The Travelogue

4:30am: Wake up. Remind myself that any flight that requires me to wake up at 4:30 in the morning is a very bad flight. Vow to only book afternoon flights from that moment on.

4:35am: Get in the shower. Wonder why I find it necessary to glam up in order to spend 5+ hours on a plane, where I will arrive at my destination distinctly un-glammed up. Remember that McMama will be meeting the plane and that I want her to think I look hot enough to be married to her son. Continue showering.

4:50am: Pack up the last of the toiletries and wonder where Oscar is. Stop wondering where Oscar is when he walks past me into the shower. Think to myself that we planned to leave the house at 5:00. Snort when Oscar tells me that he will shower fast and be ready before I know it.

5:00am: Confirm that Oscar will be ready "soon" and it's okay to wake up Turtle. Feel like crap that Turtle is missing out on a couple hours of sleep, but pray that he is sleepy enough to nap on the plane.

5:20am: Drive to the airport. Thank the travel gods for online check-in.

5:35am: Walk past security to get to the baggage check. Note the relatively short line. Thank the travel gods again. Check baggage and lose 70 pounds of dead weight. Brilliant!

5:45am: Say goodbye to Oscar as Turtle and I pass through security. Wrangle a 2 year old, two carry-ons and a car seat through security without killing myself or anyone else. Would pat myself on the back, but am wrangling a 2 year old, two carry-ons and a car seat. Remind myself to pat later.

6:20am: Board the flight. Feel sheepish when I learn that the gentleman on the aisle seat has been staring at my big fat ass as I wrestled the car seat into place and got Turtle settled. Decide this is not so much a problem when the woman across the aisle sits down with her 5 month old and apologizes in advance for any crying. The sins of my big fat ass run secondary to those of a pissed off baby flying on Mommy's lap.

6:55am: Turtle falls asleep. Hear a choir of angels sing.

7:35am: Turtle wakes up. Remind myself to kick some angels' asses.

7:36am - 12:46pm: "Oh look! Here's your choo-choo! Do you want to play with your choo-choo? No? Is there anything you want to play with? No, not the in-flight phone.....Mommy doesn't have enough money for you to call Daddy on the in-flight phone. Maybe when you have your own credit card."

12:46pm - 1:20pm: Land. De-plane. Remember why I virulently despise the Newark Airport when I realize I'm going to have to walk more than a mile, wrangling a 2 year old, two carry-ons, and a car seat, to get to my connecting gate. Remember why I can't completely hate the Newark Airport when a gentleman running a shuttle-y thing stops to pick me up and yells at someone else that they'll just have to wait because he has to get me to my gate first. Contemplate kissing him. Decide against it, if for no other reason than I've been traveling for several hours and I haven't had any minty gum recently.

1:35pm: Realize that my flight, which was supposed to take off in 20 more minutes, hasn't even boarded yet. Note that the flight information has suddenly disappeared from the gate. Start walking towards the departure boards. See the word "Canceled" next to my flight number. Start to panic.

1:36pm: Call McMama. Let her know what's happening. Almost start hyperventilating. Pull it together enough to get to the customer service phones.

1:45pm: Am informed that the people on the customer service/reservations lines can't help me. I should be in the mile-long service line at the actual airport.

1:48pm: Wrangle 2 year old, two carry-ons and a car seat to the service line. Wait.

2:30pm: Airline Service Manager begins talking to people behind me. Eavesdrop and learn that it could take as many as 48 hours to get another flight out of Newark. Contemplate committing seppuku in the middle of the airport. Watch the Airline Service Manager approach me.

2:40pm: Airline Service Manager looks at me expectantly, even though he already knows he's going to tell me the same thing he told the 20 people behind me: You're not getting out of here tonight and we're not putting you up in a hotel so don't even ask me.

2:41pm: Burst into tears. Between hiccups, apologize for being so emotional. He tells me I need to get on the phone to get a new flight out of Newark. Ask him why the people on the phone would tell me the people AT the airport could help me better than they could if he's now telling me that the people on the phones could help me more than he could. He looks at me blankly. Burst into fresh round of tears. Watch Airline Service Manager slowly back away from the crazy lady.

2:50pm: Call McMama with the update. McPapa answers. He vows to get me to their house in less than 48 hours. Tells me he'll call back in 15 minutes, but in the meantime stay in the airline services line. Think "Well, where the hell else am I going to go????" but decide to be nice, since he's going to try to get me on a flight.

2:55pm: Tell Turtle to stay close to Mommy for the zillionth time and burst into tears again when I realize Turtle lost two hours of sleep in the morning, only took a half hour nap and hasn't slept since. Decide to hate everyone and everything.

3:08pm: Get call from McPapa. He has found a flight for me. Okay, so maybe I won't hate him. Contemplate offering him sexual favors if the flight actually takes off and I actually am able to get to their house tonight. Decide that McMama might not quite understand that and that I need to find a more appropriate way to say "thank you." McPapa tells me to talk to the gate attendant about getting my bags transferred.

3:10pm - 3:40pm: Hunt down food for Turtle and me. Park our butts in front of the gate from which our flight will SUPPOSEDLY take off. Eat quickly, before the acid in my stomach consumes the rest of my internal organs. Decide to make sure the next time I fly, I have an emergency chocolate stash in my carry-on.

5:45pm: Talk to the gate attendant about my luggage. He says it's "probably" on its way to Buffalo, with or without me, and I'll have to check with the baggage services people when I land. Decide I am really not crazy about people who act put-out when I very nicely ask them to do their jobs. Want to kill him. Slowly. With my bare hands. While Turtle says "Yay." Realize I'll never get on my flight if I do that. Resign myself to just crushing him in my mind.

6:30pm: Board flight. Note that the flight attendant is quite possibly the nicest person I've spoken with in the last 12 hours. Want to be her best friend.

6:31pm: Start praying that Turtle falls asleep on THIS flight.

6:35pm: Turtle starts screaming the scream that makes my ears bleed. Want to start crying again, but suck it up this time and keep popping the binky back in his mouth. He finally falls asleep.

7:20pm: Land in Rochester. So. Very. Grateful. Grateful that I am no longer in Newark, which is an airport already filled with very bad memories for me and which I hope to never step foot in again. Grateful to McPapa that he was able to get me on a flight. Grateful to both McMama and McPapa for being so good with Turtle, considering my only interests were collapsing and maybe, possibly crying one more time. Grateful that the next time I get on a plane, it will be with Oscar, so if something goes wrong, we will at least be able to tag team. And grateful that I could finally get on with my vacation, the way it was meant to be.

Or so I thought....

JOY! ELATION! GLEE!

The luggage has been located. I repeat, the luggage has been located. We are now off to Buffalo to pick up said luggage, thanks to the diligent efforts of the lovely staff of Continental's baggage services department. Compared to the ground and gate crews, the baggage service people are almost saintly and I kind of have a little girl-crush on them. More news as it becomes available, including, but not limited to, an update on the status of the contents of my luggage. (I know, it sounds fascinating, doesn't it? Try to contain yourselves.)

Coming Attractions

I don't mean to be a tease, but I don't really have the time to devote to writing a complete post at the moment. Nor, while we're on the subject, do I have my laptop upon which to write said post. The reason for that is deceptively simple: I'm not completely sure where my luggage is. It is potentially either in Newark, Buffalo, or Rochester. I don't know. Nobody knows. Does anyone want to start placing bets? Maybe someone who is better at math than I am can start calculating the odds for me.

Anyway, until I figure out where my luggage has decided to take up residence, I won't be able to do justice to the trauma that was my travel experience. So instead, I'll just leave you with an idea of things to come:

1) Reasons to avoid the Newark Airport at all costs.
2) How to completely lose your shit in front of an Airline Service Manager (a tutorial).
3) A must-have list of items you should keep in your carry-on at all times.
4) Why McMama and McPapa are total rock stars.
5) The gnome goes traveling (a pictoral representation of our trip, thus far).

All this and more, provided I find my luggage and the lovely TSA people did not drop and break MY laptop like they did Mama Jo's. (If someone wants to calculate the odds on that, too, that would be FANTASTIC!) (Oh, while you're at it, if anyone is traveling to either the Newark, Buffalo, or Rochester airports in the next couple days, if you could just take a quick look at the baggage center and see if you can find my bags? That would be great too.)

High School

Two things happened today that made me think of high school and all its attendant drama. First, I watched Mean Girls with Snark's Mistress. In addition to sporting some truly hilarious moments, it was such a brilliant study of the social caste system you will find in just about every high school across the country. God, how I hated that system. Of course, as a self-professed geek, I suppose it stands to reason that I wouldn't be fond of a structure that punishes you for having interests outside the norm. There was no way I was going to fit in. That deck was already stacked against me.

The sad thing is, we may all be out of high school, but that doesn't mean the rules have changed. Because the second thing that made me think of high school today was my stumbling upon a disagreement being played out over the web among some different bloggers. It occurred to me, as I was reading these vague outlines of who wronged whom and why and "You disgust me!" and "Oh YEAH? Well YOU disgust ME!" backing and forthing, that no matter how old we get, these cliques are still alive and well and the disagreements between them are being played out all over the online world.

I don't know why this didn't occur to me before. I mean, it makes sense. When I started looking for blogs to read, I started with subject matters that interested me. Pretty soon, my bookmark list was full of bloggers who all linked back and forth to each other. Every one of these bloggers knows the others, and they each comment on the others' blogs, offering support and solidarity, and many have become genuine friends. They share similar backgrounds, similar lifestyles and similar points of view. I had found a clique, in a sense, although the nicer word for it would be community.

It sounds great until you look a little further and start following links to links to links. Then you find out there are all sorts of these "communities" and some are nicer than others. Some are warm and welcoming and others are bitchy and judgmental. Some accept newcomers with open arms and some eviscerate you for having an individual (or different) point of view. Looking at my bookmarks now, they are very clearly divided, not just by subject matter, but also by the cliques to which they belong.

I can easily tell you who on my list would be open to a new person posting a comment and who would roll his eyes at the idea of anyone else having something to say that even slightly deviates from the party line. I can tell you whose posts will be from the heart and honest and whose will be smug and self-satisfied and superficial, at best. I can tell you who would have been my friends, had we met back in high school, 10+ years ago, and who wouldn't have given me the time of day. And it's not just the bloggers. Read some of the comments, and you find that not everyone is above leaving petty, anonymous barbs about how Blogger X is a big, fat, smelly skank. Seriously, people, have we not learned anything since leaving high school?

I don't really like the idea that we still seem to be living in this adolescent world, but on the other hand, it's nice that the same old rules still apply so I know what to expect when I'm trolling the internet. It helps me shortcut my surfing, because when I want to be treated like a grown-up; when I want to be able to converse with like-minded people, without feeling like the lowly nerd that all the popular kids make fun of at lunchtime; when I want to have real discussions about real issues and not feel like I'm constantly being judged or harassed or ridiculed? I know where to go.

Of Course I'm The Legal One

God, I'm so predictable. Given my staunch anti-drug stance (for myself, anyway...I'm not going to tell you what to do with your free time) I was eager to see what kind of results this little "What drug are you?" quiz would spit out. Would I be cocaine? Marijuana? Meth? Heroin? Oh, hell no....of course not. Those drugs are illegal and I'm a goody-two-shoes pain in the ass. I really have got to get a more interesting life.

Your Personality Is Like Alcohol

You're the life of the party, a total flirt, and probably a pretty big jokester. Sometimes your behavior gets you in trouble, but you still remain socially acceptable. You're a pretty bad driver, and your dancing could also use a little work!

What Drug Is Your Personality Like?

Reason #54736 Why I Can't Wait Until Monday

For the most part, I love my job. I love what I do. I love my clients. I love my office. But I think most people will agree that even in the best of jobs, you are going to have some bad days, or days when you question why you decided to work where you're working, or days when you just want to chuck it all and go to Fiji. The last few days have been like that for me.

Both of my clients tend to be on the high maintenance side, but one in particular has been ramping it up lately. I get calls at least 5 times in an hour, demanding that I pay immediate attention to his needs. He often refuses to listen to my advice and periodically resorts to throwing things when he's particularly upset at what I'm telling him. He is also one of those 24/7 type clients. He has no respect for my personal time, and while I can usually get him to back off between the hours of 8:30pm and 8:00am, lately he's taken to calling me as early as 6:30 in the morning.

It wouldn't seem worth it, except that the fringe benefits with this client are to die for. Still, there have been moments over the last few days when I have considered tendering my resignation. Of course, that would be a fruitless gesture, considering this client of mine was savvy enough to lock me into a long-term, iron-clad contract.

So I'm sure you can understand why I'm so excited to hop on that plane on Monday. I can use the break. Trying to be "on" all day, every day is a difficult, thankless job. A couple of weeks away will be an excellent opportunity to unwind and refocus my energies. My productivity could use a bump. And it's not like my client won't be able to reach me. It's just that I'll be able to screen for the true emergencies by channeling them through my coworker first, using these four magic words: "Go. Ask. Your. Grandma."

And A Fun Night Was Had By All

It's 11:20 and my girls just left. Hotass came over for dinner and Snark's Mistress joined us not terribly long after. And between the food and the wine and the talking and the laughing, I'm afraid there just wasn't all that much time left over for posting. Which is probably not a tragedy, considering I was going to post more incessant babble about my upcoming vacation. Consider this a bullet dodged. We'll resume regular programming tomorrow.

I Don't Get It

Before I begin, I'd like to mention that I'm fairly certain what I'm about to say will cause my Boyfriend to conclude that I am dead to him. And as much as it pains me to think that I will have to go out looking for a new Boyfriend, since I have been particularly pleased by the current version, I can't hold my silence on this subject any longer. I feel like it's finally time that I come out of the closet. So here's the deal:

I don't get the whole George Clooney thing. Sexiest Man Alive? Women swooning at the mere mention of his name? I don't get it. I mean, I think he's attractive enough. And he gives interviews that make me want to get to know him better, because he's perfectly charming and self-deprecating and amusing in an effortless way. By all accounts, I should be panting at the very thought of him. But.....no. He doesn't do it for me. Not to say that I'd turn him down outright if he showed up on my doorstep, pledging his undying devotion. I'd at least think things over before telling him "Sorry. No can do." But that's the point...I'd eventually have to tell him no.

I kind of feel like there's something I'm missing. Perhaps there is a key genetic marker I am lacking that can explain my indifference to this man. I don't know, but I'm starting to wonder if I can take something for it. I want to understand what all the fuss is about. I want to look at him at awards ceremonies, all dressed up in his dashing tuxedo, and feel like maybe I should go turn the television on in the bedroom and spend some quality time with both George and my ducky. Because right now? With the just not getting it and all? I'm like an outsider...like the Heterosexual Women of America are going to ask me to forfeit my membership card. Honestly, this whole thing is making me question my sexuality and that disturbs me.

I mean, it's not that I don't like men. I love men. Men are hot. But George? Well, I do like him. I do. But I don't love him. And loathe as I am to admit this, I don't think George is hot either. Cute? Yes. Hot? Eh...not so much. OH! OH! And while we're on the subject? You know who else I don't find hot? Matthew McConaughey. How he made People's list this year is completely beyond me. I only rarely find him cute. Mostly I find him greasy looking. OH! OH! And while we're on the subject? You know who else I find greasy looking? Jude Law. He's another George Clooney to me. I am baffled by his appeal. At least with George, I come close to understanding. Jude? I don't get that. At all. AT. ALL.

So I don't know what my problem is, but I am definitely thinking I have a problem. I can find no other explanation for the fact that these men, whom other women find irresistible, do nothing for me. On the other hand, the men I do find unbearably attractive are the type who don't command legions of rabid fans. So less competition for me. Huh. Wait a minute. Maybe I've had this right all along....

Preoccupation

The last two nights when I've gone to bed, I've felt a little twinge of guilt because I haven't posted anything. It's not that I've been too busy, and it's not that I haven't had anything to write about. Although I have been busy, and I've been doing the sorts of day to day things one doesn't find interesting to write about. Honestly, though, the thing that's holding me back from tap-tap-tapping away on my keyboard has been my preoccupation with my upcoming vacation.

My mind, which is normally bent on finding things about which to rant and rave (sometimes even coherently), has instead been mulling over such thrilling subjects as: what to pack, what McMama and I are going to do with ourselves for the week and a half before Oscar gets there, and how many times I can afford to go to Dunkin Donuts to get coffee in the morning. And while these subjects are of no end of interest to McMama and me, I get infinitely more pleasure out of calling her on a daily basis to discuss my latest thoughts on these subjects than I do by committing them to the screen. Besides, why bore you with endless chatter about my vacation, when I can bore her instead?

Of course, not all of my absence over the last two days can be blamed on thoughts of whether I should pack two pairs of jeans or just one. There is also the little matter of being thoroughly and completely exhausted. Too many late nights in a row, coupled with the occasional glass of wine (I am a cheap date) led to significant writers' block. Which is sad, actually, because there have been many subjects rolling around in my head about which I've considered ranting. For example, Oscar and I were watching some really bad porn the other night, and it occurred to me what a fine line porn walks between too much talking/not enough sex and not enough talking/too much sex. (Although, as Snark's Mistress so brilliantly pointed out, if you're going to err one way or the other, the safer bet seems to be to err in favor of the latter scenario.) Or the fact that I watched Turtle along with two other boys on Friday (aged 5 and 4 months) and how I could have handled any combination of two boys, but the third just overwhelmed me. Or the new blog that I started reading that made me both nod my head in total agreement and want to slap the hell out of the author for being such a selfish moron.

Anyway, I'm trying a new experiment this week that I'm hoping will clear my mind a little bit and allow me to get back into my daily updating groove. I'm only keeping my computer on for an hour in the morning. And I won't turn it on again until either the Turtle is napping or he's gone to bed for the evening. There are a ton of things I've felt compelled to do lately, but none of it has gotten done, because I compulsively hit refresh on my blogs, hoping that somebody will have updated in the last 30 seconds. I'm hoping that by putting the computer away for a while, I'll have a chance to be more present in my life, and therefore will have more to discuss, and therefore will find it easier to update more regularly.

Either that, or I'll just end up giving you a blow-by-blow of my packing experience. Whatever works.

Exceptions To Every Rule

Okay, so a little while back, I mentioned that it annoys me when my checkout clerk at the grocery store is too busy conversing with his/her bagger to scan my groceries expeditiously, so that I am in and out of the store in a timely manner. Tonight, I discovered there is an exception to this rule. When both the grocery clerk and the bagger are ladies of a certain age (think 65+) and they are sniping at each other because one of them can't get the bags hung properly so she can bag my groceries, and then the other turns to me and says "Don't worry... We're old friends," I find that instead of being annoyed, I am charmed.

In addition, when my best friend then turns to me on the way out of the store and says to me, "Okay, when we're 80, we SO can't get jobs together," I am not only charmed, I am entertained. I see women like those two ladies manning that checkout lane and it's as though I'm getting a glimpse of my future with Snark's Mistress. Both of us crabbing at each other like we always have, but with that undercurrent of genuine affection that keeps it from being too awkward for those unfortunate souls who have to bear witness. It makes me smile, thinking of what we're going to be like in our twilight years. I mean, who knows what the next few decades will hold for us, but when I imagine what things will be like on the other side, I see myself huddled together with my best friend, making catty remarks about random young whippersnappers and wearing overly large hats. (I don't know why the hats. Neither of us wears hats now. I don't know why would start wearing hats as we get older, much less overly large hats. But I see hats in our future.)

So, to recap, whiny, crybaby, I-only-had-two-candy-bars-to-eat-today-boo-hoo-woe-is-me checkout guy? Still has me annoyed. But cute, charming, little old biddies checkout team? Has me completely won over.

Switcheroo

You know that theory that your children are your parents' revenge for all the crap they had to put up with from you? Well, I wasn't particularly worried about that when Oscar and I decided to have a baby. I was always a pliable child. My parents had SUCH an easy time disciplining me. I was a goody-two-shoes, so I rarely did anything wrong, in the first place. And when I did do something that garnered their disapproval, all it took was a hairy eyeball from one of them to have me on my knees, begging forgiveness and asking how I could atone for my transgressions. My parents really didn't have very many complaints where I was concerned.

Oscar was also a delightful child. Aside from a colicky first few months, he was very well-behaved. McMama likes to tell stories about how inseparable she and little Oscar were when he was a boy. To hear her tell it, they were best buddies. And not only was she crazy about him, but everyone they knew was crazy about him. Whenever she would go someplace without Oscar, people would ask where he was and demand to know WHY she hadn't brought him. Everyone wanted to be around him, he was that much of a joy.

The way I looked at it, Oscar and I were both easy children to raise, and we were probably going to have a child with a similar temperament. So I wasn't worried about having children. I figured it was my brother's job to be worried. In contrast to the little angel I was, my brother was a hellion. He is every bit as smart as I am, but he used his intelligence to do mischief and find ways around my parents' rules. My parents would often tell me that if he had been born first, they never would have had me. I don't blame them. I love my brother, but he's a pain in the ass. So when HE had a baby, I smiled smugly to myself because I couldn't help but think "Payback is a bitch."

But the payback I expected has yet to materialize. My brother's son is a beautiful, sensitive child. He hates to disappoint people, particularly Papa Jo, and he will cry if you so much as raise your voice in his general direction. He follows rules and does what he is told. He is every bit as pliable as I once was. My brother was blessed with an angel in little boys' clothing.

My son, on the other hand, is a mischievous little imp. We can always tell when he's looking for a way to get around whatever limits we've just placed on him, because he gets a gleam in his eye, and we can see the wheels turning in his head. He is an independent, willful little thing who is not afraid to tell us "no." We have our hands full with him, because he is also incredibly intelligent and exceedingly good at problem solving, so he finds ways to get what he wants, despite our best intentions.

Mama Jo and I were discussing this the other day - the fact that we will need to pay particularly close attention to these kids as they grow up, because my son will likely be cooking up harebrained schemes and dragging his favorite cousin along for the ride. And when they bring about destruction and mayhem, Turtle's poor cousin will end up getting blamed because he's older and should know better than to listen to Turtle. And Turtle will turn his baby blues on us and get away scot-free, at which time he will run off, undoubtedly already in the process of planning up something bigger and badder than the thing that just got his cousin in trouble.

We were laughing about this, bemused at ourselves and our combined vision of the future, when Mama Jo paused thoughtfully. She then casually observed, "I just don't understand how you ended up with your brother's child while your brother ended up with yours." All of a sudden, it hit me like a ton of bricks. My son was a carbon copy of my brother at that age. I almost howled at the injustice. HOW is this FAIR?!?! I did what I was told! I ate my vegetables! I didn't touch the breakable things! I WAS A GOOD KID!!! WHY, then, was my parents' revenge foisted upon ME???? This should be my brother's fate! GAH!

Mama Jo, when she was done laughing at my outrage, pointed out that perhaps I ended up with the child I did because I have the patience to deal with him. I was hardly mollified by this observation. I feel so much more pressure now. I'm going to have to be as good a parent as, if not better than, Mama Jo if I have any hope of molding this child into a productive member of society. Particularly since he already seems to have Unabomber tendencies.



Pray for me. I have a feeling I'm going to need it.

Therapy? Why Would I Need Therapy?

Scene: Mama Jo's master bathroom. Mama Jo and Turtle in the tub, washing off after playing in the pool. Cymber, sitting across the tub with her back up to the cabinets.

Cymber: So, I talked to Oscar and Oscar talked to his therapist and she has an appointment available next week.

Enter Papa Jo, who quickly undresses and walks in front of Cymber, with his Mr. Happy at eye level, as he crosses over to the shower.

Cymber: (distracted) Anyway, um.....I'm going to see if I can get in to see her. I really need to talk to someone.
Mama Jo: You need therapy? Why?
Cymber: (being evasive) Oh, a couple of reasons. Don't worry about it. It's nothing huge. I just think I could benefit from talking things out with a professional.
Mama Jo: Are you sure you're okay? Because now I'm thinking "What did I do wrong this time???"
Cymber: Mom, you didn't do anything wrong. Geez, narcissistic much? Not everything is about you. Besides, if it was going to be about one of you, it would be about the fact that I just got WAY too close to Daddy's Mr. Happy! Is that its name? I don't know, because we haven't been formally introduced. (Turning to face Papa Jo, whose Mr. Happy is still at eye level.) Hi, I'm Cymber. It's so nice to meet you.
Mama Jo: *laughing hysterically*
Papa Jo: Haven't been formally introduced? Considering Mr. Happy MADE you, I don't really see how you would need to be formally introduced.

End Scene.

People, I swear to G-d, this actually happened. I couldn't make this up if I tried.

I Know, I Know

Another stupid quiz results post instead of actual content. But I promise I'll post actual content later. I just had to put this up because it freaked me out how well this little patch of forest seems to know me. You would think I would have noticed if a little patch of forest had started stalking me. It must be really, REALLY good at camouflage.

Your Life Path Number is 6

Your purpose in life is to help others You are very compassionate, and you offer comfort to those around you. It pains you to see other people hurting, and you do all in your power to help them. You take on responsibility, and don't mind personal sacrifice. You are the ultimate giver. In love, you offer warmth and protection to your partner. You often give too much of yourself, and you rarely put your own needs first. Emotions tend to rule your decisions too much, especially when it comes to love. And while taking care of people is great, make sure to give them room to grow on their own.

What Is Your Life Path Number?

Backup

So here's the thing: When I'm watching a show I'm not married to (in other words, anything other than Grey's Anatomy or Stargate SG-1) I tend to channel surf at my first opportunity until I find another show on a different station to serve as my backup program. That way, I don't get bored during the extended commercial breaks. At the first sign of men throwing footballs through tire swings as a metaphor for erectile dysfunction, I'm flipping over to my backup program and getting engrossed in the latest "I Love the 80's" show on VH-1, for example. Or, at least as engrossed as a person can get in a 4 minute period. It's a system that serves me well, in any case.

Anyway, the reason I bring this up is I'm thinking I might need to employ a similar strategy as it pertains to my boyfriends. The Current Boyfriend has been quite busy at work lately, and he and his wife have placed a moratorium, of a sort, on computer time in the evenings. That leaves us with very little time to chat. Well....let's be honest: It leaves him with very little time to shower me with the adoration I so clearly deserve. And quite frankly, as the world so obviously revolves around me and my needs, this creates a problem. Particularly when I have a bad day, or a series of them, even, as I had last week.

I'm not saying I want to replace my Boyfriend. He's still adorable. And charming. And he gave me a vibrating rubber ducky. You just do not break up with a man who gives you a vibrating rubber ducky. Those kinds of men are few and far between, so when you find them, you hang on to them. I'm just thinking I need a backup boyfriend. A pinch hitter, if you will. Someone to pick up the slack when the regular Boyfriend is off doing real-world things, like working his real-world job, or spending time with his real-world wife.

Unfortunately, I'm not sure how to go about lining up a backup boyfriend. It's not like I can post an ad to craigslist: "Married woman with boyfriend seeking backup boyfriend to shower her with compliments, flirt with her shamelessly, and appeal to her narcissistic tendencies on demand. Candidates unfamiliar with the concept of personal hygiene need not apply." Then again, I've heard stories about craigslist. Maybe I could do that. Then again, I've heard stories about craigslist. Maybe I don't WANT to do that. (Ever been to the "casual encounters" section? It's an education.)

In a comment a few posts back, McMama suggested that maybe we should get a boyfriend together. I'm wondering if she might be on to something. I'm not completely opposed to the concept of sharing, particularly with McMama. And if we do that, I don't have to feel bad if I don't need him for a couple of weeks at a time because the Current Boyfriend is being suitably attentive. The only thing I'm not sure about is whether we share a similar enough taste in men to allow us to find a boyfriend that will appeal to both of us equally.

Of course, we do share a love of Phil Keoghan. And Patrick Dempsey (when his character's not being a total dickweed.) So we do have some common ground. But it's not like they're beating down our doors to apply for the position. So maybe the first order of business when my flight touches down in two weeks should be to scope the locals, and start playing the "Would you do him? What if he put a paper bag over his head?" game with McMama. I mean, we only have so much time together...we need to make the most of it.

A Little Vacation

If you read the comments to my blog at all, you may have noticed McMama has been running a countdown lately. It appears that she's just a little excited at the idea that in a little more than two weeks, her grandson and her daughter-in-law will be touching down at an airport near her for an extended vacation. I can't imagine why. It's only been a year since we've last seen each other. And we talk every week. And Turtle practically hasn't changed at all in the last year, except to maybe get a little taller. And develop a vocabulary consisting of actual words. In English.

The truth is, I'm probably bouncing off the walls about this trip more than she is. Clearly, I'm in need of a vacation. My last post proved that, if nothing else. Honestly, I'm just looking forward to getting away from it all. Not that I'm running away, per se, but I need the opportunity to just "be" for a while. And there is something about McMama's front porch that allows me to just "be" in a way that I can't replicate anywhere else. I find perspective up there. It's very therapeutic for a girl who's lived most of her life in Arizona to sit around on the porch in the morning, surrounded by green stuff (I think they call it "grass...?") drinking a cup of coffee and sharing a comfortable silence with a woman who knows me so well she could easily take over my life. Except for the part where she'd be married to her own son. That's a little too skeevy, even for us.

It's also nice to vacation in a place with so many built-in babysitters. Not only is McMama on hand to assist, but McPapa and Oscar's little sister are always eager to volunteer for Turtle duty, giving me more of a break from Mommying than I am likely to find in any other setting. Of course, there are some Turtle-related things for which I am still needed. Diapering, for example, seems to be one of those things that still requires my unique abilities. Oscar's little sister doesn't "do" diapers and McPapa.....well....the last time McPapa changed Turtle's diaper, he put it on backwards. I'm still at a loss to figure out how he accomplished this, but suffice it to say, it didn't inspire much confidence. Then again, if it's a diaper I don't have to change, I don't care how it gets put on, or how much duct tape it requires. I'm certainly not going to complain.

Still, I think I need to give him a lesson in Turtle Care 101, because both McMama and McPapa have been begging me to leave Turtle completely in their care for a day or so. And once Oscar flies up to meet us, a little more than a week after Turtle and I get there, they are probably going to get their chance. Because one of the other reasons I'm excited about this trip is that Oscar and I are going to take a couple of days to go somewhere, just the two of us. This will be the first time we'll have had the chance to do that since the cruise that produced little Turtle....3+ years ago. And we need the time away together.

We're still trying to decide what we want to do with ourselves and our mini-vacation. Niagra Falls isn't too far away from where we will be staying, and I still haven't been there, despite visiting Oscar's family at least once a year. We had considered Toronto, also, since we have this goal of seeing at least one major league ball game in every major league stadium. But unfortunately, the Blue Jays are away the entire week Oscar and I have available. That narrows our options by one, at least. But I'm not worried. I'm sure we'll figure something out. What we end up doing is, ultimately, less important than the fact that we will be together.

In fact, the only thing that's not exciting me about this trip is the fact that it will be a little more than two weeks spent away from Snark's Mistress. With her impending move, our time together is at a premium, so my taking a chunk out of it to go frolic with Turtle at Chez McMama seems somewhat selfish. Then again, if the vacation puts me in a better mood so that I'm not a moody bitch every time I see her, I'm sure Snark's Mistress will send me off with her blessing.

So....yeah. We may not be headed for a sandy beach in Hawaii or a cute little cafe in Paris, but this vacation to McMama's place is just the thing we need. It's just the thing I need. So if you think you squeed yourself, McMama, it's been nothing like what I've been doing lately.

Doing The Best I Can

Do you ever get the feeling that nothing you do is right? And that no matter how hard you try, you can't make anyone happy, including yourself? And that it might just be easier if you could crawl in a hole with your Twinkies, Ding Dongs, and copious amounts of alcohol and just let the world pass you by for a while? Well, I've been having that feeling for a while and I have to say, Blogger going down in the middle of it all did nothing to improve my mood. Not being able to update, myself, was bad enough. But when I realized nobody else could update, either, and I was going to have to make do without my reading list to distract me for some unspecified length of time? Well, it wasn't pretty.

So why can't I find my happy place lately? Awww...that's so sweet of you to be concerned. Well. There's a lot actually. To start off with, Oscar and I are having Marital Issues. And yes, they are worrisome enough to warrant the capital letters. We're doing our best to get through them. Fighting tooth and nail, actually, if you want to know the truth. It's exhausting, and terrifying, and there are days when all I want to do is cry "uncle" and make it all stop. But we love each other too much to let go without trying to find a compromise that will allow us both to be happy again. So we push through. But not without considerable strain on both our parts.

Then there's Snark's Mistress. Part of the beauty of our relationship is that I seldom need to worry about our relationship. She is like my sister, without all of the petty sibling rivalry crap we might have had to contend with, had we actually been blood-related. She is my rock and she grounds me. But now we have this thing between us. And we don't talk about this thing, even though we both know it's there. And it's causing us both anxiety. See, she's moving to Flagstaff in August to finish school. And though we both know that of all the places she could be going to school, Flagstaff is significantly closer than most, and we will still, in all likelihood, see each other all the time, it will not be the same as it has been. And we're both a little afraid of what it will be. So we don't talk about this thing that's between us. And that's a strain, too.

So with two of the most important relationships in my life causing me significant distress right now, you can imagine how every other little thing that goes wrong during the course of a day takes on that much more importance, right? Like when I got home from driving Oscar to work yesterday and my cell phone dropped my call with McMama just as I was opening the door to retrieve Turtle, only to find he'd spilled his Cheerios all over the floor and had Cheerio residue all over his face, hands and clothes, and when I finally was able to get him out of the car without mashing said Cheerios into the carpeting, and turned around to find that the Maricopa County officials had left another note about our pool which is actually chemically balanced now, thankyouverymuch, and was only the faintly green color it was because of the damn dust storm the night before but it doesn't matter because I have to escort another inspector out to my pool in another day or so to prove that there IS NO MOSQUITO LARVAE IN MY POOL SO STOP CALLING THE OFFICIALS, I think maybe you can understand why that made me a little mad?

I mean, it's not even like I blame the poor Maricopa County officials. They're just doing their jobs. But my neighbors? I blame them. I really wish we lived in a neighborhood where everyone knows everyone else and we bring brownies to each other and know what's happening in each other's lives. Instead, I live in a neighborhood where each person is only interested in what's going on with himself, unless your tree is dropping leaves in his yard, in which case, he's interested in you insofar as he needs you to trim your tree. And that's exactly why I have Maricopa County officials dropping by, because my neighbors don't care enough to stop by personally and ask if there's any particular reason our pool looked dirty, because they have kids and they're worried about West Nile, and could we maybe just clean it up a bit, please? I would respect that. It would embarrass the hell out of me, but I would respect that. Anonymous calls to Maricopa County every other week, I have less respect for.

But I digress. The point I'm making is that things kind of suck right now, and while I'd like to pretend that everything is fine and be cute and witty and clever and funny, talking about things of little consequence, like yogurt (of which, by the way, I tried the Pina Colada version, and it was not gritty, and it had actual chunks of pineapple in it, and I actually enjoyed it, so the problem was TOTALLY the banana thing,) the suckage is major enough that I can't promise it won't invade this space from time to time. And I hope that's okay. Because as much as I might like to say "Oh, I'm only writing this for me...." the fact of the matter is that I care that you're here. So. Bear with me for a bit, and I'm hoping things will improve soon and we'll all look back on this and laugh because could I have BEEN any more of a drama queen???? I'm crossing my fingers, anyway.

No, I'm Fine. No, Really.

So, apparently my last 1.5 posts gave people the idea that I was having a really bad day yesterday. Honestly, my day wasn't all that bad. I just REALLY hate banana flavored things. I only barely enjoy actual bananas, so banana flavored things are not on my list of "things I love to find in my refrigerator." So when I saw that my yogurt contained banana flavoring, I was not pleased. Particularly since I was trying a new brand of yogurt, at Snark's Mistress's recommendation.

And while we're on the subject, this new brand of yogurt? Was gritty. I am used to my Dannon Light and Fit Creamy damn yogurt, which is, if you can believe it, creamy. I don't buy the fruit on the bottom yogurts on purpose, people. I want my yogurt to be smooth. My usual brand fits that basic requirement, and I expected that this new yogurt would do the same. But no. Gritty. So let's do the math, shall we? Banana flavoring + gritty = NEVER AGAIN! The only thing I can hope is that it's only the banana flavoring that's causing the grittiness, because I have 3 other flavors of this brand of yogurt in my refrigerator, and I don't think y'all want to hear every day about my misadventures with yogurt. I can see how that would get boring after a while.

So, on to new subjects!

With the Boyfriend busy yesterday doing actual work at his actual job (can you imagine???) and Oscar being forced by some overzealous nutjob at HIS office into a form of hiding, I had no real excuse to be on the computer, lazing the day away while the Disney Channel raised my son. Instead, I decided to get some stuff done in the house. It didn't work out so well in the morning, because after making Turtle his pancakes for breakfast and then getting breakfast for myself and bitching about my banana mango yogurt, we didn't have much time before I needed to pack us up and head to the gym. Oscar had the car yesterday, which meant I had to ride my bike there. You would think that would be workout enough for me, but I am really trying to lose weight and it is SO not working for me, so I just keep pushing myself.

I worked out for an hour and then biked home with Turtle, and by that point, I needed a nice little sojourn on the couch, because dude! Have you ridden a bike with your 2 year old on the back in 100+ degree weather? It takes a lot out of a person, is all I'm saying. Thanks to Turtle, though, I couldn't rest for too long because he needed lunch, and then shortly thereafter, it was naptime. For him. Not me. Though I could have used it, I'm sure.

Naptime is always when I get the most done, so I started with the laundry that's been sitting, waiting to be folded, for the last week. I took care of that and was then going to move on to other areas of the house when I thought, "Hmmm...if I let the pool go much longer, all the progress we've made in cleaning it up will be for nothing. I should probably work on that for a bit." So I stripped my shirt off, leaving me in my sports bra and a pair of shorts, and went outside. The theory was that getting the pool cleaned should only take an hour or so and then I'd go inside with just enough color on my back and shoulders to leave me with a nice base tan. I am such an idiot.

First, the salt cell alone took almost an hour to get unscrewed from its casing (with me muttering obscenities under my breath for most of that time, and my hands being torn all to hell in the process) and placed in an acid bath so the pollutants would dissolve and it would actually, you know, work. Then I had to add salt to the pool. I figured maybe I'd add a bag or two before Turtle woke up and then I'd move inside and get some work done in the house. You would think I would get tired of being such an idiot all the time, wouldn't you? Each bag took 10 minutes to pour into the filter and dissolve before I could add another one. And Turtle didn't wake up from his nap when I anticipated. So I ended up adding 12 bags of salt to the pool, spent a total of 3.5 hours out there, and my back? Well, it is red. Beet red. Lobster red. OW, OW, OW, THAT HURTS red.

So, not much else got done in the house yesterday. I figured I had done my best what with the gym-going and the Turtle watching and the laundry folding and the pool cleaning. And today...well, Snark's Mistress is coming over, so I don't expect that I will be doing anything but drooling over the men of Stargate SG-1 and bonding with my best friend. But that's okay. The mess has lasted this long. I imagine it will still be there a few days from now when I decide I actually care enough to do something about it.

Edited To Add...

5) If I go to the grocery store, and I put my hand out and expect to grab the Apricot Mango yogurt, when I get home, I do not want to find that I grabbed BANANA Mango yogurt. The Apricot Mango yogurt goes in the Apricot Mango yogurt space. The Banana Mango yogurt goes in the Banana Mango yogurt space. If I wanted Banana fucking Mango yogurt, I would have reached into the Banana fucking Mango yogurt space. But I didn't, did I? No, I didn't. I reached into the Apricot Mango yogurt space. So why am I stuck eating Banana fucking Mango yogurt this morning? Why? Because people are lazy, that's why. I understand how difficult it is to look at the label on your container and match it up with the label on the shelf, but could you please take the extra five seconds to do so, in order to ensure that I do not come home with Banana fucking Mango yogurt? Thank you. GAH!

Things That Annoy Me

In no particular order:

1) If you're responsible for checking my groceries and I'm trying to get in and out of the store as quickly as possible, or, frankly, even when I'm not, I honestly do not need to hear how your break was only 15 minutes today and all you've had to eat since you started work was two candy bars, and you can't wait for your shift to be over. I understand that you do not have the most fascinating job in all the world, and it probably helps to pass the time when you chit-chat with your bagger while scanning my foodstuffs, but really. I. Do. Not. Care. I just want you to scan my groceries as efficiently as possible so I can pay you and go home. You're wasting my time.

2) Conversely, if I'm behind you in line and you have approached the checkout while carrying on a cell phone conversation, and you do not have the decency to end your phone call once you hit the front of the line and are required to interact with your grocery clerk? I will be cursing you silently under my breath because you? Are rude. He may be a grocery clerk, but he is deserving of your respect. His job allows you to go home with your arugula and your tofutti. He does not need to hear about how Betty is a big fat cow who thinks she knows everything and have you heard she's cheating on Bob...I always knew she was a slut. You are wasting HIS time. The least you can do is tell the person on the other end of the phone to hold on while you deal with your transaction. This is what polite people do.

3) If you are having problems with your significant other and need some time away to lick your wounds/clear your head/calm your emotions and you do not return after a maximum of 24 hours to deal with your shit? You are not a grown up and your significant other is well within her rights to dump your sorry ass. Grown ups suck it up and deal with things, even when they are uncomfortable or painful. This is how the world works. Learn it, live it, love it.

4) If you're the president, and your approval rating is in the toilet, and you need to figure out how to get your numbers up before mid-term elections so your party doesn't completely tank, and you decide it might be a good idea to bring up this whole gay marriage ban thing again? You are a tool. That is called "writing discrimination into the Constitution" which is, say it with me, folks, "a very bad thing." Besides, don't you have better things to worry about? Like, perhaps, the war you dragged us into? The one that left a friend of mine minus an arm and a leg? Right...why don't you spend more time on that instead of worrying about how to create more trouble for ordinary citizens who just want to be able to share the same rights and privileges as every other heterosexual American? That would be great, thanks.

Helpless

Hotass broke up with her boyfriend last night. She called at 3:20 this morning, hurt and scared. Hurt because of some of the things her now-ex-boyfriend yelled at her as he was storming out of the house they shared. Scared because she didn't know where he had gone or if he was going to be safe. She still cares about him, after all. The problem was never that she doesn't have feelings for him. It's just that he doesn't make her happy.

I sat on the other end of the phone, groggy and unsure what to say to make things better. Knowing, ultimately, that I couldn't say anything. The only thing that was going to fix this was time and distance. But I listened and made sympathetic noises while she explained what had happened to get them to this point. And I offered to come over and keep her company. And when she demurred and said that wasn't necessary, I told her to just let me know if she changed her mind.

I hate knowing that my friends are hurting and there's nothing I can do to fix it. I hate that helpless feeling as I watch them cry and struggle with their turbulent emotions. I've always been extremely empathetic. I feel their pain as my own. Unfortunately, feeling their pain doesn't make it go away any faster for them, and in the meantime, I hate watching them suffer.

Hotass called in the middle of the morning. She still hadn't heard from or seen the now-ex-boyfriend. She was still worried and still blaming herself. I said what I could to reassure her that she did the right thing. I didn't know if it would stick. But it was all I could do. I told her she was welcome to come over to our place if waiting things out at hers got to be too much to bear. She was noncommittal. I understood. In a break-up, you do whatever you have to do to get through.

She ended up stopping by at some point this afternoon. I held her and listened while she cried and tried to make sense of everything that had happened. And I felt helpless some more. After crying jag #423, I suggested that maybe what we needed was a plan. We talked and sort of decided on a course of action: crappy food and crappy television. I can't think of a better remedy for a broken heart. We called Snark's Mistress and told her to join us. At times like these, it's good to have reinforcements.

In the end, both Snark's Mistress and I wished that there was more we could do. But we can't make the now-ex-boyfriend understand that Hotass was doing the most loving thing she could for him by ending things. And we can't force him to stop punishing her by staying away and making her wonder if he's gotten himself into trouble. Right now, the only thing we can do is be there. So that's what we're doing. Being there. For whatever she needs. Because she's our sister, and we love her.

Nothing To See Here

I have nothing to say. (Okay, clearly that is not the case, but let's pretend for a moment, shall we?) Why do I have nothing to say? Well, for most of the last week, I have been engaged in an intense dialogue with a fellow blogger about heavy life issues, and it has taken most of my considerable brain cells and quite a bit of my heart to find the right words to tell him to stop being such an idiot. (Okay, "idiot" is a little harsh. But we all know that most of what I say here is exaggerated for effect, right? Well, except for that story about the chick with the perfume at the gas station. That happened EXACTLY like I said it did.)

Then there was the incident with Turtle a couple of days ago, which broke my heart. See, Turtle loves to cook with Mommy and Daddy, so he often drags a chair over to the counter so he can help us prep the meals. Well, he lost his balance while cooking his eggs on Thursday morning, and he threw a hand out to catch himself. Unfortunately, he threw his hand out towards the burner and managed to take quite a bit of skin off one finger and blistered another one badly. He didn't cry much, because he's a trooper, but I have been beating myself up ever since.

Then, today, we got up early with Turtle, and drove across town to have breakfast with Mama and Papa Jo. The plan was for him to spend the day with them, while Oscar and I painted the front bedroom. Well, he spent the day with them, alright, but not much painting was accomplished. I always manage to forget how much effort and energy goes into prepping a room for paint. Particularly a room in which you've just removed the popcorn ceiling. Getting the walls clean was an adventure. Just a hint: when the water you're using to clean the walls comes out black at the end, your walls are disgustingly dirty. Just so you know.

Then we took a little trip to Lowe's to purchase salt and chlorine. Why? I'm so glad you asked. Because the same day that the police officer showed up at the front door to ask if we knew anything about the little girl wandering our neighborhood sans parental supervision? We got a visit from a Maricopa County official because they'd received an anonymous complaint about our pool and suspected it was a mosquito breeding ground. (Okay, look, I know it's gross, but I'm only one person, people! Oscar's been busy. Things fall by the wayside when you have a 2 year old! Don't judge me!) So we've been spending the last month or so trying to get our pool to not be so green and cloudy and gross. And today, we needed more chlorine, because we're ALMOST there, and more salt, because our pool is supposed to be on a salt system of cleaning and clarifying our pool water. But we have had no salt. Hence the green, cloudy, gross water.

Then we had to rush home, dump the 760 pounds of chlorine and salt in our backyard before quickly getting ready to pick up Turtle on one end of town and race back towards the other end of town to attend the baptism of a friend's little girl. Thankfully, Oscar asked me to call Mama and Papa Jo before we got too far down the road, because Mama and Papa Jo offered to just keep our little Turtle overnight. Hallelujah, people! Oscar and I are getting a mini-vacation from parenting this evening!

So you see, there hasn't been much going on that's worth writing about. And now with a child-free evening ahead of us, Oscar and I are planning on making good use of it by curling up in bed watching a movie. Which is why I have nothing to say tonight. If I don't get in that bed soon, Oscar is going to start without me. If you know what I mean. And I think you do.

Oh, You Have GOT To Be Kidding Me!

God sends me blog posts. No really. Tonight, for example, I went to the gas station. I needed to put gas in our car so Oscar could get to and from work tomorrow without spending the obscene amounts of money that they tend to charge in the downtown area. So I was pumping my gas, as one tends to do in the gas station. And I noticed that there was a woman approaching a man gassing up his truck a few pumps over from me. I figured she was looking for money or something, but didn't give it too much thought. I went back to pumping my own gas. As one tends to do in a gas station. With my right hand. Which becomes important in a minute.

As I turned my head to look around, I noticed a different woman approaching me. "Got a second?" she asked me. "What do you need?" I responded. She seemed taken aback. She repeated what I had said under her breath, as though trying to decipher this strange new language I was speaking. "That's an interesting thing to say," she finally managed. Oh, really? I kind of figured that when someone approaches you IN A GAS STATION, without a vehicle anywhere in sight, and with no obvious intention to, say, PUMP GAS, "What do you need?" is well within the boundaries of reasonable questions to ask. I simply stared back at her. I figured if she was going to get to her point, she had better get to it quickly.

"I'm running this promotion," she finally explained. "I am selling these perfumes - two for $55. Have you ever smelled Britney Spears's 'Curious?'" I looked at her like she'd grown two heads. I couldn't help it. Britney Spears's "Curious?" Really? Does anyone over the age of 18 wear that perfume? I was so shocked that she thought I might be the kind of person who would be chomping at the bit to get a bottle of Britney Spears's "Curious" from a woman selling fragrances out of her purse, all I could manage was a choked, "No." "Oh," she said, as she dug in her bag and pulled out a bottle. "That's okay, I have other scents. Let me have your arm." At this point, the situation was so surreal, I was operating like a robot. My arm moved up, almost of its own volition, and she spritzed it with her perfume bottle.

"Smell that," she commanded. I sniffed, tentatively. "That's.....an interesting scent," I told her. What I was really thinking was that whatever she sprayed on my arm smelled little better than bug repellant. She seemed to get the idea that I was not at all overwhelmed with a burning desire to buy that perfume. "That's okay," she assured me. "I have another one." Oh, blessed be. I could hardly wait. She ordered me to give her my other arm. But where was my other arm, people? That's right, pumping gas. At a GAS STATION, of all things. I don't know what impulse possessed me to physically pump my own gas tonight instead of setting the auto-pump, but I am immensely grateful for it. Sadly, this was not enough to deter the perfume lady completely.

She offered to spray her own arm, doing so before I could get a word in edgewise. I took a sniff. And O, the citrus fragrance, it was abundant. Noxious and abundant. I said as much. "That's okay," the perfume lady said to me. "I can give you just one for $25." (In relaying this story to Oscar, he mentioned that was an interesting promotion she was running. One perfume for $25 or two for $55. I should have given her a hard time about the bum deal she was offering me, but I was so busy being astounded that she approached me at the gas station while I was PUMPING MY GAS, the math escaped me.) I looked up at this woman with the oversized purse. "Look, I appreciate it," I began, "but I already have a perfume that I wear every day, and I don't think you're going to have it in your purse." She finally left. I finished pumping my gas in peace.

It took me a few minutes in the car, asking myself, "Did that REALLY just happen?" before I could call anyone to relay that story. But I swear, the first thing I wanted to do was get home so I could blog about it. So I'm telling you, this one was straight from God, people. I can find no other explanation for what just happened. Britney Spears's "Curious?" No. Just no.

Two Things

First, even really crappy days can be made better by the commenting power of McMama on your blog. Seriously. I'm thinking of renting her out.

Second, for those of you who asked, the Ex-Boyfriend has a slightly better body, but the current Boyfriend is cuter. I've seen both of them in nothing but their boxer briefs, and either way, I can't complain. (Hell, as a married woman, who is still managing to get other men to strip down to their boxer briefs for her, I am full-on rejoicing.)