Girly Things

I'm a bad girl. No, not in THAT way. Well, okay, YES, in that way, but that's not what I'm talking about right now. I mean I'm not particularly girly. I don't wear makeup unless it's a special occasion. I don't keep up on the fashion world. I am more comfortable in jeans and a t-shirt than a dress and pumps. I like action movies as much as (and sometimes more than) I like romantic comedies. I never ask for directions, preferring instead to wander around enjoying the scenery until I stumble upon my destination. I'm just not really good at a lot of the things that you would traditionally associate with my gender.

However.

I saw a pair of shoes today that made my girly little heart sing with joy. So, I'm going to show them to you, but if you are so overwhelmed by the cuteness of these shoes (which is pretty much a given) that you want to get them yourself, you have to check with me first, or I will assume you are Single White Female-ing me. Ready?


From Zappos, with love.

God, aren't they precious? I can hardly stand it. Now, I normally wouldn't even consider spending that kind of money on such an impractical shoe, but would you just look at them? They need a good home. And I have a good home. It wouldn't be right if I didn't open up my heart and my closet to a pair of shoes so clearly in need of some adoration and a complementary outfit.

Not only that, but I found this at Target:


Look! My shoes could totally make friends with this purse, don't you think? They would totally have sleepovers and eat too much Ben and Jerry's and talk about the boys they like and whether or not they're ready for a red and white polka-dotted bra yet! Don't you think? And I would look so cute and cha-cha and sassy and young and free while wearing my cute shoes and purse, wouldn't I? Instead of tired and worn-out and fried and haggard and soccer mom-ish. Not that my kid plays soccer yet. He's too busy shooting dinosaurs and sneaking his binky out of his room so he can steal a quick suckle or two before I bust him, like a smoker stealing a puff or two from his cigarette. But that's neither here nor there.

So I'm totally going to buy these shoes and quite possibly this purse. And you will know when I am wearing them because I will totally be strutting around town with my shoes and quite possibly the purse with "Stayin' Alive" on a constant loop in my brain. Because for some reason, when I strut, I always strut to that song. What? You mean you don't? I can only imagine that's because you have never tried it before. Go ahead. Stand up. Now start singing "Well you can tell by the way I use my walk/I'm a woman's man; no time to talk." Are you strutting yet? You should be. Maybe you need some new shoes.

I Hope I At Least Get A Cool Rental

An open letter to the moron who rear-ended me this weekend:

Hi Idiot!
I'm sorry I didn't stick around with my husband to take down your information, but I was pretty sure that being in your immediate vicinity would have resulted in a bit of bloodshed. See, ramming into my truck while traveling down the freeway at 75 miles per hour was bad enough. But when you tried to explain yourself by sheepishly claiming that I was in your "blind spot" you took things one step too far. I was IN FRONT OF YOU. IMMEDIATELY IN FRONT OF YOU. The only way I could have been in your blind spot is if you are, in fact, legally blind. In which case, I don't suspect you should be driving at all, now, should you?

And while we're on the subject, continuing to drive off like nothing was wrong until I chased your ass down? Was poor form. It's not my fault you have a depth perception issue. I didn't request an ass-ramming (not from you, anyway.) So don't make me hunt you down, yelling at Oscar to take down your license plate number so I could call the cops and let them nail you for a hit-and-run. Just because I'm good at being a stark raving bitch doesn't mean I like being a stark raving bitch.

So, please, the next time you decide to be an impatient ass and speed into the next lane before you're completely clear of the one you (and I) are in, remember to 1) plan ahead and come up with a better excuse for being a moron and 2) pull over immediately, lest your next victim go all ballistic on your ass.

Whew. I'm so glad we had this little chat. I feel so much better having gotten that off my chest. Now, you take care. You're going to need all of your energy to deal with the shitstorm the insurance companies are going to rain down upon you.

Warm Regards,
Cymber

Being A Grown-Up: A Primer

So. Snark's Mistress is having some trouble with her family. It's a drama that has played out over the course of the entire week, and it's not only painful for her, it's painful for me. Why? Because I have always loved her family as my own and seeing this rift in their usually harmonious interactions is jarring and uncomfortable. It also pains me because it has left Snark's Mistress in tears more often than not, and I don't like the idea of her being 2 hours away from everyone who loves her when she's distressed.

Anyway, the story isn't really mine to tell, particularly since Snark's Mistress has her own blog and she'll tell it when she's ready. But there are a few things that I've learned over the course of the last week that I do want to talk about. They have to do with what it means to be an adult. See, I really think that part of the problem has been that the family member in the center of this whole drama has been mistakenly identified as a grown-up, when he is, in fact, a preschooler. And I'd like to clear up some confusion as to what the terms "grown-up" and "adult" really mean.

You know you are an adult when:

1) You are able to articulate your needs in a clear and concise manner and no longer expect those around you to read your mind. Remember when you were a toddler and your mom or dad asked you to "use your words" instead of throwing a temper tantrum? This still applies. Throwing a big hissy fit because someone didn't do exactly what you wanted them to do in the exact moment you wanted them to do it is not the same as clearly communicating that you need xyz and you would appreciate it if someone could provide you with xyz. Additionally, if you are disappointed when you feel you have done the above and you still did not get your needs met, it is a good idea to take some time to reflect on why that might be before flying off the handle and accusing everyone you know of being insensitive assholes. Which brings me to:

2) You understand the difference between healthy debate and accusations/slander. It is a fact of life that you are, at times, going to be disappointed by the people you love. But if you love these people, you will understand that the slight was more than likely unintentional and if you choose to address it with them, you will take some time to calm down and approach the topic with an open mind, sensitivity and understanding. What you will not do is call them names, refuse to entertain their point of view, or accuse them of not being worthy of your love. That makes you an asshole, not a grown-up.

3) You accept apologies when they are offered. You would think this would be an easy enough concept, but for some reason, it escapes a lot of people. What they do instead is complain that the apology offered wasn't "good enough" and then continue to argue that the severity of the wrong done them was worth nothing less than a full, unconditional admission of guilt and wrong doing. The truth is, most people have reasons for doing what they do, and if they feel sorry that what they did hurt you in some way, they will both apologize and offer an explanation. This explanation is not meant to negate the apology, but merely to explain their motivations in the hope that you will understand their reasoning and see that they really did not mean to hurt you. So be a grown-up and accept the apology, even if you still don't understand their reasoning. Which brings me to:

4) You keep an open mind. Not everyone thinks of things the same way you do. That doesn't mean they are wrong and you are right. It means they approach situations in different ways. Again, that doesn't mean they are wrong and you are right. If someone has not acted the way you wanted her to, take the time to hear her out and really try to understand her point of view. You don't have to agree with it. But if you understand it, or at least try to understand it, perhaps you will be able to recognize the true intent behind her actions and forgiveness will come a lot more easily.

5) You understand that when you're the only person arguing one point of view, and 8 or more people are arguing the other, your logic might be flawed and it might be time to consider the possibility that you were the person in the wrong. Do some navel-gazing. Is it possible they have a point? Could it be that if 8 people came to the same conclusion with the same set of facts that perhaps you are the one misinterpreting things? Think about it. Consider it. And if you still disagree with their conclusions, that's fine. But allow them the freedom to continue to believe what they believe without making judgments about them. Agree to disagree. It's not so hard. Trust me.

6) You recognize that you can't have it both ways. You can't tell people not to worry and then complain that they didn't worry. You can't tell people that all you want is an apology and then complain because the apology you got wasn't good enough. You can't alienate everyone you know and then complain that they don't come through for you. Say what you mean, and then stand by it. If you have a change of heart, that's okay. But you forfeit the right to get angry, then, if everyone else is still operating under the assumption that you meant what you said the first time around.

7) You pick your battles carefully. Some things are just not worth the hit your relationship will take if you continue to argue your point of view to the death. Decide how important this issue this is to you and how it fits into the context of your entire relationship history. Do you want to risk your entire relationship over this? If not, let it go gracefully. Which brings me to:

8) You don't shut down a discussion for the sole purpose of having the last word. Shutting down a discussion because it's not going anywhere is one thing. Shutting down a discussion by telling the other person he's a despicable jerk and you don't ever want to talk to him about this again because it will just remind you of what a despicable jerk he is and that would be too painful for you so let's never discuss this again? That's just trying to have the last word. Sure, it would be great if every argument could end with common ground, but that doesn't always happen. Sometimes you just need to look at the situation calmly and rationally and recognize that you will never agree on this subject, but that you can still love each other and that it is best if the discussion is closed because it's doing nothing more at this point than hurting you both.

Of course, this only scratches the surface of what constitutes adult behavior, but I think it's a decent enough start. Hell, if the family member in question could learn even ONE of these lessons, I would consider it a victory. However, he seems intent on living his life as a preschooler, which is unfortunate. But I suppose it's not all bad. At least when his first child is born later this year, he'll have a playmate.

If I'd Just Let Sesame Street Babysit My Kid This Morning, I'd Have An Actual Post For You

I don't know why I try to put off posting until the evenings on Thursdays. I know Grey's Anatomy is on. I know it's unlikely that I'll even be around a computer until after 10:00. And after tonight's episode? I am so emotionally drained, I have nothing of use to say. It has broken me. I am broken. Posting will resume once I find my bruised and battered heart, pick it up off the ground, wash it off and shove it back into my chest. Thank you.

Teh Hawt-ness

Okay, I know some people are going to think I'm crazy, but when did Rob Lowe become so smokin' HOT? I mean, I watched The West Wing. I enjoyed The West Wing. But I did not have the warm, fuzzy feelings that everyone else I knew had towards him. I was way more interested in Bradley Whitford's character, Josh. The Rob Lowe-ness did not do it for me. But now? On Brothers & Sisters? Holy Hannah, that man makes me want to lick him in naughty, naughty places.

I bring this up because I was watching Brothers & Sisters with Oscar last night (seriously, I'm marrying my DVR if anything ever happens to break up Oscar and me) and he was making out with Calista Flockhart's character and I swear to GAWD, people, I was moaning so loud you would have thought I had a spontaneous orgasm right there. Oscar paused the show to look at me and ask "Are you going to be okay?" Well, HELL YEAH, I'm going to be okay. I'm watching The Hotness! The only thing better than watching The Hotness is watching The Hotness with a pint of Ben and Jerry's Coffee Heath Bar Crunch ice cream and a spoon. That's a climax on a stick right there.

So, seriously, what happened? I mean, he's always been good looking. But I was never into him before. Ever. Not in his Brat Pack days. Certainly not in his sex tape days. Not even in his Austin Powers days. And we've already discussed his West Wing days. It's like overnight he developed a Cymber-focused pheromone that is able to be transmitted through my DVR. (I wonder if I pay my cable company extra for that...?) And now? All I can think is how yummy a Rob Lowe sandwich would be.

Did he sell his soul to some guy in Detroit to make himself extra-scrumptious to me? And if so, I wonder why he would pick me, of all people? I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm oh-so-very fabulous. But we've never even met. Is my fabulousness so legendary now that even hot married actors in Hollywood are trying to impress me? (I prefer dark chocolate and calla lilies, thanks!) I somehow doubt it. So I don't know what it is, but I can't say that I'm complaining. Between Brothers & Sisters on Sunday nights and Grey's Anatomy on Thursday nights, not to mention my DVDs of Stargate SG-1, I've got a bosom-heaving, loin-throbbing bouquet of hotness happening. It's probably a good thing I haven't gotten addicted to Ugly Betty, too, because with Salma Hayek doing occasional guest appearances, my vajayjay just might explode and I'm kind of not done with it yet.

I'm Fond Of Slimey, Myself

I love Sesame Street. I do. I could do without Elmo, particularly when Elmo's World comes on and he gets all twee and decides to "ask a baby" how the baby feels about the topic du jour. (The baby can't talk, you nit. But if he could, the baby would tell you to go fuck yourself. Be grateful for his current lack of vocabulary.) But overall, it's a great show. We're currently teaching Turtle the alphabet, and how to count to ten, and he gets those lessons reinforced every time we sit down to watch Sesame Street. And they have GREAT guest stars. This morning, it was Seth Green. And a week or so ago, it was T.R. Knight. And Kristin Chenoweth plays Ms. Noodle on the (much reviled) Elmo's World segments. Seriously, my love is flowing for this show that allows me to watch these people make asses of themselves with a bunch of funny looking puppets.

However, there is one thing that Sesame Street has taught Turtle which does not fill me with glee. This morning, I sat Turtle's scrambled eggs and banana down on his place mat on the coffee table. (We eat breakfast in the living room in front of the television for some reason. Don't judge me.) Turtle started out eating with his fork like a good boy, but after a few bites, he apparently decided that was not nearly efficient enough. He grabbed a big handful of eggs in his hand and hoisted them up in front of him. Then, as though he was giving a toast, he raised his hand even more and yelled "COOKIE!" and smashed the whole handful into his mouth while making all sorts of growly noises. Yeah. Thanks, Cookie Monster. I appreciate you teaching my kid that it's perfectly acceptable table manners to force the food into his mouth with all the finesse of a bulldozer. Can you also teach him to vacuum up the crumbs? Thanks.

Thanks For, You Know, Reading And Stuff

God, how much do I suck? (Oscar would tell you that last night, I sucked quite a bit, and was damn good at it, too, but that's why we don't let Oscar guest-blog for me. He's a dirty, dirty man and who knows what he might say if I gave him an open forum.) I keep talking about that elusive bathroom post, which I'm sure by now is built up FAR too much in your minds, and when I actually get around to posting it, you're all going to feel extremely let down. Which is perhaps why I haven't posted it yet, because I'm hoping that you'll forget about it, so that when I finally finish writing it, you're wowed by my clever and witty prose instead of disappointed by the way it failed to live up to your expectations. Except that would actually require me to shut the hell up about the bathroom post, already, which I have yet to do, because in some respects, I'm all about the self-sabotage.

Anyway, this is not really about me and my neuroses, this is about you. I was going to let it pass by without comment, but then McMama had to call me out in her comment to my last post. So I suppose I need to say a little something about my blog-iversary. I think I've said many times before that I never really planned to have a blog, and that it caused me a lot of anxiety when I finally started one. Because even though I only had, like, 2 readers in the beginning, those readers were important to me and I never wanted to disappoint them. (Heh. God, was I naive, or what?) Well, a year later and I'm disappointing people left and right (I'm sorry dykewife! I wish I could post twice a day for you but I just can't. [insert self-flagellation here]) and yet, I somehow manage to continue living with myself. I've always said being a sociopath comes in handy sometimes.

Still, despite the fact that I find it incredibly difficult to live up to not only your expectations of me, but my exceedingly high expectations of myself, I have been incredibly touched by the response I have gotten from those of you who stop by to visit me in my little corner of the blogosphere. And to those of you who have actually posted a comment or written me an e-mail, I can't tell you how much it means to me to hear from you. The internet is a weird place and you never know what kind of people you're going to meet when you start talking about yourself online (except that they're all voyeurs to some extent) but everyone who has reached out to me has been very kind and, well, so normal. Well, except you. You know who you are.

You are the best audience a girl could hope for. I appreciate your kind words and support. Here's to another year of blathering on about random minutiae in a, hopefully, clever and witty way! Cheers!

Will U B Mine?

So. It's Valentine's Day. At some point last week, Oscar had asked me how I felt about this particular holiday. I told him that I feel that it's a day that engenders unrealistic expectations. Which is true. I also told him that I feel it's a holiday completely manufactured by Hallmark and related industries. Also true. What I failed to mention, however, is that regardless of all of that, I had still gotten him a Valentine's Day present. Two of them, in fact.

This morning, I placed his gifts on the dining room table, with a card propped up against them. As I scurried around the house, doing chores and getting my morning started, Oscar walked into the kitchen. I paused when I noticed he was opening his card and watched silently to see his response. After flashing me a crooked smile and telling me he loved me, Oscar mumbled, "You're such a conniving bitch."

I grinned (which is, frankly, the only appropriate response I can think of when my beloved calls me a conniving bitch) and asked him what that was supposed to mean. He said he asked me if we were doing anything for Valentine's Day and I said no, but went ahead and got him something anyway. I took exception to that. I was nothing but honest with him. He only asked me how I felt about the holiday, not whether I had gotten him anything to celebrate. After all, just because I think Valentine's Day is all about Hallmark and unrealistic expectations, doesn't mean I can't also recognize that it's just as fine a day as any to do something nice for my sweetheart and let him know that I love him.

I don't think Oscar was completely appeased. He seems to think our marriage is based on some invisible score card and that if he falls far enough behind, I'm eventually going to get wise and leave him for a man who sends me flowers every week and buys me expensive jewelry. Which is ridiculous, really, because I would never leave him for "that guy." I would have an affair with "that guy" and milk "that guy" for all he was worth but I would never leave Oscar for "that guy." I mean, come on, let's be realistic. If I left Oscar for "that guy," "that guy" would realize that he didn't have to try so hard anymore and there would go my flowers and expensive jewelry. Where's the win-win for me in that?

No, luckily for Oscar, I'm in this thing for the long haul. Which means even if he never braves Hallmark to buy me another Valentine's Day card again, I'll still be there on March 20th, helping him celebrate Steak and Blowjob Day. Because I? Am the BEST. WIFE. EVER! Just check the score card.

Because The Story Is Not Going Away And If You Can't Beat Them, Join Them

Okay, I know I promised I was going to talk about my bathroom habits. And I know I silently promised myself that I was NOT going to get sucked into talking about Anna Nicole Smith, because the media coverage THAT has generated has been rather psychotic all by itself and without any input from me. But when I saw today that yet another man is now coming forward, claiming to be the father of Anna's baby daughter? I couldn't help myself. You know why?

BECAUSE I HAVEN'T HAD SEX WITH THAT MANY MEN IN MY WHOLE THIRTY PLUS YEARS OF LIFE, MUCH LESS IN A SMALL ENOUGH TIMEFRAME TO GIVE THEM CAUSE TO THINK MORE THAN ONE OF THEM COULD HAVE BEEN THE FATHER OF MY CHILD!

Sweet baby Jeebus, that's a lot of sex with a lot of different people. In fact, if TrimSpa is worried about how to carry on after the death of their spokesperson, perhaps they should consider a new campaign with the tagline "It'll get you laid. A lot." Not that I doubt the appeal of Anna Nicole Smith, but I have to believe that at least one of these guys is lying through his teeth. I mean, I suppose it is technically possible that they each had sex with her during the window of fertile opportunity that would have resulted in Dannielyn's appearance 9 months later. But doesn't it sound a bit like a scheduling nightmare? Unless she double-booked, if you know what I mean, and I think you do?

I don't know. All I know is I wouldn't have given this story a second thought before DaddyGate happened. I mean, it's not like her death was any big surprise. The woman looked like she was coked to the gills every time she made a public appearance over the last few months. If anything, I was surprised that it didn't happen sooner. But now, every time you turn around a new Daddy is popping up. They're like daisies. Great big fertile daisies. Great big fertile money-grubbing, attention-whoring daisies. Everywhere. It's seriously the most amazing train wreck I've ever seen. It's virtually impossible to turn away. It's almost enough to distract me from my other train wreck of choice, Britney Spears. Almost.

But honestly? That girl is freaking me out. I had hope for her for all of 2.2 seconds when she dumped her husband. But then with the going out without underwear? And the (alleged) trips to the bathroom for her coke fix? And the whole "is she or isn't she a lesbian" thing? I certainly wasn't her biggest fan before, but now? It's like I want to pull for her, but she's making it impossible. And as a mom? I am particularly appalled by her behavior because her kids are being raised by everyone BUT her. For someone who wanted these kids so badly, she's certainly not terribly invested in their upbringing. And where the hell is her family? Shouldn't SOMEBODY be staging an intervention by now? I don't get it.

Actually, what I REALLY don't get is why the mainstream news outlets are talking about these "stories" as though they are actually newsworthy. When my local news anchor reported last night, with a straight face, that Britney Spears went a little overboard on the partying this weekend and threw up in the back of her SUV, I knew the apocalypse was nigh. I expect to see that on Perez Hilton's site. I expect to see it in Star Magazine. I do not expect to see that on my local news, before the weather but after the sports reports. It is not news. And I'm not sure if the fact that the news outlets are actually reporting these goings-on as news are why these celebrities are now more famous for being famous than they are for any particular talent or if it's us and our incredible need to know everything about the every day lives of these people.

I mean, I'm all for over-investment in the lives of my favorite celebrities. I'm shameless. I admit it. But even I know there is a limit to what is newsworthy and what is not. And when the energy expended in reporting on the death of Anna Nicole Smith exceeds that which was expended in reporting on the hanging of Saddam Hussein, I think you have reached that limit. And then some.

Not to say that I won't be on Perez's site tomorrow, constantly refreshing to see what new entertainment gossip is out there. But see, that's the thing: I go there specifically knowing that I'm there to be a shameless gossip. I'm not going there, hoping to find out what's new with North Korea's nukes and instead find that there's someone new angling for the Anna Nicole Baby Daddy position. (SERIOUSLY! Did she have one of those "Take a Number" dispensers installed at the door to her bedroom, do you think?) I just think it's time that we exercise a little restraint, as it pertains to reporting on the lives of people who, for the most part, are not significantly more talented than the rest of us. Unless you count "the ability to exit a vehicle in a way that highlights to the best effect the fact that you're not wearing underwear" as an important talent. In which case, I stand corrected.

Blaaaaaaaaaaah

I would love to jump in here with something particularly clever and witty, bowling you over with how effortlessly I make the mundane seem entertaining. Regrettably, there is nothing entertaining about this headache I've had for the past five days (it started out as a caffeine withdrawal headache and is now a "here's what you get for tripping over the paperwork in your office! Maybe now you'll clean up around here and thus avoid the neck wrenching" headache,) nor is there anything particularly entertaining about a Turtle who is not getting nearly enough sleep lately and is therefore talking back to us and turning his back on us more often than I can throw him in time out. At this rate, he'll be 43 before he leaves his bedroom again.

It's sad, really, because I still have two posts that I'm working on, one of which is the aforementioned post about my bathroom habits, which I'm sure you can't WAIT to read, because really, what is more interesting than learning about someone's bathroom neuroses? And I have a few other things running around in my head which are just waiting to be turned into either coherent posts or really whacked out dreams. But my brain is not cooperating, so it will have to wait until another day.

I know. You're sad. I'm sad too. But as I've often told Turtle, wipe your tushie. No, wait. That wasn't it. Oh, I've got it. Sometimes life just doesn't work out like you want it to, so put away your go-gos and we'll play later. Right. That.

This Started Out As A Quick Post, But An Hour Later...

I'm working on a few posts that are a bit longer, but I don't have the time or inclination to try to bang them out tonight. (Especially since I'd really like to be banging other things. If you know what I mean. And I think you do. Oh, wait. Did I say that out loud? Damn. I really need to get that internal filter fixed.) So instead, I wanted to share two quick anecdotes, because if I don't post something, dykewife will be sad. And we don't like to make people sad around here.

#1
I needed the truck today so I was riding shotgun as Oscar drove into work. Turtle was in the back seat making all kinds of weird noises, as Turtle is wont to do. When he started wigging out and doing a damn fine impersonation of a resident of a mental hospital, Oscar turned to me and said something along the lines of "He is SO your kid." I casually turned back to Oscar and said, "Hey, I'm not the one on the meds, now, am I?" D'oh! The look on his face was priceless. It was a blend of impotent fury and grudging admiration. Score? Cymber 1, Oscar 0.

(Disclaimer: I have no issues with meds or people who take them. Frankly, those who know me intimately will actually tell you that I'm the biggest pusher they know. I merely saw and opportunity to take my husband down a peg, and I used it. Do not send me hateful e-mails about what an insensitive bitch I am. I'm well aware I'm an insensitive bitch. It really doesn't bother me all that much. If it did, I'd take meds for it.)

#2
Turtle was going to the bathroom and I was doing a fine job of supervising. After giving everything a wipe-down, Turtle started pulling back the foreskin of his penis. Then he pointed at it repeatedly and asked, "Mommy? What's this?" I said, "That's your peenie weenie, little man." "Ohhhhhhhhhhh," he replied. "Woooooooooooooooooooowwwwwwwwwwww!" You'd have thought I'd just imparted the secrets of the universe. Then again, he's a boy, so I guess I kind of did.

Between those two events, I spent my time reworking my budget three different times in an effort to figure out if I can reasonably consider spending an assload of money (yes, that's a technical term) on landscaping my yard. Preliminary crunching of the numbers and the Magic 8 Ball say "All signs point to yes" so I'll start talking seriously with the bank tomorrow. Meanwhile, Oscar will be working from home and has scheduled a meeting with a different landscaper to pick his brain and get his numbers. Oscar has just been a bundle of efficiency this week. Between that and our deplorable lack of a decent sex life lately, I'm beginning to think the real Oscar has been replaced with Pod Person Oscar. And I'm not quite sure if I have a problem with that. Hell, if Pod Person Oscar can get our taxes done, I may even cover for him while he systematically begins taking over the world.

So. Yeah. Oscar was teased, Turtle discovered his penis, I put on my Accounting Hat and let Jurassic Park raise my child today. Sounds like a pretty typical day in the Cymber household to me.

Dropping Napalm Might Be An Easier Way To Go

Does anyone have $35,000 they want to lend give me? Anyone? Come on, now, show of hands. No one? Damn. I was afraid of that.

I'm pretty sure I have previously mentioned that Oscar and I bought our house from my parents. It's a nice house, but the selling point is that it has a huge yard. It's perfect for parties or bleeding the energy out of a rambunctious preschooler. Or, at least, it would be, if the yard was in any sort of shape for those kinds of activities. My parents were very busy people, and didn't have much time to give the landscaping, so there was never anything special done with it. And for the first few years that Oscar and I lived her by our lonesomes, we didn't have much time to give the landscaping either. So what landscaping there was, and there wasn't much, died quickly and, well, I'm ashamed to say that we didn't do much to stop it.

Now, though, I am home more often than not, and even though I spend my days chasing a rambunctious preschooler around, I have more time for things like putting around the gardens. The problem is, things have degraded to the point that I can't bring it back all on my own. I'm only one person. And a small one at that. (Well, height-wise, anyway. In terms of the vertical, I am wee. But in terms of the horizontal - well - let's just say that I will never be mistaken for Nicole Richie.) I only have so much room in the green waste bins every week. And I don't own a Bobcat, so I can't rip down trees in a single bound. I can try to stop the bleeding, but I can't make any progress on bringing things back to their green, lovely place.

So we called a landscaper. We actually have plans to call three. But so far, we've only called one, and that one came out today and looked at our yard. And when he stopped bawling like a little baby, and stopped praying to God that he got this job so he could buy his new boat, he told us that he figured it would cost about $10,000 to clean things up and between $30,000-$35,000 from start to finish, depending on the design of the new landscape. I can't say I was surprised, but I can't say I was thrilled, either.

I'm not making any decisions on what to do next until we get the other two quotes and I am completely convinced that I'm not going to have a heart attack at the thought of spending tens of thousands of dollars to make my house look like it should. But I did like the guy, and I am swayed by the promise of having a yard I can actually use. It would be nice to be able to take Turtle out in the back yard and let him run around like a little boy should. It would be nice to feel comfortable inviting people over and hosting pool parties, instead of being ashamed to tell people where I live because of how bad the house looks. It would be nice to be able to walk in the door without being attacked by a rogue bougainvillea, who has decided that he is so over the outdoors and his dream has always been to be an indoor bougainvillea, and if he could just get one branch in the door, we would see what a great indoor bougainvillea he would be! (Seriously. That little bugger is persistent.)

So although my stomach clenches at the thought of taking that much equity out of the house, I know it would be worth it. And even though I'm not committed to this particular landscaper (especially since he didn't even offer to take us out on the new boat he was going to buy after he did our yard! Bastard!) I will call my lenders tomorrow and see what they can do about getting my house refinanced. But in the meantime? If anyone wins the lottery and you decide to donate to the "Help Cymber Not Be Ashamed Of Her Crappy Yard" fund, you know where to find me. I'll be in the fetal position in the corner, whimpering about points and loan-to-value ratios.

Ramblings From An Insomniac

Turtle has developed a cough. I'm not sure if it's related to our air quality or if he's coming down with something or a combination of both. But suffice it to say, he's coughing a lot and drugs don't seem to make a dent. So last night, around 2:30 in the morning, Turtle had a coughing jag that was long enough and loud enough to wake me up. I went in with some (USELESS! USELESS, I SAY!) cough medicine and calmed him down and then crawled back into bed next to a softly snoring Oscar.

And I tossed.

And I turned.

And I tried to relax.

And I got increasingly frustrated.

And I tried to relax some more.

Until finally, I couldn't take it anymore and I got up. Now, I'm a morning person, but not even I am HARDCORE enough to think that 2:30 in the morning is an acceptable wakey-wakey time. And yet, there I was. I got on the computer for a while, and when not even the lack of updates on my favorite blogs was enough to lull me back into a sleep state, I decided, "Hey, 4:00 in the morning is a PERFECT time to do dishes. And laundry. And filing." So dishes and laundry and filing I did.

Oscar walked into my office at 5:30am and asked what the hell I was doing. When my heartbeat had returned to normal and I had climbed down from the ceiling (where I had jumped when his innocent question sent me into flight-or-fight mode) I explained my insomnia. He went back to bed to hit the snooze 10 more times and I returned to sorting papers. I suppose a more considerate husband would have offered to bang me like a $5 whore in an effort to wear me out enough to fall back asleep, but this is the model I have. I guess I just have to make do.

I finally crawled back into bed around 6:30. Oscar was supposed to be getting ready for work, but he was hoping to lull me back to sleep with the dulcet tones of even more snoring. I welcomed the warmth of his arms wrapped around me, but it still wasn't happening for me. I dozed in a semi-conscious state off and on, but no REM for me. And with a Turtle due to wake up in an hour, that probably wasn't such a bad thing A deeper sleep would probably have put me in touch with how tired I really was, and that wouldn't do.

So I went through the majority of the day on a mere four hours of sleep. I did manage a small nap while Turtle was down for his own nap, but one of my cats, who is a bit needy when it comes to his self-esteem managed to catch and trap his little stuffed mouse, again, and OH MY GOD IT'S THE SAME FRICKING MOUSE YOU CATCH EVERY SINGLE TIME AND DO I REALLY HAVE TO TELL YOU WHAT A FEROCIOUS HUNTER KITTEN YOU ARE AGAIN?!?!?!?! WHY CAN'T YOU JUST SELF-VALIDATE THIS ONE TIME SO I CAN GET SOME DAMN SLEEP????? *ahem* Yeah, he, um, meowed a lot until I petted him and praised him and then I dozed back off.

Now, it's 9:20pm and due to an unfortunate set of circumstances, I just finished dinner. Oscar was kind enough to take Turtle to the grocery store this evening and pick me up some Tylenol PM, which, had I been thinking, I would have downed with a freakishly cold glass of really cheap white wine. But I forgot to chill the wine, and I will instead down some Tylenol PM with a glass of ice water (provided, of course, I don't spill this glass over like I spilled the last glass. I'm a big enough klutz under the best of circumstances. You don't want to be anywhere near me when my reflexes are dulled by a lack of sleep. It's like watching a bad slapstick movie.)

The point of all of this being, of course, that if you came here today looking for a clever bon mot or amusing anecdote from my life, it so isn't happening. I'm lucky I have enough brain function to remember to breathe in and breathe out (in that order) on a continual basis. Hopefully tomorrow I will return fully rested and able to talk about something interesting. (Like, for example, Amalah's post today about whether or not you close the door to use the bathroom and how my upbringing caused me to be very free with the pee. Don't worry. I'll fill you in later. It will be funny. I promise.) In the event I am not fully rested tomorrow and do not return, and instead crawl into a very large hole with my binky and my blankie, please feel free to peruse the archives. There's something there for everyone, I'm sure.

Next Up: World Domination

Upon my springing him from his bedroom prison this morning, Turtle ran out to the living room to set up camp. He stopped at the coffee table and looked at the mess of dvd cases littering the surface. He pointed at one in the middle.

"I wan' to watch dis movie, Mommy" he said, hopefully.

"Are you sure, Buddy?"

"Pweese?"

"You don't want to watch Elmo, instead Buddy? Because Elmo is coming on in a second." Elmo is Turtle's latest obsession.

"No, Mommy."

"Are you sure? You want to watch Stargate? Not Elmo?"

"Yeah. Stargate."

"THAT'S MY BOY!"

Take My Husband. Please.

So, I'm not sure if I mentioned this before, but Oscar and I are in therapy together. Well, technically, Oscar is in therapy, and I'm occasionally asked to join them, kind of like the "special guest star" on Will and Grace - there for nothing more than to boost ratings and look pretty. Okay, technically technically, my job is more important than that. Technically technically? My job is to call Oscar on his crap and help him see how I am completely and totally perfect in every way and he is so very lucky to have me and if he would just realize this, our lives would be fabulous. What? You don't believe me? Yeah, okay, that's not true either.

In truth, as I believe I've discussed before, Oscar and I are going through some things, and much as we're crazy about each other, there are times when being crazy about each other is just not enough. So we go to therapy and figure out how to fine-tune our relationship so I'm not going ballistic when he leaves his socks on the floor and he's not going crazy because I always squeeze the toothpaste tube from the very bottom in a very anal-retentive way. For the most part, it's been a really great experience, but last week was - well - not so great.

It wasn't that the session was bad. We actually learned quite a bit about our methods of communicating and how we are fulfilling each other's needs (or not) and that sort of thing. The difficult part was what happened after the session. See, I kind of got called on the carpet for enabling some of Oscar's less desirable traits, and since I consider myself pretty self-aware, I was extremely annoyed at myself for not recognizing that I was doing it. And when Oscar did something the next night that had been bothering me for quite a while, even though it was a petty thing to be upset about, honestly, my annoyance at myself fueled my anger at him and, well, can you say "downward spiral to I-hate-you-ville?"

So we fought. For two days. And it got ugly. And really, the only thing that prevented me from packing a bag and going up to Flagstaff for a few days, aside from the fact that Oscar had our only vehicle, was Michael Shanks. Because as silly as it may be, sometimes when Oscar and I are fighting, I think about trading him in for Michael Shanks and the pretty, pretty Hotness and it sends me directly to my happy place.

Actually, to be fair, any Hotness will do. I would have considered trading him in for Eric Dane, for example. Or even Salma Hayek, if we lived in a world that would recognize my marriage to Salma. Which it totally should, because if there's one thing this world could use a little more of, it's recognition that love in any form is really not a bad thing. But I digress. What was I saying? Oh yeah. This week, it was Michael Shanks, because Snark's Mistress, being a loving and loyal friend and recognizing that my blood pressure was going to hit the roof if I didn't find some way to get my mind off the stupid, petty fight I was having with my husband, sent me a link to a YouTube video of Michael Shanks talking about his penis.

No, I'm sorry. That's inaccurate. He was really talking about his nuts. The video was taped at some convention (I assume) and featured some audience members asking him questions, one of which was what he thought when reading the script for the season 7 premiere of Stargate SG-1. For those of you who have not seen it, and I'm pointing my shame finger at you because if you still haven't recognized the fabulousness that is Stargate SG-1, I'm not sure there's hope for you, the first you see of Michael Shanks's character, he is lying on the ground in the fetal position, very much naked. Well, apparently, that scene was shot on a very cold day and though his first thoughts of the script were favorable, his thoughts of the actual filming were not.

(Side note: I didn't realize a man's nuts can retract into his body! That's a cool feature. Can I get that feature except in reverse? Like, do you think I could get extra fluid or muscle tissue or something to fill my breasts on command? That would be a great benefit when trying on certain styles of dresses. "I wish I had the chest for this dress. It looks great, but it needs more cleavage." *focus on popping the chest out* "Hey look! Instant D cup!" It would be like a wonderbra, but all on the inside! No? Too creepy? Yeah, okay. You're probably right.)

So I'm watching this video, and Michael is totally babbling and he's being cute and adorable and funny, and I went to my little happy place where I frolicked in the fragrant green meadow with my white unicorn and my new husband Michael and little birds were singing and there were rainbows and I picked flowers and played "he loves me, he loves me not" and it always came up "he loves me." And all of a sudden, I couldn't remember why I was mad at Oscar. All of a sudden, all was right with the world. (Except for the part where I clearly needed a psych eval.) All of a sudden, I was in touch with that little place in my heart where I keep my love reserves and I tapped into those reserves and practically puked up bunnies and puppies and little pink hearts.

And when I was through making myself sick with the cuteness of my happy place, I realized that as adorable as Michael Shanks is (Seriously, Michael. Call me!) he's no Oscar. Because at the end of the day, Oscar is the one who comes home, even when we're fighting, and tells me that he loves me. And Oscar is the one who buys me flowers for no reason at all. And Oscar is the one to whom Turtle runs over, tackles, and says "I missed you Daddy." Oscar's the one I love. (And of course, the fact that he's actually available for make-up sex when we're done with our fight doesn't hurt either. I'm nothing if not practical.)

So if it came down to it, there would be no trade. Although, I would probably think it over for a few minutes, and probably ask if I could take Potential Husband 2.0 out for a "test drive," because no opportunity to "kick the tires" should be wasted. And I think it would be only fair to ask to see if the "retractable nuts" feature is still in working order, because if there is no warranty offered and I'm getting an as-is model, I want to know if it's fully functional. But I'd stick with Husband 1.0, no question. At least, that's how I feel now. Ask me again after our next therapy session.