, "Well, IF it gets chilly I might want this sweater, or I might want this one, but I might EVEN want this one here. And if it's sweltering I'll be needing these three tank tops for sure, but I might suddenly wish I had any one of these five here, so I'll take those, too. It will be warm so I'll take these flip-flops, but if my feet get cold I might want these sneakers. And if we get dressed up I may want any one pair out of these three pairs of flats. And I shouldn't go anywhere without Anal Ease, just in case."

You know how it is. Or maybe you're good at packing so you don't know, so just back off because I am anxious AND obsessive, a nasty mix that will result in Jason stealing the seat next to Chris on the plane so Kristi is forced to sit next to me while I wrap my entire body around her head and scream, "IS THAT SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN? DID YOU FEEL THAT BUMP? WHERE THE FUCK IS THE DRINK CART?"

I am in love with J.D. Salinger.

Some quotes from this Wikiquote article on J.D. Salinger:

He said I was unequipped to meet life because I had no sense of humor.

The fact is always obvious much too late, but the most singular difference between happiness and joy is that happiness is a solid and joy a liquid.

Life is a gift horse in my opinion.

You'd better get busy, though, buddy. The goddam sands run out on you every time you turn around. I know what I'm talking about. You're lucky if you get time to sneeze in this goddam phenomenal world.

She said she knew she was able to fly because when she came down she always had dust on her fingers from touching the lightbulbs.

I'm a kind of paranoiac in reverse. I suspect people of plotting to make me happy.

Marriage partners are to serve each other. Elevate, help, teach, strengthen each other, but above all, serve. Raise their children honorably, lovingly and with detachment. A child is a guest in the house, to be loved and respected - never possessed, since he belongs to God. How wonderful, how sane, how beautifully difficult, and therefore true.

Please accept from me this unpretentious bouquet of very early-blooming parentheses: (((()))).

What is it but a low form of prayer when he or Les or anybody else God-damns everything? I can't believe God recognizes any form of blasphemy. It's a prissy word invented by the clergy.

How terrible it is when you say I love you and the person on the other end shouts back 'What?'

And if you don't know, now ya know.

Happy day, Martin Luther King, Jr.

This weekend was a really good one. It's not frequent that I have the urge to write, hey, things were good, so I felt like I ought to write it seeing as how I thought it. Mexican Train, rap music, and homemade pizza with some of my favorite people- good times.

I'm about to make a whole mess of new jewelry; I'm just waiting on a few slow arrivals, some new supplies, to get started. My Etsy is somewhere around a year old now. Considering the during the first ten months I made something like 8 sales, and then in the last two months I've made something like 14 more, I'd say things are looking up.

I'm about to get in touch with George at Speakeasy and talk to him about having another show like last year's. I'm hoping he'll be cool with it. We had such a great time and sold so much stuff.

It's all quiet on the shithead front right now. If I was stupid enough to think that meant that things were calming down, getting better, I might feel good about it. But I've lived this life long enough to know that it just means there's some scheming going on, and it makes me nervous.

I poop frequently these days.

HA! Snuck it in there on you. I haven't talked about my bowel movements in a while. Gotcha.

Reed has been using the potty most of the time. Once a couple of weeks ago he even went to the potty, used a chair to turn the light on, pooped, and came back and laid down on the futon at bedtime without even telling me about it. I discovered the poop in the potty and asked him and he was like, "Yeah." Like, "Of course I pooped in the potty, Philistine, where else would I have pooped?" I think all we have left to work on is peeing in the middle of the night. It must be hard to train your body not to pee in the night when it's so used to doing so. But we'll get there.

Well, I guess we also have to work on standing up and peeing instead of sitting down, because I have to tell you, more than once in the past couple of days we've had a pee arc that manages to soak everything in the room- Reed's clothes, the bathmat, anything in a three foot radius of the toilet. The child produces a lot of urine, just like his mama.

Finally if you haven't looked yet, you should check out Daily Doo and Talkies Are Dumb.

Spreading it thin.

And now I'm writing a movie blog. It shall be one part critique and three parts ass.

The low tonight is 8 degrees farenheit. I need a hot toddy.

One of my favorite bitches came over last night to cut some of my hair off. Good times.

It's funny how things turn out. So much of what I hear these days is at once predictable and surprising.

Reed has noticed my perplexedness lately. "Don't be sad, mommy." He breaks my heart. I have been taking some very good advice and telling him, "Yes, I'm sad, but it will go away in a minute. I love you." That seems to help.

I am working on my life in a lot of ways, and letting it go in a lot of ways. I am writing a lot and coming up with new ideas. I'm working at a great job.

I'm about to change a lot of behaviors that I thought were for the best, for me and for everybody, but I realize now were only hurting me and keeping everyone else in the dark. This just goes back to my saying that I'm going to trust myself more and be more vocal about what's going on in my head and heart. I think it helps me to say it over and over, to remind myself that I'm supposed to be telling folks what's bothering me. I am just so accustomed to trying to be nice all that time, to trying not to stir anything up, trying to smooth things over. It's hard to change behaviors that are so ingrained in me that they come like reflexes, just pop up quickly without my even thinking about it. I am retraining myself to stop and think about it, think about my feelings, what I'd really like to say.

Some people are born without a filter between their brains and their mouths. I need to trim mine back a little. Please pass the scissors.

Have you ever wondered what all has happened on January 15th throughout history?

I love how people at work gather around the fucking coffee pot, so when I need my coffee, everybody looks at me like I'M butting in. For the love, there's a big table with chairs: sit the fuck down!

We're photographing a wedding in June, one in August, and now we might have one in November. Certainly not a packed schedule, but not bad.

It sure would be nice to have internet at our house so we could upload pictures. Maybe one day.

Eight weeks 'til Costa Rica. I'm counting down.

The title of my autobiography:

I Ass, Therefore You Love Me: When Keeping It Real Goes Horribly Wrong: The Buffy Agan Story

Also, if you're looking for more of my blather on the internet, go here.

Circling the drain here in the armpit of America since 1979.

To a lovely couple in Shelby County:

You, craptet, should go lovingly suck on a beanpole in hopes of achieving more noticable results than sending cowardly, pedantic text messages to us.

Perhaps I should suggest that you, in the future, get off your paranoid jackasses and, oh shit!, act like responsible adults.

As it is, you are most certainly at the will of two very tired, very busy, very smart, hot, and crowded grown-ups who are elephantine in their memory.

Kindly,
Your Mom

P.s. The philosopher who resides here wants you to know that 'late' is a relative term, and no lateness can exist without some pre-decided specification of what shall be 'not late'. Suck on that.

On happiness and the opposite.

Some things from Lipshtick that I found interesting:

A study conducted at the University of Maryland found that happy people spend their free time reading, socializing, and having sex. Unhappy people watch tv.

People take different roads seeking fulfillment and happiness. Just because they're not on your road doesn't mean they've gotten lost. -H. Jackson Browne

Most of us believe in trying to make other people happy only if they can be happy in ways which we approve. -Robert S. Lynd

This is my "depressed stance". When you're depressed, it makes a lot of difference how you stand. The worst thing you can do is straighten up and hold your head high because then you'll start to feel better. If you're going to get any joy out of being depressed, you've got to stand like this. -Charlie Brown

Today is an interesting day.

We have an appointment this afternoon that could make a huge difference in our lives, could change things forever, either fix things or ruin things. Or it could be like I expect and we'll be told to just wait a little longer, just to see.

Jason is off today and is having to scramble around and fill out paperwork and believe me, I've been the person who has to do that stuff before and it's not fun. I hope he gets to relax at least a little bit today.

Jason has been having trouble getting in touch with the kids lately. Their mom just doesn't answer the phone and only sometimes answers his texts, so things are as usual. In a way it really worries me, but at the same time I'm so used to it that it's just like any other day.

Yet another day in the life.

Oh, Lordy mercy. This morning I threw my neck out.

I guess that's the correct phrase. This morning as I was sitting up in bed I turned my head to the right and reached for my glass of water with my right hand. Then I died a slow and painful death.

Actually then I had an intense burning, fiery, the-devil-is-giving-me-a-shoulder-rub-with-his-charred-burning-hands sensation in the left side of my neck and shoulders. It was almost as cool as hitting myself in the face with a shovel. I somehow managed to put the glass of water back on the table and lie there thinking, okay, I can't move. It was like, I was capable of moving, but when I even thought about it the sensation got worse.

I somehow reached over and got my cell phone and texted Jason, yes that's right I texted my husband who was in the kitchen at the time, and said, "I'm dying. If you want to pay your last respects come back here but don't expect any sexy stuff because I can't move." Actually I just said, "Come here."

So eventually after aspirin and rest and a heating pad, my husband left me there alone, immobile, in the bed. I decided that I didn't want to lie about in bed all day, but when I tried to sit up, the pain was just too intense. So that's when my genius that I inherited from my mother kicked in and I thought, I'll just roll out of bed. Simple. So I simply rolled myself over, falling out of the bed, and narrowly escaping slamming my face into the corner of the nightstand.

What you don't know is that I used to be a guest-star on the Benny Hill show and that's where I learned all of these righteous comedy techniques.

Anyways, I managed to get up, managed to get towels and get the shower turned on, and then I stepped into the shower.

And then I slipped and fell down, right on my ass, in the shower, alone in the house.

When I later talked to Jason I said, "And I could be there still, drowned in the shower, and subsequently your water bill would be OUTRAGEOUS."

Now go and read this for a laugh.

P.S. Heard at work: "I'd rather be a good liver than have one." Also, "I'd rather have a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy."

Better and better.

Work is going well. There were a lot of days over the holidays when we went home early, or were off altogether. It's nice, this whole your-boss-actually-gives-a-shit thing. I think maybe part of the difference is that my boss isn't the owner of the company. My boss now is a guy who works for the company, just like I am. I think that allows for a different dynamic.

We are going to Costa Rica this March. It's all pretty crazy; it will be the first decent vacation Jason and I have had in a very long time, and it will be the first time I've ever been out of the country. This trip is made possible by the insanity of my very best friend, by her ability to convince herself that not only might I survive a plane trip, however short, without shoving a plastic spork into my ear, but that I will continue to be good company in a country with cheap beer and food. Kristi, you actually won't see me that much; I will be eating juevos heaped with jalapenos at a bar somewhere the whole time we're there. You will have your choice of either sitting next to me at the bar and thereby nearly losing a finger, or watching Jason and Chris attempt surfing. GOOD LUCK WITH THOSE OPTIONS.

Seriously, though, I am really looking forward to spending so much time with three of the people I love the most, three of the closest people to me, people who understand what is happening in my life, head, heart.

Anyhow, I am excited, nervous, a little bit of everything about it. 2008 was a very long, hard, confusing year. I am thankful that people in my life want to give us opportunities like this. I don't know when we'd be able to take a trip like this if it depended on our planning it, getting plane tickets, and carrying it out. We are being FORCED to go, God bless our hearts. How terrible my life is.

Tada!

So my mom is a genius who says things like, "But can't you just make some of your blog private, and still leave some of it for people to see?"

GENIUS.

So now I'm back. I hope all you people are still looking- Thom! Hey, buddy! Birdie! Jerkface, how I have missed you. Seriously, I got my ways of knowing who is looking at this blog, and there are people ALL OVER who look at it on a daily basis, people from several of my former employers, and that just interests the shit out of me. I have honestly been really sad all this time that all these people are taking the time to read my whining and then I had to go and take it all away. So I'm back. I am just limited in what I will and will not write about. So we'll see how this all goes.

I just want to say for the hundredth time that I love you guys. I hope y'all are still looking, and haven't given up on me yet.