When it won't stop whirring, sometimes you need to take out the battery.

This past weekend, as you may have deduced from my Twitter stream [are you following me on Twitter? Why the fuck not? Also, tell your friends. Especially that friend you're kind of pissed at because she put you in charge of the cotton candy at the kids' school Halloween party. Following my profanity-laden and uber-narcissistic tweets can be considered a war crime under the Geneva Convention. It's that good a punishment.], I got a flu shot and spent an inordinate amount of time [well, inordinate if you're not a ball of anxiety and hypochondria] fretting over myself. I made the husband go with me to get a shot this year, and I think he's wondering if he can get out of this marriage by claiming he was drunk when he asked me. I don't believe intoxication is a defense to marriage proposals, but I'll have to check. Also, I was drunk when I said yes, so it all evens out, right?

Anyway, after the shots, and my fretful deep breathing, we got into the car and the husband said, "Hey, let's go to Costco and Best Buy."

My immediate reaction was, "ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? MY ARM HURTS AND I MAY BE DYING FROM SOME WEIRD INOCULATION THAT A SECRET GOVERNMENT AGENCY IS TESTING ON WHITE WOMEN IN THE SUBURBS." [I may need to stop watching the X Files for a bit.]

He was less than impressed by my logic, so we went to Costco, me with my window open on a 45 degree day, trying to get some fresh air in order to counteract the possible toxins seeping into my system, him shaking his head.  I debated sticking my head out the window like a dog in order to truly benefit from the fresh air, but I don't like dogs.

As we neared Costco, I quaveringly said to the husband, "Please take care of me if I pass out in Costco."

 At which point he said to me, "What the fuck do you think I'd do if you passed out in Costco? Walk away? Is that the kind of man you think I am?"

I half-laughed, and said, "No. You're right. Sorry."

And he replied, "Besides, they'd track me down and call me, saying, 'Mr. Husband, do you realize that you left your wife passed out near the Halloween candy displays?' and I'd say, "No, I don't know what you're talking about,' and they'd say, 'Sir, we have you on our store video cameras sauntering away as your wife slides down a mountain of mini-candy bars. Can you come back here, please?' and then I'd have to come back and take care of you anyway."

This is what I'm married to.

*************

Also, are there any good design blogs that aren't shabby chic or [shudder] mid-century modern [Gah, the only thing that came out the 1950s was Fidel Castro. Wait. Dead or alive? Alive, right?  . . . Back from checking. He's alive AND according to Wikipedia, WE SHARE THE SAME BIRTHDAY. How did I not know this? Next year, Fidel and I are having a fucking crazy party. You're all invited. It's going to be sick.  We're registered at Pottery Barn.] or, worse yet, that super-minimalist modern look. Does anyone want to come over and help me finish start decorating my house?

This post has become even more ridiculous than my usual ones. I would apologize, but I think it works to give you a feeling of superiority.


 *********
As I have mentioned, I'm going to be doing NaNoWriMo this year. Because why not? I'm a glutton for punishment, you know? Why do you think I still try to buy shoes online when I KNOW that they won't work and then the box sits there, unopened, taunting me, letting me know that my dream of red Mary Janes is just. not. happening.  Thank god for free shipping, is all I have to say.

What now?

Anyway, since I'm doing NaNo, I'm dropping down to posting twice a week.  My anal retentive OCD mind wants it to be Tuesdays and Thursdays, because that would be spaced out nicely, but here it is MONDAY, which means I could either do Monday-Tuesday-Thursday this week, which is LOPSIDED AND WRONG, or I could do Monday-Wednesday this week and then go to Tuesday-Thursday next week, which is asymmetrical and has me reaching for my inhaler.  I'm not sure which will happen.  Let's have it be a surprise.

No.

I can't do that either.

It's Monday-Wednesday this week, and then we move to Tuesday-Thursday.  Unless it's a leap year.  Then we're all fucked.

Mad Libs Are [BLANK]

Do you love Mad Libs?

WHO DOESN'T? Communists and flat-earthers, that's who.

For everyone else, Mad Libs are the BEST THING EVER for enjoying your day.

And do you know what makes Mad Libs EVEN BETTER? Sharing them with a friend.

I'm over at Quais Agitato, enjoying a Friday with Christine, who is all manners of awesomeness and creativity and kindness and coolness and hilarity.

And in a burst of brilliance and kindness, she offered me the opportunity to do a Mad Libs guest post on her blog.  She took a post of mine and had me give her nouns/adjectives/adverbs to replace the original words and . . . I have no idea how it turned out but I CANNOT WAIT TO SEE.

Join me, won't you?  And don't forget to follow her on Twitter and read about her Couch to 5K goal and her fear about being Betty and how she thinks about community.

Go! Let's see how much more coherent a Mad Libs Suniverse post really is!

Love and Marriage? Seriously?

I got spam!


I NEVER get spam - evidently I'm not cool enough.

But I got some! And it was like this guy picked me out purposefully to send his blathering idiocy, because he knew exactly how much I needed that kind of boost.  And also how receptive I'd be to it.  Because the spam was all about how I should not date or marry American women.

I mean, I know that some people are actively involved in dating women from all over the globe, but for myself? I haven't dated anyone in so long, I can't imagine that if I did, I would stray farther than my own country, because I am, in fact, too lazy sometimes to go to the bathroom and just hope that if I stop drinking liquids, my body will, of its own volition, reclaim the liquid in my bladder for use in my . . . circulatory system? Why does your body need water, anyway?  Or if I'm in the pool, we all know I'll just pee [Why wouldn't a guy want to date or marry an American woman? Haven't I just proved myself completely fucking charming?].

Anyway, as the husband and I were arguing last night before we got into bed [arguing because he was coming to bed at the same time I was, which is NOT DONE, as it does not give me ample time to lay on his pillows diagonally across the bed so that when I move over to my side, it's still nice and cool, so of course I was peevish because how was I going to fall asleep reading The Nancy Boys [my new name for the Nancy Drew series] when SOMEONE was on my/his side of the bed, making it impossible for me to get comfortable? And also? HE WAS WATCHING TV, which is only allowed in the bedroom on the weekends or when I'm sick or when I feel like it.], I realized that sometimes, the one you love is the one who will MAKE YOU LOSE YOUR FUCKING MIND.

Gah, where's the spam to not date or marry inconsiderate American men? Huh? WHERE IS IT? Oh, I guess it wouldn't be spam because IT WOULD BE TRUE AND WANTED.

What peeves you about your significant other? Is it using the word peeves? Also, did you ever think, when you first met, that there would come a day when you would whack [in a not really joking way] your significant other because he messed up the blankets as he got in the bed?

Me, neither.

A Rube By Any Other Name

Remember how a few weeks ago, the husband and I went down to parents' weekend at the girl's school?

Yeah, that was the beginning of the end for my way cool image of myself.

I mean, yes, I have lived in the suburbs for about 15 years now, and I was born and raised in the suburbs for 18 years, but in the between time? I WAS AWESOME and lived in cool[ish] places and did cool things and was hip and rad and . . . [and now I'm embarrassing myself] . . . well, I wasn't LAME.  I wore cool clothes and went to cool clubs and I managed an ART GALLERY, for fuck's sake. I was COOL.

Now?

Yeah, that ship has sailed. 

During parents' weekend - in fact, when we dropped the girl off at school, outside the thriving metropolis - I started to get that feeling that despite my deep desire to go back and be my awesome self and live in a city, A REAL CITY, and be part of that vibrant energy, that maybe that was a dream I should let die.

Because it just made me tired. And feel like a complete rube.  I am ashamed to say I felt most at home at our hotel next to the giant mall. 

I am a suburban loser.

And then this past weekend? We skyped with the girl, who was telling us about the exciting weekend she spent getting her palm read and going to Urban Outfitters and hanging out in a very cool part of the city and having lunch at the hipster burger joint and I just sat there thinking:

1.  I am insanely envious of how fucking cool my kid is;

2.  I am goddamn old and tired;

3.  I need to start doing stuff.

So while perhaps living the dream of being a city dweller isn't something that's going to happen to me, and I should let that go, I think at the very least I should be able to match a 14 year-old for having a cool weekend.

But maybe that will be next weekend.  Because I'm kind of tired, and there's laundry to do, and I haven't even bought Halloween candy yet, much less put out any decorations, and I'm getting a flu shot on Friday, which is stressing me out and I might feel kind of low from that . . . so yeah, for sure, next weekend.

I'm back to awesome.

Ultimate Playlist

I've got a plan, now I need the soundtrack.

I'm revamping a couple of novels I've written and also [theoretically] working on a new novel. Or finishing something I've started writing.  Yes, I'm a NaNoWriMo sucker, and I'm getting ramped and ready to get working.

I've got my plans, I've got the determination [for right now], what I need is music to write by.  Music that will kick my ass when I am sitting at my computer thinking, SERIOUSLY? JUST ONE FUCKING WORD WOULD BE NICE.

What do you listen to you when you write? Classical? The classics [anything from The Beatles to Duran Duran would qualify. Jesus, I'm fucking old.]? Techno? Silence?  I do all of the above, but I feel the need to have a really kick ass play list that will keep me motivated when the haters start hating.  And by haters, I generally mean that stupid, evil voice that makes me feel like I can't do anything right.

Here's what I've got so far [Links are to YouTube & the like]: 

Stronger by Kanye West

Lose Yourself by Eminem

Can't Hold Us Down by Christina Aguilera

In One Ear by Cage the Elephant

I need a few more songs that will make me want to kick someone's ass.  That the ass will be my recalcitrant brain is a metaphysical jumble I don't want to get into right now.  

What are your suggestions?  What anthem gets your blood pumping when you need to do something RIGHT NOW?

I'm all ears.  And a crazy brain.

Elsewhere

Hello, my lovers.

While I'm usually full of piss and vinegar on a Monday morning [or on a Thursday afternoon, for that matter], today I'm all kindness and understanding, dropping knowledge over at Funny not Slutty.

Yes, it's that time again, time for me to guide my minions through their hardships and travails.  Check out my helpfulness here, and don't forget to tell your friends.  Or your enemies.  Or your therapist.  They could all use the laugh.

XOXOXO

Suniverse

What Haven't I Done? Glad You Asked.

A list of things I haven't done.  Most of these things will never, ever, EVER happen.  The others? I'm open.

1. Gone mountain climbing.

2. Eaten shellfish. [It's just giant bugs, and don't try to tell me any different. You're fooling yourself.]

3. Camped in a tent.

4. Wrestled a bear.

5. Had a threesome. [I have twice been propositioned, but both times, one of the other people was someone I found very unattractive (Seriously? A mustache? Are we making a porn?) and as I get older and crankier, I don't see any more propositions coming down the pike.]

6. Run a marathon.

7. Been comfortable wearing jeans. [There's something about the texture of denim I find very off-putting.  It's too abrasive for me.]

8. Gone sky diving.  [Seriously? The entire point is to stay in the plane.]

9. Shoplifted.

10. Bowled a perfect game.  [Hell, bowled over 150 points.  Are they called points?]

11. Owned a really super nice car.

12. Been part of a relay race.

13. Gotten divorced.  [Some days, though . . . some days.]

14. Touched a snake.  [No fucking way.]

15. Gone hunting. [Except for bargains.  That's the same thing, right?]

16. Toilet papered someone's house.  [I may be up for this, if the target is right.]

17. Made a mistake. [HAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Wait, I do this all day, every day.]

18. Been to a political conventions.  [I do have a hankering to wear a silly hat.]

19.  Been to the Kentucky Derby. [Speaking of silly hats . . .]

20. Finished reading Middlemarch. [Oh, George Elliot, you totally blow.]


What things have you never done? Or do you want to do? Or are you compulsively doing? Actually, that last thing could be a very interesting blog post on its own.


Bogarted from here, with liberties taken because I can't count to 22 when I'm tired. So. Much. Math.

TV is a liar

TV, that giver of life, that nurturer of souls, that yawning abyss.  It is at once a succubus and an angel.

It is also a big fat liar.

Here are a few of its more blatant lies:

A group of cool people do not live in the same cul de sac and get drunk and act mean to each other. [You are a liar, Cougartown.]  If they did, then why aren't they in my neighborhood? Even though I don't live in a cul de sac, I still have neighbors, and I would interact with them a lot more if they were bitchy and funny and enjoyed our version of the Algonquin Round Table. 

A group of hilarious people do not work at my doctor's office, healing me and occasionally singing great songs. [I'm looking at you, Scrubs, and Guy Love.]  While I do love my doctor, she is nowhere near as awesome as Elliot and JD and Turk, and none of the nurses are saucy Latinas like Carla.  AND WHERE IS JANITOR?  Nowhere.  Ketchup is for winners, Ted, and not even Ted is in my loserville physician's office, singing with his a cappella group.  It's just paper gowns and blood draws.  LAME.


Community college is not filled with a group of funny, snarky people. [Although this season's episodes of Community? Not even a little bit funny.  So art is imitating life, it would seem.]  I mean, regular college was fun . . . except I think that had more to do with alcohol consumption than people actually saying really funny things.  Although pretty much anything is funny after a certain number of beers.  Well, either funny or incredibly sad, depending on whether you were getting any later that night. 

Am I wrong? Doesn't TV owe me the respect of at the very least making sure my life is half as entertaining as its episodes?

Has TV lied to you? Tell me.  I need to know.

Fuck you, AT&T

On October 8, 2011, I had finally had enough.  My iPhone wasn't working and we were heading down to Parents Weekend and all I wanted was a phone that worked when I needed it to.  And for the husband to have a phone that didn't randomly shut off.  And for the girl to have a phone that . . . well, she didn't necessarily need a super fancy phone, but her $15 no camera, no keyboard phone was kind of sad.

So I spent a solid 20 minutes on the phone, ordering the iPhones from AT&T for all of us [Merry Christmas! Happy New Year! Don't expect any birthday presents!] and was really pleased with how efficiently everything was being handled.   Which is a huge surprised, since AT&T usually has below standard customer service.  But I was pleased to find that they had hired people who could be helpful.

And then?

I checked to see when I'd be getting the phones [after cursing myself for not ponying up $6 extra in overnight shipping] and guess what? NO ORDER HAD BEEN PLACED.

Then my head exploded.

And I spent 40 minutes with an increasingly unhelpful person who basically said, "Yeah, we goofed, so . . . you get to wait 21-28 days for your phones.  Nope, can't help you.  Nope, that's your option."

I asked to speak to a manager and was told someone would call me back within 2 hours.  Yeah.  O.k.  Speaking to someone above the manager? That would take up to 72 hours.

You know how when you call Apple a really kind person [my feeling is that they employ Canadians] talks to you and helps you out? AT&T is the exact opposite of that.  It's like they feel like they have to balance out the good customer service Apple offers.

Now, the thing is, I'm not a person who jumps at the next cool thing.  I've had my iPhone 3G for the past 3.5 years, my computer for 5 years and frankly, if they worked at the necessary speed, I'd keep them.

But I was so excited to have worked enough to be able to purchase phones for me and my family with MY MONEY [and when you haven't worked in a while, you know how exciting it is to be able to use YOUR OWN MONEY and to be able to buy something that isn't strictly a necessity] that to be confronted not only with bullshit incompetence but don't give a shit customer service is so upsetting.

Yes, first world problems.  I'm the first to admit that.

But it's more that people won't be kind or helpful.  That makes me nuts.

So I'm trying to figure out where to go and what to do and which service to use.  The other 2 phones have contracts that expire in November, which is about when AT&T said they could ship the new phones.  I may just wait and jump ship elsewhere. 

Why doesn't Apple have a wireless service?

Best Compliment Ever

The husband and I are listening to Tina Fey reading Bossypants.  Tina [I can call her that, since we're besties] starts talking about why she's the worst:

1. She doesn't have a driver's license, so she doesn't drive wideways across Pennsylvania.

The husband looks over at me and says, "Oh, my god." I do not drive on the freeway, in any way.

2. She can't cook meat.

The husband cuts his eyes at me and says, "Oh, my fucking god." I burn meat on the grill every time I cook it.

3.  She does not like dogs.

The husband looks at me and yells, "OH MY FUCKING GOD, ARE YOU KIDDING ME? YOU ARE THE SAME PERSON."

I fell harder for him at that moment than when I first drunkenly saw him at dollar pitcher night.

Guest starring - Me!

Hola, bitches.

In case you can't get enough of me here, I'm over at Bill's place, Smells Like Borscht, where I'm waxing eloquently about food.  Mmmm . . . food.

Bill, if you haven't wandered over before and need an introduction, is married to a Russian woman.  Like RUSSIAN Russian.  And they have a kid and he has in-laws and the whole situation leads to some wonderful storytelling, including discussions on the appropriate way to raise a child [obviously, not the way we're doing it].  He also discusses his distaste for bugs and men who wear women's pants.

Finally, nearest and dearest to my heart, is his smackdown of Hemingway.  Truly, it made my heart sing.

You can follow him on Twitter, but first, head on over to his site and take a look at what your upbringing does to you re: food.  It's not always a rosy-colored glide down memory lane.



********

Also, my inaugural advice column is up at FunnynotSlutty. I'm in my element, telling people what to do, and, as an added bonus, the questions I'm answering are from you lovely people.  I'd love it if you went over and made some excellent comments.  I mean, I'd do it for you.

A Glimpse Into My Soul. I'm Really Sorry.

There are days when I'm not just hahaha that's kind of wrong worried about myself, but days when I am really, truly, legitimately worried that there is something completely fucked in the head about me.

For example, yesterday I was driving home from work. Now, because I have crippling panic attacks when I drive on the freeway, I take lesser roads where I need to go.  So I'm on this road and I come to a point where it's blocked by a police car and a fire truck.  And instead of evincing even the slightest concern about what could have happened to warrant this blockade, I start swearing.  A lot.  About fucking cuntrag assholes and their stupid bullshit fire truck and what the fuck is wrong with people? Goddamn pieces of shit.

So I detour.  And end up on a road that's been closed off by construction.  I backtrack and am stuck in traffic, hating everyone so much that I'm honest to god SCREAMING in my car in frustration and rage and self-loathing [why the fuck can't I be normal and just get on the goddamn freeway already and not be a tool?], and I'm sure that all the people walking can probably hear me because I don't think my car is sound proofed.  But I don't care, because I hate them, too, and I'm kind of hoping someone gives me a look, because I will get out of my car and chew up their faces.   But they don't.  Maybe they can sense the swirl of crazy, like when you know a tornado is coming.

And I have to detour again and get stuck at a construction point where a person with one of those STOP signs is standing and so I'm stopped because for who knows what reason, every truck that is involved in paving this ten foot long spot of two lane road [and for some reason there are, no fucking lie, 6 trucks and about 20 people patching a path that is shorter than my driveway] [and my driveway is not long] has to move to the other side of the road.  Do you know how long that takes? SO LONG! So long that I actually started crying - great, big, hulking sobs of anger and despair, and also screaming curses at fate and the idiot people walking by and the whole stupid world.

I finally got the wave to go and you know what? The idiot sign holder on the other side waved their person through, so I had to BACK UP and wait for this prick to go through.  I cannot explain to you with mere words the black anger that filled me.  It tasted like chicken.

I finally got home and ended up talking to a friend, which was helpful, but I just get so tired, sometimes, of my inability to deal.  It exhausts me.

Parenting, oh parenting

We survived Parents' Weekend at the girl's school.

It was fine.  Tiring.  She ditched us pretty much the entire time, which speaks well for her adjustment and made me proud/sad.  That's a melancholy feeling.  The husband and I met some nice people.  We also dropped some cash on school swag, which I didn't even do when I was in college and should have had some sort of school spirit.

The other things we did were to meet with staff and teachers.  I always feel so weird during those meetings, because I either ask too many questions - so many that they start to seem nonsensical and repetitive to me - or I can think of nothing at all.

What do you do in a situation like that? I get Answerer Anxiety - if someone asks if there are any questions, and no one raises their hand, I start frantically trying to think of one, first hoping to come up with something smart or interesting ["What do you think about the curricula for 9th graders - is it developmentally appropriate?"], finally just hoping I can form several phrases into a sentence ["Me like sunshine hair. You are yellow pretty?"].  And the best part is, the husband almost never asks any  questions.  So if it's just me, him and the teacher? It's just me and the teacher.

Do you do this? Please tell me I'm not alone.  What social situation makes you feel most awkward?

You. Stupid. Little. Twat.

As you may well know, I'm no fan of snot-nosed children.  In point of fact, I fucking hate kids who are impertinent and smartmouthed.

Do not confuse them with children who are precocious or inquisitive or just plain long-winded.  I find some of them charming and will tolerate the rest simply because I know that they are thinking and kind and interested in the world around them and the people they are talking to. Incessantly.

The kids I hate are the ones who are snotty and rude.  The ones who think it's just fine to be justthisside of nasty, like you're too stupid to notice their shit, or you won't call them out for their shitty behavior.

I have a niece who is such a child.

And tonight? I wanted to reach across the telephone and smack her.

This is what happened:

Me, calling my in-laws for the third time this day.  The phone rings, it's answered, but no one says anything.  This is the third time this has happened.  Both times before, the 8 year old niece answered the same way - just picking up the phone and sitting there.

I say, "Hello." I'm just annoyed and need to speak to my mother-in-law and am really fucking tired of dealing with this bullshit.

I get, "WHO IS THIS?" in a really snotty voice in response.

I say, "Who is this?" Because I have no idea which niece has answered.

"Suniverse?"

Now, I'm completely annoyed.  1. No greeting. 2. Snotty question. 3. No answer to a direct question.

"Yes, who is this?"

"It's Niece."

"Well, Niece, I need to speak to Grandma. Could you put her on please?"

"Grandma's not here. Well, she's here, but we're playing a game."

"O.k., well give the phone to Grandma.  And Niece? When you answer the phone, you should say Hello.  It's rude to just answer and not say anything."

"I did say hello."

"No, you didn't.  You said Who is this.  That's not Hello."

By this time, I'm wondering why I think my attempt to correct this child's behavior is going to do anything but drag this situation out even longer.  And then:

"Well, Suniverse [and by the way, this child doesn't call me Aunt Suniverse.  She calls random bullshit strangers Aunt WhateverFuck, but I'm just Suniverse. Which irks me.], here's Grandma, thanks for asking." In the snottiest fucking voice I have ever heard. 

And I didn't even know what to say, because I was so stunned.

I know what I said when I got off the phone with my mother-in-law.  I said many, many choice words about this shitty fucking attitude.

What the fuck? Seriously. What the fuck?  How do I even address this?  Because this shit? WILL NOT STAND.

You're Wrong. I'm Right. Just Stop Talking.

EDITED TO NOTE THAT BLOGGER IS A FUCKING ASSHOLE THAT DOESN'T UNDERSTAND HOW TO SCHEDULE A POST. Sorry.

***********
The husband argues that we have two standards in our household.  I actually agree. There are things as they pertain to me, and then there is everyone else who can go fuck themselves.  [Right now, that everyone else is the husband and the cats.  Those asshole cats who cause endless problems.  One of whom, by the way, spent last night with a PIECE OF ACTUAL SHIT stuck to her butt that she tried to wipe off BY DRAGGING HER STUPID CAT ASS ACROSS THE BACK OF THE COUCH AND THEN ON TO THE END TABLE AND THEN INTO THE OFFICE AND THEN ON TO MY DESK.  There are not enough disinfecting wipes in the world to make me feel whole again.  Seriously.  I'm puking just thinking about it.  Whatever fucking cockbag said that having a pet makes you feel more relaxed and helps you live longer is either a douchey liar or someone who enjoys fecal matter.  In either case, no one I want to know.  Fucking asshole cat.  OH.  And to top it off, this cat is 12 years old and, like all crazy old people, has developed a ridiculous habit, so instead of just dealing with THE PIECE OF SHIT HANGING OFF HER ASS, where I had to wrap her in a towel to keep her from scratching and clawing at us while the husband got the pleasure of WIPING THIS CAT'S ASS, the husband also noticed, as she was hissing at him, that the stupid cat had a piece of tissue paper stuck to her tooth.  Because of course she eats tissue paper. I need to go lie down now.]

So, yes, we have two standards - actually, maybe three standards: One for me, one for the husband, one for the paper eating, shit hoarding cats.  These standards may make it seem like we'd be having all kinds of drama [besides the catshit related kind] but in fact, the husband and I tend to not disagree on much.

I mean, don't get me wrong, there have been many days where we've gone out separate ways in the morning, each cursing the other for being a complete fucking self-involved asshole moron.  And there are times when one or the other of us has to say, "Really? That's how you want this to end? You want us to get a divorce because I didn't fill up the ice cube tray?" But the hours pass, and emails are sent discussing the advisability of purchasing a deep fryer [Inadvisable, but so delicious. Maybe for Christmas.] and we move past the ugliness.

Also, we have very little in common, hobby-wise.  We both like to read, but not the same kind of stuff.  We both like to watch movies, but different genres.  He has no interest in discussing the idiocy of various friends and family and I have no interest in discussing the idiocy of trying to use a hurry-up offense when men are on first and third and the zamboni is clearing the ice. Or whatever.

There is, however, a bone of contention that gets tossed into the mix every so often.

It is this:  Making the bed.

I feel, very strongly, that the bed should be made every day.  The husband does not see the point, as it will just get messed up each night.  I find comfort in being able to walk into my bedroom and see a nice, clean bed, with the pillows fluffed and the blankets pulled taut.  He is blind to this joy.  If he does make the bed, he will sometimes make it about 15 minutes before I go to sleep, which, to me, misses the point.  It also allows spiders to crawl into my sheets.  I submit that the bed should be made no later than 30 minutes after you've gotten up [this is ample time for ablutions].  When I walk into the bedroom and the husband hasn't made the bed, I die a little inside [PS it's the husband's job, as I am generally on my way to work by the time he gets out of the bed. I am tempted, sometimes, to make it while he's still in it.].

So we fight about this.  Who is right? Me? Or Mr. Wrong?

Answer carefully.  The fate of the universe depends on it.

Midweek Update - Because I Can't Do Anything Right

So, first, thanks to you all for your questions. The exciting news is that I'm going to be doing a twice-monthly general advice column for FunnynotSlutty [shhhhh . . . let's just pull the curtain on those college years, shall we?] which is fucking awesome, because who doesn't want to be part of a group of women who enjoy the funny? Also, I get to continue to tell people what to do, which is something I love more than artery clogging soup. And since it's a general advice column, I'm pretty sure anything goes. Let's push those boundaries, right?

Second, the girl is back for a few days for October break, which I guess is a thing.  We'll be taking her back to school for parents' weekend, which goes until Monday, because evidently every day is a weekend for rich people. 

I'm more than a little excited to see the girl.  While I am, for the most part, a woman who balks at sensitivity [unless it's my senses being intruded upon] and emotions and human relationships [so messy, and so many feelings!] I love my girl.  She's amazing and really makes me happy.  Even when she's being a total idiot teenager and I want to choke her until the sass shoots out of her eyeballs.

Also, I finally bought a velvet jacket.  Because I am secretly a Vegas lounge singer.  This is something that's super important, not only because it is fucking gorgeous, but because it represents a huge step forward in my ability to do things for myself.  I've wanted a velvet jacket for a while - I had one years ago and looked super cool and if I can no longer recapture my youth by staying out all night drinking and having random sex, the least I can do is dress like a bad ass. 

Every year for the past umpteen years, I keep wanting a velvet jacket, and every year I hem and haw because they're so expensive and then I dick around and don't get one and then lament how I don't have a velvet jacket and how much cooler would everything I own look with a velvet jacket? SO MUCH COOLER.  Over the weekend, I finally bought one, paying FULL PRICE [which is something that chafes at me in all circumstances] because I knew if I waited I would never find one that fit so perfectly and then 2 days later I get an email coupon for 25% off my next purchase.  The lovely people at Talbots [I'm old, where do you think I'd get a velvet jacket? Hot Topic?] actually let me use the coupon on the jacket, so I was feeling pretty good about getting a substantial discount.  So good that I ended up spending my substantial savings on a shirt.  Because I am a fool when it comes to money.  A fool who would make Suze Orman cry.

The really bitter thing is that after two weeks of shitty, cold weather, the day after I get my fabulous velvet jacket it's started a stretch of 70 plus weather.  I just pet my jacket and wait for a cold front.

What do you do to make yourself feel better? Besides abuse other people's prescription meds?

Stop what you're doing and go make this. Now.

Of the many, many reasons I love fall [sweaters and snuggling under blankets and no need to pretend to enjoy being outdoors in the infernal heat] is soup. I LOVE SOUP.  It's a great way to practice eating for when you're old and you have to gum everything. Mmmmm . . . tasty.

Anyway, I made an insanely good soup the other day, and I thought I'd share the recipe with you.  Mostly because it's so fucking good, but also because I don't want you to eat food that has wire bristles in it.  [Seriously, if you want to eat good mac and cheese, eat this.]

Chicken Corn Chowder - so good, you'll keep it all to yourself


Ingredients
1/2 large onion, diced
2 large carrots, diced
Butter
Flour
Salt
Pepper
6 cups chicken broth [I used 4 cups chicken and 2 cups beef, because I didn't want to waste the beef broth]
2-3 cups cubed potatoes
2 cups 1/2 and 1/2 [because I feel the need to coat my arteries, I used heavy cream.  Also it's what I had.
Do you know Costco sells GIANT containers of it for like $5? How can you NOT buy this?]
Corn [2-3 cups]
1-2 cups chopped cooked chicken [I used some leftover lemon grilled chicken breast - it added a nice flavor]
An asston of cheese [cheddar, colby, monterey jack, whatever you like!]

Directions
Dice your veggies.  Put them in a large pot with some butter [I usually start with 1 tbsp and that should do it, but sometimes the fates call for more] over medium heat and cover with a lid.  Let the onion and carrots sautee a bit.  You don't want to burn them.  So you should probably avoid putting them on to cook and then go do something like go online and read blogs or play Word With Friends or have sex or something. You could probably go on Twitter for  few minutes.  Just don't get sucked in.


Forget to add the flour and then just figure, fuck it, that heavy cream I'll add at the end should do the trick and thicken up the soup.  And if doesn't, who needs those empty calories from flour, right? HAHAHAHA.  I do.  I need empty calories.  They taste my favorite.

Season the slightly browned carrots and onions with salt and pepper.  [I have, on occasion, slightly overcooked the onions and carrots.  If they aren't completely blackened, I figure they'll be fine.] [It usually works.]

Add the chicken broth and the potatoes to the pot.  Accidentally add the potato water to the pot and start cursing like . . . well, like I usually do when I fuck something up.  I think the girl must enjoy being at boarding school, in a situation where the adults around her presumably don't walk around going, "Stupid cock fucker! Goddamn piece of shit!" when they drop a fork or some other traumatic event happens.

Let the potatoes simmer for a few minutes until they're cooked almost through.

Add the corn and the chicken. Let it heat up.

Add the heavy cream.  It's so fucking good.  Add a little more.

Stir it up and let it heat through.  At this point add your cheese.  I usually use a mix of cheddar and colby jack.  But I won't judge you.

Heat this through and you will have some of the most excellent soup in the history of soup.  Seriously.  You will lick your bowl.  And then you'll fork the person who tries to go for seconds.

Enjoy!

PS Sometimes, if I'm feeling feisty, I'll start the process by sauteeing up some chopped up bacon and using the bacon fat to cook the carrots and onions and then dosing each bowl with a few/ton of the bacon pieces. 

I've invested in a lot of hip length sweaters.

Reasons I'm Pretty Sure I'm Going to Hell

I generally think I'm a pretty good person. I mean, I don't steal, I'm not intentionally malicious and I only voted for Nader than one time.

However, I have noticed things about myself lately that have me a bit concerned about my after-life [if there is one, which I'm thinking there probably isn't, or if there is, it had better be really excellent and far away from riffraff]. I mean, I'm not actively evil, I just have a lower threshold for annoyance.  But then you already knew that, right? It's what makes me so loveable.

For instance:

The cats sometimes [all the time] get on my nerves.  They are CONSTANTLY coming up to me and rubbing me and pushing their soft furry faces on me and walking on my computer and jumping behind me in my chair or walking underneath me and rubbing themselves on me, continually looking for attention. 

NO ONE gets to be that needy in this house except me. 

******
I tend to curse out nuns who drive slowly and erratically.  And not simple "you asshole" curses.  I go for the big guns "you stupid motherfucking dick-eating whore" kind of curses.  And then I see the wimple and realize I'm going to hell.

Also for calling that little girl a cuntface.  Eh, she deserved it, so that's a wash.

******
I also tend to curse out [under my breath or in my head, not out loud, I'm not a complete bitch] customer service people who do not treat me like a queen.  I know, I know, but hear me out - if I'm paying my cash money [or using my debit card or credit card] for items that I can just as easily purchase elsewhere, why are you not fawning all over me, being nice and asking me if I need help? The most egregious examples of shitty customer service have to be the people who work at any Macys anywhere.  Seriously.  Lately they all suck. 

******
On the other hand, here's why I'm awesome - in a little bit, I'm going to be giving my patented brand of advice on a really cool website.  I need some help from you, my lovelies, to get me started. Could you please email me or leave in the comments some questions seeking my advice?  I'd greatly appreciate it, and in the off chance I get to my version of heaven [cool sleeping weather, no douchebags allowed, plus there's teleporting so that whole road rage thing will be non-existent] I'll save a spot next to me so we can talk about people. 


Of course, I'll save a spot for you in the other place, too.