Snuggie Fun!

Okay.

I am willing to make a fool of myself for a good cause now and again.

This past Friday? Oh yea. There was foolishness. But, it helps sick kids and their families--so it's totally worth it.

Even if it doesn't excuse it.

What am I talking about? I'm talking about wearing a Snuggie in public, while drinking, scavenger hunting, and winning prizes. And having my photo taken with the tallest freaking girl in the world (who, coincidentally had on the same snuggie as yours truly). Sadly, I do not have this photo. I would like this photo. She's a giant. So giant, in fact, that when they insisted we take our photos together, she hoisted me up and squealed "Oh My God! I love you..you're so tiny!" (Let me just say..I'm not that tiny. But, compared to someone who is easily over six and half feet tall? Yea..I'm pretty short. Short--not tiny. Trust me, there is a huge difference!) I realized in that moment "This is how midgets must feel...all the time." It's not that fun of a feeling...being lorded over by much bigger people. Especially when a largish horde of people are pointing at you and laughing. See for yourself. Hardly mini..even if I did have to roll the damn sleeves up three times just to be able to see my hands.

Other than that, things went pretty smoothly. Started off chill enough. Thank goodness the above photo was taken early. I think there might be nacho stains on the dawg's face now. At least these things are washable, eh?

Amy was smart..and borrowed her Snuggie. She even took it a step further decking it out in a full costume. Sort of Phyllis Diller meets Cruella DeVille:

Needless to say..we had tons of fun, I'm hoping lots of money was raised..because after this next pic was taken of me and Todd (Karen's delightful husband)..it was definitely time for me to be at home. However, before I made it that direction, we hopped across the street  into Qdoba. (What is it about bars that are so magical? You feel fantastic inside but as soon as you hit a well lit establishment? Whoa...why is the room spinning?! Who did this? Stop it!!) I ended up falling face first on Amy's couch..and that is where I stayed until morning time..with enough time to spare to meet the handyman--on time! As for the photo; please note I have stolen Karen's cat ears, raided Amy's purse for cash (why? I don't know..I had more than enough moolah of my own) and Todd and I are planning on ways we could keep it and she would never know. Except for Shawn took this picture. And I'm posting it on my blog. Needless to say, drunk people do not have very clear thought processes. This is why so many of us end up in jail. Or sleeping with ugly people. Thank god neither of those things happened Friday..or I might not find the night, or the two day long hangover, so amusing.

Who's a happy girl? The girl with the brown liquor and limes..that's who! This was a ton of fun....but lesson learned. I should NOT have skipped the McDonald's stop on the way home. A world of hurt could have been prevented with a Filet O'Fish and a large Coke. I'll make a note for next time...because trust me. There will be a next time.

Pitter patter does NOT go my heart....

I have amazing friends.

Awesome friends. A real extension of my family. People I can count on to:

Bail me out of jail
Help me dispose of a body (no questions asked!!)
Pick a hair cut
Tell me I shouldn't have picked that hair cut
Let me cry on (sadly this means copious amounts of snot--pretty crier I am most certainly not)
Tell me with out hesitation "Do NOT by that! It makes your ass look ginormous!"
Put up with me in general
Travel with (This is a true definition of friendship. If you come back from a trip that lasts more than three days and you are not only still speaking, but still want to hang out? Wow--it's impressive. Oh! And if one of you had the courtesy to bring matches? This will be a bond that cannot be broken.)

That said, I would trust none of these people to procure me a life partner. The only person I might trust less is my mother who forgets to mention things like crazy soon-to-be ex wives or ten kids. (It's not her fault...working in the hospital in her fancy pants position, she is exposed daily to the most prized of future son-in-law bait: Doctors. This makes her more than a bit nuts, actually.)

This past Tuesday was no exception. How did it start? The way so many of the comedies of my life have started: "He's a really nice guy!! I really think you'll like him!!"

If I had a dime for every time those words were uttered....

I wouldn't be killing myself working three jobs, that's for damn sure.

But back to Tuesday.

Let me start by saying Mr. X was, indeed a really nice guy. However, when you meet an adult man with a job, his own house, decent ride--your first impression should NOT be "Hey--who let the homeless guy in the bar?" (the only exception I can think of for this rule is maybe Zack Galifianakis). And no, I'm not being a snob here--this dude looked, well, homeless. His hair--oye--was all over the place crazy. There was no rhyme or reason. Fingernails? Filthy. He had on cordovans, track type pants, and a full zip hoodie. With NO shirt on underneath it. And as the night progressed? That zipper just kept creeping further and further down. I also thought he was higher than Everest until he announced he hadn't had any sleep in three, maybe four days.

Ahhh.....this explains it.

But unfortunately--you know what they say about first impressions? So true. I can handle assholes (prefer them, actually) and I certainly don't think a man needs to spend a ton to put well put together--but looking like you haven't bathed in a week or so? No so much.

And he was, actually, pretty cool. I would totally hang out with him again--but there was just NO spark on my end. Nada, zilch, zero. Sadly, I have a type--and he just wasn't it. If you know me, you know what said type is and I will not embarrass myself by putting it down to be shared with the world.

So, my friends, if you have a guy lined up for me--please, please, please refrain yourselves.

That said, they do say you need to suffer for your art..so maybe that's not such a good idea.

But for now--restraint is probably best.

Jesus Hair!!

Okay, so Sunday I'm standing in line waiting to check out at my least favorite grocery store in Speedtown (Yes--I mean you Kroger. Hey Marsh--bring back those gas points, will ya?), and I keep getting swatted in the face.

With hair.

Human hair.

That is approximately 4 feet long. And no--it wasn't Crystal Gayle in line in front of me. It was an annoyingly hyper 14 to 17 year old girl. It was hard to tell. Really..it could have been Cousin It under there, who knows?

Did I mention the freakishly long hair? Past her knees?

In my face?

Well--I couldn't let this child continue to assault me, and I figured she may not realize she was attacking me with her locks (You know--like how people who smell don't know they smell? Same concept.). So, I casually say

"You certainly don't see hair that long anymore...do you?"

Girl's mother (who has a big scary mound of hair wound around her head...and a floor length skirt. Which is odd considering child has on skin tight jeans--obviously two or three sizes to small--suede boots that come up past her knees, and is reading a copy of some tabloid) replies with the following:

"Well how else are people to know she's pure? And that she loves Jesus?"

Okay--this lady was totally not joking when the above was said.

And  I SO wanted to say "Of course she's pure. No one's going near two feet of nasty old split ends!"

 No matter how hard up someone may be, you will find even most men have hair standards.

But did I utter? No, but I started to say something benign, and that's when girl spins around to pay for her smutty tabloid magazine....(again--this does not fit in with any religion that forbids hair cutting that I'm aware of...maybe there's a new sect out there)

And I pretty much get a mouth full of Jesus hair.

And you just can't top that.

Adventures in domesticity...

So it's that time of year...I start planning ahead for the upcoming holiday season.

"How?" you ask?

Let me tell you in two words:

Apple Butter.

This is Indiana--everyone loves apple butter. I also had a request to show Laura how it's done...so yesterday before I went to work, she came by, watched the prep of the first batch (second one was done today...with the Sound of Music playing in the living room. It seems like it went from Nuns to Nazis really quickly when you aren't fully paying attention.). I'm also trying another recipe for a little something different...we shall see how it goes. I just have to go to the store and buy ten pounds (yes--you read correctly) of sugar. If I bought all these damn jars..they are going to get filled with something!

Enjoy peoples....well you better. These first degree burns on my face and foot better be worth it.

Trust me--you DON'T want to know.

And yes--you are jealous of the high risk lifestyle that I lead.

Soooo jealous.

If you really loved me--you would get me a maid.

Yes--some girls may want diamonds.

Some may prefer pearls.

This girl would like a clean house--screw the jewelry (for now! NOT FOREVER!! That would just be stupid).

I wouldn't let anyone I know in the door right now, not kidding. Laundry has piled up, the office is a disaster, the living room needs a good pledge fest, and the floors desperately need to be done..it's like a pig lives there.

One does--"oink, oink"--me.

I've tried my usual list making (not working), wipe off board motivations (soooo not working), writing on the mirror "HEY PIGGY! PICK UP YOUR SHIT!!" (well...in this case, I just seem to be pissing myself off--so I'm not doing it out of principle), you name it--I've tried it. I just can't seem to get motivated even though I feel much more zen (go ahead..laugh) in a clean environment.

Okay. Cleanish. I'm not some OCD freak...yet. I'm sure that will come later in life.

Here's what usually happens when I get home from work (either a nine hour or 15 hour day, it seems to go the same these days):

Open door--am attacked by desperately lonely Yogi (Who is so happy to see me I feel a little bit like a bad kitty owner. I'm so not ready for another fuzzy, but Yogi so is.).
Feed cat.
Am still attacked by cat who now wants to play. For hours.
I break down and give him about 20 mins or so. (See? Baaad kitty owner.)
Feel vaguely hungry.
Shrug off hunger.
Sit down on couch to contemplate to-do list.
 Look at first item on list: work out. Laugh out loud.
Wonder what is on Tivo...oooh! Oprah has polygamists on...it won't hurt to sit and watch the first half.
Watch entire Oprah show.
Realize am now pretty hungry.
Make dinner.
Realize haven't done anything on list.
Think to myself...I deserve a night of doing nothing.
Eat dinner.
Settle in to watch more TV or read new book or listen to Podcasts.
Promptly fall asleep.
Wake up around 3 am on couch.
See list.
Get mad at lazy self.

Do you see now why I need a maid? What happened to the good old days when working girls like me and Doris Day had a house keeper? How freaking sweet would that be..Thelma Ritter taking care of my stuff every day? Life couldn't be better....and my clothes and my job would be better, too. (Know not of what I speak? Really? Who hasn't see Pillow Talk? One of the best freaking movies ever made! If you haven't--GO. SEE. IT. NOW.)

So seriously, I'm thinking of starting a begging fund. I thought of calling it Rhea-Aid...but that sounds too much like it's for some sort of weird STD or something....I'll have to think up something else.

In the mean time, I need to get back to work on my list for tonight. Maybe tonight I will actually get stuff done.

That's the plan, anyway.

Wish me luck.

Getting out of the doghouse? Methinks not.

So I was at work the other night (shocking, I know), and I received a phone call for one of the many departments I was covering.

It went something like this:

Me: Can I help you?

Dude: Yes. Do you sell wide women's belts?

Me: (thinking does he mean a wide woman...or a wide belt?) I'm pretty sure we have what you need. Any particular style?

Dude: Just wide. In black. Or Brown.

Me: We do have those--and they are buy one get one half off. The belts start around $20.00.

Dude: Hmm. Well, it's for my girlfriend's birthday, which was last week. I forgot. So I guess I can splurge and get both.

This is how the conversation ends--and I hang up thinking Buddy you are SOOO going to get it. $30.00 for belts? WTF you moron! When you FORGET a woman's birthday, it's time to break out the big guns "Baby..I wanted it to be surprise, but it just wasn't ready yet. Did I fool you? Of course I really didn't forget your birthday!" and then bust out the beautiful earrings, necklace, purse--whatever it is for god's sake it's not going to be some utilitarian object that she could buy herself. And a mushy card (Unless it's for me..I hate mushy cards. Blech.)You might as well give her new sheets if you're going to go that route--cause the ones you slept on with her will soon be burned in a bonfire after she kicks your ass out the door.

Now I say this, but actually, what do I know? Yours truly has never received a gift from someone she's dated, but I have lots of friends that have wonderful boyfriends and husbands who spoil them rotten when it comes to gift giving occasions (and in some happy instances, for no reason what so ever). Maybe this girl would be happy with two belts.

But I'm guessing not.

Welcome to singledom Douchey Dude!

For Jeter...with love

How do you say goodbye to a friend?

Well, here is my probably very poor attempt.

I still can't believe he's gone. It's been 24 hours since he died, and I feel more than a little lost. I physically hurt from all the sobbing I've done. I know Yogi is absolutely confused. He keeps wandering around the house..and comes back to me with this look of "Well--where are you hiding him?" Poor Yogi, he's never been alone at any time in his life...

Jeter Bean, the little furry light in my life. Five years was not nearly enough of you. Yes, he was a cat, but he was also the closest relationship I think I've ever had with another living thing. Was it perfect? Um. No. We fought (trust me), I yelled, he yelled--but we always made up. One look in those big green eyes could melt me, if he wanted it to. If he was still mad--they would be shooting daggers at me.

He picked me--something I don't think anyone had done before or since. Wandered up to my house and made himself right at home, like he knew something I didn't. That first year was non stop vet trips--and vet bills--but I made him promise that he would be around for a long time. Long enough so I could get him to a big house with a yard and a screened in porch that he could take control of, see my children born and be part of their lives, too.

He promised.

Or so I thought.

He was also good at changing the subject, so maybe he didn't, but I'm going to say he did.

But I still feel like I let him down--he did love to go outside so that porch idea was something he would have  held me to.

Sorry buddy, I didn't know you had a time line.

Looking back, he probably didn't feel that great Wednesday night. I got home after work at midnight, cleaned up the throw up on the floor (that I wrongly thought was Yogi's), and crawled in to bed. He came in with me, curled up under the covers and put his paws around my neck. He was cold.

I had no idea that this meant his kidneys were shutting down.

I had no idea that these would be my last few happy moments with you--not full of fear and panic and guilt and pain. So, I snuggled you in, kissed the top of your head, turned off the light and said four words I've said almost every night for the last five and half years "Good night, Jeter Bean". You curled up even tighter and closed your eyes.

You looked exactly the same way after you died.

Which just breaks my heart.

I've told people jokingly that Jeter was my soul mate. Okay--that wasn't a joke, actually. He made me a better person because I loved him so selflessly. He was one of my best friends and I will miss him for a long, long time.

The rest of my life, actually.

I love you Jeter--thank you for being one of the best parts of my life. It's going to be a good long while, but we'll see each other again.

This time, I promise.