It's MY BIRFDAY!! (Also Known as Giant Metal Chicken Day)

Okay, so.  As many of you know, thanks to The Bloggess, I have been on a crusade to be the first of my friends to own a Giant Metal Chicken. I have posted many conversations on here with my husband Shawn (referred to as TWH) about my desire for a GMC and his original shocked & appalled reactions to my request then his eventual resignation to the fact that he was going to have to purchase a GMC just to SHUT ME THE HELL UP. I even did a daily Twitter countdown all this month even though it became a beating for all of us. I NEEDED me a Chicken!!  So, the big day arrived at last.  TWH kissed me awake and wished me a Happy Birthday.  I got ready for work as usual with no mention of my long-coveted Chicken. Eventually, the Crackhaid Dawg made it known that he REALLY needed to go out. TWH & TB were both "engrossed" in something on TWH's laptop so I leashed up the Dawg & opened the back door to find GWENYTH!!!!!  My Very OWN Giant Metal Chicken!!!!  She was even sporting a sign that read "Happy Birthday Mother Fxxxer".  TWH didn't want to spell it out because TB is regularly appalled by my vulgarity & makes it known on a regular basis but it was awesome all the same. After much squealing & jumping up & down with pure joy, I gave out hugs & kisses to my two awesome guys.  Turns out, Gwenyth had been hiding under the carport since last night & I hadn't even noticed!!  My powers of observation are not great. As a bonus, TWH said he got her ON SALE!!  I told him THAT was a sign from God that he was doing the right thing buying me that chicken. He said it was s sign of desperation on the part of the store owner. We're gonna have to agree to disagree on that one.  Best. Birthday. Present. EV-ER!!







Introducing Gwenyth!!  No other Giant Metal Chicken was ever so long awaited!!  TWH ROCKS!!

He Is SO My Son!!

Okay, so. I'm sitting at my laptop looking at photos of puppy dogs on a local shelter's website. Since I threatened TWH with a puppy if I didn't get my Giant Metal Chicken tomorrow, I thought a little research wouldn't hurt. I get to a photo of a puppy who falls into the "He's-so-ugly-he's-cute" category and show it to TB & TWH, who had just walked in from soccer practice. Here's how that conversation went.

TWH: What are you doing??
Me: Looking at pictures of puppy dogs on this website that need to be rescued.
TWH: WHY?? Why do you do that to yourself??
ME: Because!! They're sweet and The Crackhaid Dawg's soul mate might be in here somewhere. Here, I found this one. He could be our Edsel.
TB: (Looking over my shoulder) What's an Edsel??
Me: Another car. We have a theme here y'know.
TB: Are we getting another dog??
TWH: Your mom said if she doesn't get her Chicken, she's getting another dog
TB (To the Crackhaid Dawg): You hear that Bentley??  You're getting REPLACED!!
TWH: Bahahahahahaahaha!!  That's so YOUR son!!

Now, I just have to fix it so I get the Chicken AND #2 Dawg...

Because I Am Not One to Be Outdone...

Okay, so. I have never done this before but today is a two-fer. Mostly because I can't BELIEVE this shit!!  Yesterday I tweeted about how TWH broke his toe. Not just broke but BROKE. He broke the ever-loving-shit out of his toe while working on the God-Forsaken Shower Sunday afternoon. Then, because he wasn't hurt  ENOUGH, he stubbed the same toe again last night, almost causing him to use the type of language I do all day every day and I would swear I saw a tear leak out of one eye. Anyways, I was going into my closet last night when I stubbed MY toe. No biggie, I just grabbed hold of a shelf, gritted my teeth, muttered "OhJesusHolyMotherFuckingSHIT", got whatever it was I needed, and moved on. So today, I was walking the trail at the park while TB was doing the soccer thing and my foot kind of hurt. Huh. I stand on my feet all day and we were busy-as-shit today so I didn't think that much of it. I came home because TB's practice ended early and jumped on the treadmill where I walked/ran another mile on top of what I'd already done at the park. After I finished running for a bit, I thought "Ow, my toe kind of hurts", and kept going. Later, after a shower & dinner, I'm sitting on the sofa watching TV and curling & uncurling my toes. This is an idle habit & I have no idea why I do it but as I'm curling my toes, I notice my "Owie" toe REALLY hurts. That's when I decide to actually LOOK at my toe. Then I see it. The blue/purple Circle of Brokenness. Yep!! I broke my damn toe too!!  I stick my foot in TWH's lap & tell him "Will you look at THIS shit!!". He looks, shakes his head, and says "Copycat!!".  Like I say, I am never one to be outdone.

I Am NOT a Girly-Girl

Okay, so. Today at work, I had to have T (Troy- My Work Husband) kill a bug for me. I spotted it as it made it's way across the room and left a post-it on T's mirror that read "There is a bug by my garbage can that needs killing". He just shook his head and laughed. I told him "Hey, this is YOUR purview. I don't do bugs!!". Now, while the bug was hiding behind my garbage can, I was perfectly willing to ignore it but after a few minutes, it made a foray out and came in MY direction.  I. Lost. My. MIND.  "Aaaaahhhhh!!  Kill it, KILL it, KILL IT!!" I screamed as I ran as far as my clipper cord would let me in the other direction.  Now, a little info. I am by no means A Girly-Girl. I don't enjoy shopping endlessly, I hate to get flowers, my happy place is the home improvement store, and while I have a penchant for shoes, they are almost exclusively sneakers. I just seem to be missing the G.G. gene. This makes the fact that I get all squealy and freaked-out over creepy crawly things doubly amusing for both TWH & T.  TWH says it's because it's about the only thing I have a "Girly" reaction to.  After T killed the bug to DEATH, the older gentleman in his chair asked me "What do you do at home if there's a bug??". After some (tongue biting) hesitation I answered, "Call my husband to kill it". The hesitation came because lately, I have had to handle some bug killing on my own. It's been a harrowing experience, to say the least. I have discovered said bug and began with "OHMYGODSONOFABITCH!!" and gone looking for a shoe immediately. Once I get a shoe in hand, I chase the creepy crawler around screaming "DIE Mother Fucker!!" as I pound it into a smear on the wood/tile. I realize screaming obscenities isn't necessary but it helps me keep my nerve up. It's my battle-cry, if you will. After the bug is killed & killed GOOD, I either wipe it up with several Clorox wipes or take the carcass outside and toss it just off the porch to serve as a warning to all other would-be crawly invaders of my home. "Think twice, you multi-legged assholes. This could be YOUR fate!!" is the message. Thus far, it seems to be working. Either that, or TWH is doing A LOT of bug squashing unbeknownst to me.

This is SO Happening!!

Okay, so. TWH keeps trying to get out of buying me my Giant Metal Chicken (Thank you The Bloggess for THAT idea). I finally told him tonight "You can either buy me the G.M.C. or a Puppy". TWH looked at me in absolute confusion before asking simply "WHAT??"  I told him "You heard me. Chicken or Puppy". See, my strategy here is to think of something he would find more objectionable than a Giant Metal Chicken and offer THAT as an alternative. Since TWH mentioned just yesterday that he most definitely does NOT want another Dawg, I figured that would be the way to go. TWH asked me "So, what are you gonna do if I show up with a puppy on Friday??". I responded with "Name it Edsel (The Crackhaid Dawg's actual name is Bentley) and then go buy my own damn chicken!!" I can't lose here. Poor TWH, on the other hand, is screwed!!

I Can't NOT Look

Okay, so. I have a secret Trash TV obsession. I am completely UNABLE to flip past the following shows while cruising the channels: Hoarders, American Pickers (for the houses/buildings they pick & their owners), My Strange Obsession, & Sister Wives. I can't NOT look. I feel compelled to watch because I absolutely CANNOT wrap my mind around this shit. The first three I watch because I am both fascinated and horrified by the behavior exhibited by these people. For starters, I am so Anti-Hoarding, it's not even funny. I have been known to clean out my closet & dresser, haul all the stuff to the Goodwill, & a week or so later ask TWH in absolute frustration "Have you seen my green button-up shirt??" only to have him tell me "I think that was in the stuff you donated". (I lose more of my mostly-unworn clothing that way) I try my damnedest to keep the clutter to a minimum at best and at the least to a tolerable, workable level. I can't function otherwise. My house isn't huge and there are only so many flat surfaces to work with. If they're covered in crap, I get kinda antsy. My Strange Obsession kinda speaks for itself. These folks are putting their view of "Normal" behavior out there whether we agree with it or not.  Sister Wives is an entirely different fascination.  I am so taken in with the emotional & financial logistics of this Polygamist family. I find it mind-boggling and mesmerizing.  I also can't fathom the patience, understanding, and general mind-set it takes to make an arrangement like that work. I adore TWH all day, every day but there are days when he tries every last bit of my patience. These people all have their spouse, and THREE other people to contend with when making family decisions, fighting, shopping, whatever. I. Would. LOSE. MY. MIND.  Add to that the bravery all these people (from all the above shows) exhibit by putting themselves in the public eye with all this. I know I wouldn't be able to reveal something like that to all of America and open myself up to the horrified looks and ridicule that could possibly follow.  I realize a lot of these people are ill & I applaud them for seeking help. I would love for them to be revisited in a year or so just to see if they managed to keep a handle on their illness. All that said, I STILL can't NOT look.

It's a Good Thing You Already Ordered That Handbag

Okay, so.  Last weekend, TWH & I were working on our big assed shower. AGAIN. STILL. I swear to God, this is The Project That Will Not End!! We're so close to finishing it, it's not even funny and we're getting tired. Tempers are getting short. That damned shower is a hairs-breadth away from becoming the Elephant in the Room. That thing you ignore & refuse to talk about it because there are so many hard feelings about it. Anyways, I digress. We're in the shower working and I mention to TWH that some of his grout work is less than stellar in one section of the shower. He paused for a minute then responded with "Okay, I don't know how to say this without sounding like a complete asshole and pissing you off so I'm just gonna say it." (Always a great lead-in.) "It's not like I got a lot of help from YOU on this project". Now, while this statement isn't UNTRUE, per se, it's not exactly TRUE either. I offered to help multiple times and was told "No, I've got it. It's kind of a one-person job anyway". As the project wore on, TWH got a little snarly when I would watch & ask questions so I would flee & just try to stay out of his way.  After his comment I remained silent. I had nothing to say. Out Loud. Where he could HEAR me. In my head, however, I went straight to "You Mother Fucker!!  It's a damned good thing you already ordered that handbag I asked for!!".  See, the night before, I spent an inordinate amount of time scouring ebay for a Coach handbag. In leather. I found one with pink stitching, (PINK STITCHING!!!!!) for what I deemed was a reasonable price (and TWH found only slightly cringe-worthy) and he ordered it for me. That is what saved that man from total annihilation last Saturday while we were sitting in the floor of the God-forsaken shower sweating our asses off.  Of course, I told him what went through my head a couple of days later. He said he never even realized he was in danger.  I should get an Emmy. Or another handbag.

Demoralizing Ice Cream

Okay, so. Tonight after helping me clean the kitchen, TB decided to get himself some ice cream since he hadn't had dessert yet. He gets it out of the freezer and begins to scoop it into his bowl. After a few failed attempts, he turns to me and says "Can you help me get this out??  I'm having some trouble since the container's almost empty."  I go over and, being a little bit taller and having a better angle on the scooper & container, I have no trouble getting him a couple of good scoops.  TB makes a disgusted noise and says "Oh, of COURSE you have no trouble scooping the ice cream out. THAT'S not demoralizing or anything!! Now I have Sad Face." and he took his Demoralizing Ice Cream into the living room to eat it.  Maybe now it's Consolation Ice Cream.

I Created This Monster

Okay,so. As everyone knows, I have a Crackhaid Dawg. He's 3 and Spoiled Assed Rotten. He's started barking in the evenings for no apparent reason and in an effort to get him to SHUT THE HELL UP, I started giving him his favorite chewy treats. They're called "Bully Sticks" in the store but we've dubbed them "Crack Sticks" because the Dawg acts like a fool to get them. Hence the name Crackhaid Dawg.  I obviously am easily trained because now he's decided that since this latest internet-ordered batch is somewhat inferior to what he's used to and he can go through them in about 5 minutes flat, he needs a new one every 10 minutes or so to keep himself entertained and at the level of chewy treat induced euphoria he's accustomed to. I am obviously easily trained because I somehow fell right into this new Crackstick regimen without even realizing I'd done it until a few nights ago when TWH pointed out "You don't have to get him a Crackstick EVERY time he barks y'know".  HOLY SHITBALLS!!  I am being bullied into standing at the ready with a Crackstick on demand by a 12 pound, furry, curly-tailed TYRANT!!  We are now in the midst of a Crackstick Intervention. We've all told the Dawg how his constant need for a Crackstick is making us crazy and this is for his own good. He just keeps standing by the refrigerator (his Cracksticks live on top of the fridge) and barking imperiously. I'm staying strong though. I've only given him 3 today...   I created this monster, now I have to deal with him. Or punt him into the neighbor's yard. We'll just have to see how this all shakes out.

Naughty Jokes Mean Everything's Okay

Okay, so. In my line of work, I see people seldom enough that I tend to notice changes more often than I would if I saw them every day. Weight loss, weight gain, gray hairs, recovery from illness or injury, or, sadly, progression OF illness. My client falls into the last category. I have a client who's elderly and has been with me pretty much since the beginning. I have watched him go from walking in under his own steam to being wheelchair bound over the last few years. He's still sharp as a tack and funny as hell, but his body is just "giving out" as some elderly bodies are wont to do. Typically, when he comes in, I get him all draped and begin combing his hair into something I can work with. While I'm combing his hair, I hear him say my name. "Ginger" he says. "Yes??" I say squatting down so I can talk to him. I have to squat because part of his infirmity (or the root cause) is that he can no longer lift or turn his head. He can only look down at his lap. So I squat down to talk with this funny man. He always tells me a naughty joke. Nothing completely off color, just naughty. Naughty & funny. Today, he didn't say a word. NOTHING. This worried me. I pondered this as I made small talk and cut his hair. I was hoping this was not a bad sign, his not telling me a naughty joke. Then I heard it. Softer than usual, but he called my name. With an inward sigh of relief, I squatted down to hear my naughty joke and it was WONDERFUL!!  Nothing side splitting, but wonderful all the same because his telling me my naughty joke meant everything was okay.

Oh NEVER MIND!!!

Okay, so. I have discovered Twitter. I know, It's been around FOR-EVER but I just now really started messing with it. And it's like Word Crack. I linked it to my FB and now I can put whatever stomps through my head out there almost IMMEDIATELY. This may not be the best idea....but it's too late now. I am not about to undo it. I figure if people don't like it, they can just skip over it. Or leave me rude comments. Whatever. However, some of my clients have come in and questioned me about my posts lately. Most of them just repeat whatever I put out there, and either laugh & shake their heads or just tell me "You're NOT RIGHT". I am well aware that I'm "Not Right". I have embraced my Not Right-ness and am happy with it. Some clients, however, want me to explain a post that MOST people (with a brain) thought was snarky, funny, or both. I have tried to explain these, on occasion, only to be met with a blank stare. Or, God Forbid, questions asked in earnest that there's no way in HELL I can begin to answer. I usually just end with a frustrated "Oh, just, NEVER MIND!!" and relegate them to the "Doesn't Get It" file. Like they say "If you have to ASK"...

The Way I See it

Okay, so. TWH & I are getting ready for bed last night.  TWH is brushing his teeth when I look at him and ask "So, just how are you gonna sneak Gwenyth into the shop without me knowing it??".  TWH just stopped, spit, stared at me for a second before asking me "Just HOW does this go, in YOUR head??"  I tell him "I go into the shop on my birthday & there's Gwenyth festooned with balloons, holding my other gift(s) in her beak with you standing there beside her. Of course, I'll be perfectly happy coming home from work to find her on the front porch looking like that. Then The Boy can be there too."  He gave me that look he saves for when he's at an absolute loss for words and left the bathroom. I'm thinking he'll go with plan "B".

Warning....I May Bite

Okay, so. In my last post, I talked about how I had to do something with myself because I was bordering on Colossal Fatass-dom and my Emergency Fat Pants (usually reserved for Holiday meals) have become part of my regular wardrobe. Well, I started paying attention to what went in my mouth & how MUCH went in my mouth and trying to work in a couple of miles walking/running a day. I have learned a few things due to my new fitness regimen. 1) The Crackhaid Dawg HATES when I walk him by myself. The first mile of my exercise regimen is walking the Dawg. He could use the exercise too. Now, when TWH is with us, we go along at the DAWG'S pace. When it's just the Dawg & me, I set the pace. I'm walking and I happen to have the Dawg with me. By the last leg of our mile, he is pissy because I won't let him stop to sniff every damn thing or pee on every mailbox.  2) Me running is NOT pretty. I am not fast. I am not consistent. I do not have good form. I sort of shamble along until I get tired. I have the feeling I look like Sasquatch on tranquilizers would look. Just less hairy. Now, considering I have, at one point or another, damaged my knees (by trying to play various sports) and I have 100 year old knees on a 40 year old body, I am happy with the fact that I can even SHAMBLE and will make peace with my Sasquatchy-ness.  3) Things start to hurt after a few days. In this case it's my upper legs and my ASS. I have no idea what muscle group I am over working by running/walking but my ass is sore and it kinda hurts to get up and walk after I've been sitting for any amount of time. I'm sure this too, will pass.  4) I'm fucking HUNGRY!!  All. The. Damn. Time. I'm assuming this is a good thing and means my ass will soon be smaller and that I will be able to once again button my "Everyday" jeans instead of just doing up my belt with the button undone under it. However, my level of Hungry is directly proportional to my level of Bitchy. The Hungrier I get, the Bitchier I get. If you cross my path and I happen to bite you, don't take it personally. You probably didn't REALLY do anything to provoke me. I'm just Bitchy. Or you walked by me with a cookie.

Well...Hell...

Okay, so. My horrible Cupcake Addiction has finally caught up to me. I need to exercise. And probably diet. But definitely exercise. My Emergency Fat Pants have become part of the everyday rotation & my former "Everyday" jeans usually have the top button undone under my belt after lunch. (Sad but true) I am bordering on the edge of Colossal Fatass-dom here. This WILL NOT do. Not to mention that, due to my repeated attempts at sports, my knees are about a hundred and this extra weight makes them kinda hurt. So, tomorrow I am gonna dust off my running shoes, load up Couch to 5K, move all my clothes off my treadmill (or Dreadmill, if you will) and make it my bitch. How many days do you think I can re-do Day 1 before the little automated voice begins to laugh at me and say things like "Really, Fatass?? Are you even gonna TRY day 2??". I suppose I'll find out...  Day 1 for a month has GOT to be better than nothing right??  RIGHT??

Be Afraid... Be VERY Afraid

Okay, so. I've just started telling clients that I have a blog and a little of what it's about.  They look at me with a mixture of interest & fear. Interest, because hey, I've started a blog. Fear, because the filter between my brain & mouth is virtually non-existent and I have NO personal boundaries whatsoever. I understand "Personal Space". I guard mine as fiercely as the next person. I do not, however, fully grasp the concept of where the line between my "Telling Tales", and TMI exists. There have been several times when TWH has proofread my posts and said "Do you REALLY want to put that out there??". My response is usually "What?? Too much??".  After some discussion, he usually convinces me that maybe I don't want people to know about my current health issues, or why I have a stash of antibiotics. That maybe I don't want to be too specific about locations, my neighbors, etc.  All of this is to say that I GET why people look afraid when I tell them I have a blog. It's obviously with good reason. Maybe this blog will help me establish those boundaries...  Or maybe I'll just piss off all but the very best of my friends and those individuals that get my particular level of "Wrongedy-wrong" and love me for it. We shall see. Until then, be afraid people, be VERY afraid!!  Mwahahahahahahaha!!

The Countdown Has Begun...

Okay, so. It's September 1st. I realized that this morning while I was putting on my makeup. I ran out into the kitchen with my hair still in it's towel turban & mascara on just ONE eye and yelled "29 MORE DAYS UNTIL GIANT METAL CHICKEN!! YAY!!" and did a little Happy Dance before scampering off to finish getting ready for work. I think TWH is going to get tired of this LONG before I do. Bwahahahahahaha!!  My poor Husband.  I call him TWH for a reason...  Happy September!!