Dear Lord, Someone help Britney Spears

I turned on the MTV awards simply to see the much talked about debut of Britney Spears.OMG – my eyes –my eyes. AWWWWWWW – what a train wreck.

Bear with me as I may not be able to articulate what I've just witnessed. I do know that it will be quite a while before I'm able to get the image out of my head.
I'm not certain what it was exactly she was wearing, or why. We all know that she can't sing, so while no one was glued to the tube anticipating a vocal extravaganza, we'd certainly expected to see her dance with some modicum of rhythm; invoking memories of the good old gyrating Brit we'd all known and loved. Uh, no.

I was dancing before I could walk (oh yeah, the white chick can get her move-groove on), so I'm thinking you're either born with rhythm or not. So…… how the hell does one lose their sense of rhythm? Girl stunk up the place.

I can't wait to see my gay-brigade unleash their venom on this! J, get on this right away honey, I must know all the buzz.

Here I was all bummed out about Pavarotti passing away and then, as always - cause he loves me, the sweet baby Jesus sends me Britney making an ass out of herself. Thank you and amen.

Oh yeah, he's working the yard: The Spanky Boy

I’ve been at this computer for months now, plugging away at writing interesting, topical articles, which no one buys or publishes. Be that as it may, it has given me an opportunity to sit near the window at the back of the house and watch the neighbors’ lawn guy. Although I don’t fit the profile of a stalker I think perhaps I may have become an amateur voyeur. Amateur’s wrong; I’m really good at it.

So I’m perched at my keyboard, legs dangling, because no one really makes a chair which comfortably fits a 5 foot tall adult woman. I’m typing my little heart and soul into an article when out of the corner of my eye I see someone walking across our backyard. Not afraid of Satan carrying a machete, I barge out of the back door to see who it is that’s just violated my territory. (There’s a joke there and you all thought I was going for didn’t you?)

In my elderly neighbors’ yard, clad only in beige cargo shorts, a blue bandana, work boots and a smile is the lawn guy. A total Spanky Boy. Let me give you the definition of Spanky Boy. (For those of you out of the perverted loop of my world)

This will come as a total shock to men but much like them, we too have men that we would never consider marriage material or even boyfriend material. These are gorgeous, generally unemployed artists, musicians, etc. who have been given the God given gift of just being nice for us to look at. It’s not going to last, no one is going to get their little feelings hurt. It just is what it is. They’re pretty and well.. do the math.

*I am in no way implying that this behavior is acceptable or that I would participate in, or encourage others to participation in such relationships, but if you are this one needs to go onto your list of candidates. *

Because the sweet baby Jesus loves me, he has allowed this Grecian like statue of a man to work sans shirt in the summer heat. If he’d not been so damned tan, I’d have sworn this bod had been carved of marble. Perhaps it was the heat but holy friggin moly – this guy’s hot.

In his thirties, he’s tall and dark with dark hair. He has that rebellious “I don’t need a stinking desk job” look in his eyes. The ladies know exactly what I’m talking about. He’s the kind of man who’s able to write you and poem and overhaul your engine all in day. Oh yeah, now they’re laughing along with me.

You all know the guy. He doesn’t own a comb. Who needs one when you’re able to run your fingers through that tousled hair and it looks Fab. The clothes, although clean have not seen an iron since they left the store in which they were purchased. The smile however, is Colgate bright and just a little too lingering. He’s no fool. And I’d roll my 401K right over into his name if there is not at least one guitar in his home and two bongs. I know I’m right. It’s a safe bet for me. Still, we see the attraction.

At some point in every woman’s life you tire of the “suits”. On the surface they appear wrinkle free, properly creased, and the corporate world is, on some levels, exciting and powerful- to some. Then, there’s the Spanky Boy. It’s a must that you date at least one of these in your life. It’s a right of passage.


I’ve since come to find out that he has a very successful lawn care business in this area and is very well respected. Blah…blah….blah…. I don’t need a resume; I’m just looking out of the window.

August 16, 2007- I don't feel like renovating anything and I'm a little pissed at the world.

Well the job hunt is still in full force and the results continue to be less than pathetic. As a result I seem to have just stopped doing any cool renovations even as I step over the materials lying around the house. I appear to be experiencing some sort of juvenile reaction to being unemployed, as if to say to the world "if I can't do what I want, I'm doing nothing".

So with plenty of time on my hands, I sat on the patio early this morning having coffee. Watching cars going by; their drivers obviously employed, I had the most horrible, petty, bitchy, little thought of which I should be ashamed.

I actually said out loud "you know, some of those people look really stupid and they have jobs".
Yep, I went there! I said it and now it's out there in the universe and I can't take it back.

Do not get all high and mighty, or act as if you're appalled by my confession. You've all thought it, but you guys want to be nice. I don't play nice. I play fair and I know an idiot when I see one.

I was so pissed off and it was only 6:30 am. I was full of spit and vinegar and the sun wasn't even up. (Yeah I know that spit and vinegar line rolls off the tongue like Shakespeare uh? It's a gift.)

I was really letting it get to me. I started to self talk myself down off the ledge with all of the warm fuzzy phrases that any of us who've been therapized (I know it's not a word) throw at ourselves during desperate times and luckily for you, I've jotted them down in my humble little blog.

You're an incredible woman with so much to offer.
You can make this a learning experience.
Good things come to those who wait.
It'll all work out in the end.
The perfect job is just around the corner.

I'm going to call bullshit on every single one of those, AND if anyone utters them in my presence while I'm still unemployed I will disembowel them with my bare hands. Are we all clear on the rules? Wow, I feel better already.

August 13, 2007- The Simple Life had it been done properly

My best male friend is "J".

We are the original Karen & Jack. We've been stopped in public a million times by people who'll tell us that; as if we have no clue. (I will admit that I'm older than Megan Mullaley only because it does give me dibs on the whole Karen Walker character). I was rockin' that before one single Hollywood writer put down a line of her shtick on paper.

J is Jack on steroids. He's 6'4" with spiky blonde hair and he couldn't have stayed in the closet if you'd have bricked him up inside of one as an infant.

We often said that our real life stories would've made a much better show than The Simple Life because our stories are true. The producers won't need to write one word or stage one scene. We just need a camera crew to film some of what we get into………

We've flown to St. Simon's Island Ga. for a wedding; me, J and our friend Ally. Ally is a God fearing, fine Christian woman who spends a great deal of time praying that the lord will overlook most of what J and I get involved in. We don't mean to be in trouble but when we're together we're mischievous and it's just bad. We're the new age Lucy and Ethel.
The three of us met through our old jobs together and have been totally in love since. Why Ally puts up with us is beyond me but she does, and we love her.

I don't recall the reason, but shortly after we check into our hotel we had to drive to the nearby town of Brunswick to go to one of those "mart" places, K-Mart, Wal-Mart, who the hell cares. Now I don't want to besmirch the fine folks of Brunswick, but it's the arm pit of the world. It also appeared to be the Rebel flag capital of the United States. (Just saying).

As we get out of the car I notice that J has his "man bag". I ask him to leave his purse in the car and he gets his knickers in a wad "because it's not a purse". My sense of survival kicked in and I insist that he leave the man bag in the car. These people weren't playing. From the minute we crossed into their county we were on their radar. We hurry through the "mart" because the town folk are beginning to stare -menacingly. I'm hurrying because I'm worried about how I'll ever get the stench of this place out of a Ralph Lauren blouse.

We manage to make it out of the "mart" unscathed but now must hit the liquor store cause, well, its past breakfast, and we needed something to drown out the memory of Brunswick. They weren't nice to us in there either cause J is gay, and I was wearing a push up bra and eye shadow. Get the women and children off the sidewalks, the sin wagon had pulled into town.
Later that night, with Ally nestled snug in her bed, J and I head off to find a cozy little bar with great atmosphere and a lovely view of the ocean. What we find is a bar with what I believe was supposed to be a band, and a cast of characters whose first jobs had to be as extra's in Deliverance. From the moment we walk in we know we're in the wrong place, but we don't want to appear rude, so we'll have one quick martini and hit the road.

We settle in at the bar and when J orders a martini the bartender looked as if he'd just been struck by lightening. There was an audible gasp in the room. The whole place goes quiet. "Uh, we ain't got no martinis" our bar keep responds in his colloquial southern dialect. J asks "well then what have you got"? "Uh, we got beer". J looks at me –"oh goody, they've got beer". "Lovely then, two beers".

I'm in something yummy, silk and opaque; J is flawless down to his kidskin loafers and there we are trapped in white trash hell. I begin to hear dueling banjo's playing in my mind. I'm kicking J under the bar and he is, through- gritted –teeth, telling me to drink the friggin beer- fast and let's get the hell out of there.

Well the band played FreeBird and the patrons yelled "fag" comments over the speaker system to each other. We were appalled. Had we not been severely running the risk of becoming gator bait before the night was over we'd have both pitched a proverbial hissy. Having decided we'd not wish to appear as the victims on an upcoming 48 hour mystery, we left the bar.

Safely in the car and several miles down the road, we do what any good friends would do - laugh and mock them.

August 6, 2007 - The First Day of First Grade

By now you're all familiar with my referring to my youngest daughter or "heart of love". Cheesy, I know but it's what she calls me and now I call her that as well.

Today was her first day of first grade. We got up really early so we could get the hair just right. The outfit was picked the night before, as she is her mother in training and one must learn these things, even at age 6. Pancakes for breakfast, grabbed the new pink backpack and out the door. Quick stop in the backyard for the obligatory first day of school pic and off we go. I wanted to get her to school with enough time for her to scope out the new classroom and the teacher.

We entered the doorway of the class. I could see her expression change and the body language was shouting at the top of it's lungs with fear. She looked up at me, tears welling in her eyes and said "I don't know where to go".

I knelt down, holding her in my arms tighter than either of us probably realized, whispering to her that it was ok to be afraid. I told her that change is scary and everyone else felt just the way she was feeling. It took every fiber of my being not to grab her and run home. A million years of genetically inherited maternal instinct had kicked into gear.

In a split second I'd been able to rationalize (in my own mind) that it would be just fine if she were home schooled, safe with me. She would never be picked last for a team in gym class. She would never be the one not invited to the birthday party. It wouldn't matter if her clothes were cool or not; if the little boys sneaked notes to her in class because she was the pretty girl. She'd be protected and there would be no cause for tears. I knew what I had to do.

I walked her to her desk. They were the hardest steps I've ever taken. After making sure she was settled in and seeing that she'd spotted several children from last years class, I kissed her and said goodbye.

I don't know which of us did more growing up today.

Disquisition on Renovations - Damn You Gorilla Glue

I've mentioned this product in a previous blog, but because I remain fascinated with it, it has again become the subject of another renovation mishap.

Our house is shingled on the outside, sort of Cape Cod style. Beautiful, if faded, painted light blue and smelling of cedar. Upon discovering a stash of unpainted shingles in the basement, I decide that I will frame the top of the laundry room door with the smaller ones, as the walls are shingled and it will match. I had no doubt this plan was just another in a series of incredibly gifted ideas of mine and it started off wonderfully. They always start wonderfully.

My idea was to Gorilla glue them in place, secure with duct tape until the glue dried then nail them in place, paint them to match the door frame and voila! I had my assembly line set up; glue and tape, glue and tape.
My little heart of love then came into the laundry room to ask me a question. As I turned my head my carefully coifed, quasi-Victoria Beckham bangs got stuck in a glob of the damn glue- from -hell. I rushed into the kitchen and began the removal process.

First I washed the bangs with Dawn detergent. No luck. Now the bangs are soapy and glued together. Then I think "Goof Off", it takes off sticky stuff. Wrong. Nothing worked. Not the washing, not the sticky crap remover, not peanut butter –NOTHING. I even resorted to sugar, thinking it would act as sandpaper and just rip the glue out.

There was no other alternative. I had to cut the glue out. Now any woman who spends a fortune on their fake dyed hair will tell you how heartbreaking this was for me. It was like cutting off my own arm. It's expensive and time consuming to maintain blond/frosted hair when your natural color is several shades darker than coal.

I now look like everyone's worst first grade picture. Bangs chopped squarely over my brow as if I were back in my childhood kitchen, perched on a stool waiting for my mother to "trim it a just bit" for picture day at school. It never worked out the way she'd intended and it didn't fare any better this time.

I have decided not to wallow in pity. Instead I will rock those bangs as if they were the height of fashion and I'm the only woman in this town cool enough to carry them off. If any one is ballsy enough to ask: most people who know me would not mention it out of fear; I will tell them I flew to Paris to have it done. It's tres chic and won't hit the states until the fall fashions are shown.

They'll be insanely jealous and I guarantee at least one of them will rush home and chop her bangs, afraid of not being the first on her block to sport a new trend.

Jennifer and Angie: The Showdown

I was reading the ShowBuzz site- so I’m kind of swiping from them – don’t bother to sue me because you won’t get squat. BTW you all should check the site because Andrew is awesome and he likes my writing so the man’s obviously brilliant beyond all comprehension. He’s on my friends list so link to him from there. Tell him I sent you.

So I read the story about Brad Pitt’s mom telling Jen that Brad still has feelings for her and Angie’s all whacked out of shape over it and afraid that Brad wants to go back to Jen. THEN supposedly Brad took Shiloh to see Jen. Oooooohhhhhh nooooooo he didn’t!

Dear Lord in Heaven, I realize that I’ve not always lived a life that would make you proud but if you would just give me one teensy little request……

Please Lord let there be just one big catfight between Jen and Angie. I want these two to run into each other on Rodeo Drive at high noon. Traffic backed up for miles and paparazzi everywhere. I want to see ripped St. Johns blouses and flying Jimmy Choo’s. Hair extensions hitting innocent pedestrians. I want little children crying out “mommy make the mean ladies stop”.

I’m a betting woman, and while I’ll not tell you whether I’m team Angie or team Jennifer, I will say that my hard earned cash is on Angie. She’s just got that crazy look in her eye all the time like she’s going to spontaneously combust. You know she’s as crazy as an outhouse rat. She’ll bend Jennifer Anniston like a pretzel. The paramedics will be picking up pieces-o-Jen off the sidewalk with tweezers when crazy momma gets finished with her.

I’m sorry but I just live and die for this kind of stuff. Maybe I’m a nosy bitch. Perhaps on some unhealthy level I enjoy seeing really beautiful women get some of the crap-o-la the rest of us get. It could be that I enjoy the fact that rich people have problems as well. Who, am I kidding? I’m a nosy bitch.

Today’s sign of the Apocalypse- or how to piss a mom off in 60 seconds:

I'm spending a leisurely, non-renovational (yeah I know not a word) Sunday afternoon parked in front of the TV watching Nickelodeon with "my heart of love".

By 4 o'clock I had watched Drake & Josh, the gosh darned Amanda Show and those annoyingly perky kids from High School musical until I was practically in a coma, so for just a moment I was going to close my eyes and relax. As I did a commercial comes on for…..are you ready?

ENZYTE Male Enhancement. Oh yes, that's what I said people. You heard mamma right the first time. I couldn't make this up. A male enhancement commercial in the middle of programming supposedly geared toward children age 7. I know this because I pay attention to the parental ratings. I'm one of those "hover "moms and proud of it.

I flew from the sofa. Awkwardly leapt is a more precise description but I kid you not, my ass was airborne. That dive from the sofa would've earned me a Silver medal on its difficulty factor alone. I could not reach the keyboard fast enough. Being the hippie minded I can move mountains kind of woman I am I whipped off a sternly worded email to Nickelodeon and Viacom. Had it not been Sunday I'd have called both corporate offices. I was livid.

I'm telling you now people, in print. If that commercial airs again during children's programming I will call both Nick and Viacom corporate headquarters and ask that the CEO please come to the phone and explain the product to my 6 year old daughter and why he felt it advantageous that it air during children's programming.Then he gets to speak to me...

When I finish unleashing my "verbal castration" on this misguided, money grubbing corporate executive he'll never have use for a product of this nature cause you just wouldn't fertilize a dead tree now would you?

A break from the renovations: My dating rant…or please date like a grown up.

A new acquaintance of mine is trying to set me up with her cousin. She just knows that we'll be perfect for each other. (Sound familiar ladies?)

I met this woman at a neighborhood meet and greet a few weeks ago and I believe she's taken it as a personal mission to fix me up. From the minute she described her cousin I was not impressed but because first impressions –especially second hand ones, are deceiving I was considering it. (Coffee first ladies- no night time dates- safety first)

My first rule is to go out with someone twice. Unless they're totally obnoxious or offending in some way, everyone can have a bad day, not everyone makes a first good impression and is usually nervous on a first date. If everything you were unsure of on the first date proves true on the 2^nd date then it's just not going to work.

I'm not much on dating because I still get nervous like a high school girl and like most women convince myself from the get go that he's just not going to like me. But that's not what really stops me. This is what stops me…. (*Disclaimer* this does not apply to all men and I'm not a man basher. There are wonderful, mature men out there who appreciate and respect women.)

This is how the scenario goes. They tell their friend about this bright, interesting, intelligent woman they know and they just have to meet her. They'll just love her! Then we meet. Well hell, I'm what they just traded in after X years of marriage. It's not that I'm unattractive but they're looking for babe material. They're looking to trade up. I'm what they just divorced. They're middle aged (like me) but want you to look 25 but still have the brains of a 47 year old. Well hell I'd like a go at Johnny Depp but ….I digress.

NOTE TO MEN - it shows on your face when we meet you. You'll either need to work on better disguising your facial reactions or make it clear to your friends that you don't wish to be fixed up with anyone older than 30- 35.

I'm a petite woman and try to always look good but I'm still in my late 40's. Not the Hollywood 40's- the real world 40's. And I've had two children –do the math. There are times I've described my body as sort of like watching a lava lamp. Slowly moving in directions dictated by gravity but still amazing to watch. (Taking dramatic license here folks, work with me)

It has an interesting beauty. It's given birth to humans and nursed babies. How cool is that? I understand that physical attraction is an important part of the way humans work but does it stop there?

I'm amazing, funny and really bright. I have all of my own teeth and can grasp the meaning of many multisyllabic words. I'm a wonderful mother and loyal friend. I use the proper utensils and have not been asked to leave even one of the finest and oldest restaurants in the country (Antoine's still being one of my favorites) for any type of slovenly behavior. I can speak intelligently on a number of subjects and keep abreast of current events and don't own a single tube top.

This leads to the 2^nd rant:

Do not assume that because there is a child involved that we're looking for a meal ticket. I support my child and she's a lucky little girl. Luckier than most. I'm financially responsible for her and that's the way I like it. It makes me feel good to be the bread winner.

It makes me empowered and is a life lesson for her. She's proud of me. Besides, you should be able to spot a gold digger when you see one or you're dating with blinders on. Many of my girlfriends are telling me the same thing. We feel as if we've reached the "invisible" age. Not old enough to be respected for our wisdom but not young or attractive enough to be dateable.

I went through a stage where I had a face full of Botox and at one point had so much Restylane injected into my lips and around my mouth that I could hardly move my face. Sure, I was wrinkle free and had big fat movie star lips but lost all the character in my face. I wasn't me. I couldn't laugh with the same bravado that I love in my laugh.

Now I'm not saying I wouldn't do it again at some point and believe me when finances allow I'm all about getting some stuff nipped, tucked, lifted, repositioned or well hell, they can just pull it all to the top of my head, lob it off and make a new person out of the extra skin! Clone me, whatever. I did it so I'd feel better and look rested but I won't do it to be dateable. If and when I ever meet Mr. Right, Mr. I want to spend the rest of my life with this man then I'll have it all done and and know that he fell in love with me.

This is not a solicitation for dates by the way - just another one of my running commentaries on life as I see it so it must then be an authoritative observation right?)

But it has been on mind since my friend has been killing herself to set me up and this blog is basically a long winded response to the question I hate most from people. What's a pretty, smart woman like you not doing dating? I just can't believe someone like you doesn't have men ringing the phone off the hook. I'm tired of being told to get out there. Jump in the water -get your feet wet, etc.

This needs to be said to my sisterhood of middle aged women. The women, who get together on the weekend and see movies, play cards, or just make margaritas and tell bawdy jokes. Single moms like me who get together and bring our girls to a museum (which Logan hated and told me she didn't even know who Rembrandt was so why did she care what he drew?), art gallery or symphony so they'll grow up to be well rounded intelligent women.

You are awesome. I am one of you. I am so proud of who you've grown up to be….wrinkles and all.

Disquisition on Renovations – Or how two idiots fixed a house. - Installing a window unit

Because it's 2 story house with only one central air unit installed and the undisputed fact that heat rises, the upstairs gets unbearable in the summer. So after approval from the God forsaken "Historic Committee" we were able to install a window unit in my bedroom and in my daughters room IF they were in side window not easily seen from the street. (like I'd slap them in the front windows like white trash, please people).

First of all the bedrooms in question are on the second floor and the a/c's we bought we're in the basement. That means I have to carry these puppies up two flights of stairs and they weigh I think about 50 pounds a piece. On the one hand I'm ready to pass out by the time I carry the second one up,but on the other hand I'm proud of the fact that I'm physically able to do it without having a stroke. (again people, it's the small things in life that make you proud)

Now the units are un-boxed and sitting on the floor of their respective rooms.
First gripe - Note to the writers of instruction manuals. Could you just keep it simple? I need you to write your instructions as if a three year old is going to be installing your product. That and the fact that there are little baggies of screws and bolts-none of which are labeled. Your supposed to compare them to the drawing on the instruction page and know which ones to use. Well I'm here to call a Bullshit on that. Just label them.

2nd gripe - Stop it already with the "Three Simple Step" slogan. I've realized this is a Satanic marketing tool and never to be believed.

I take a break for a much needed cup of coffee because I realize that after hauling 100 pounds of stuff up from the basement, each of this now has to be lifted into the windows.
*It's at this point in time I'm thinking that I should be practical about life and consider getting married again. Not so much for love, companionship or even to have a positive male influence for Logan but purely because I'm tired of hauling stuff by myself.* I also go back to my rant about beautiful women not having to do things for themselves. I can't help believing that if I looked like Nicole Kidman someone burly would be installing these for me.

So my mother and I actually manage to decipher the instructions, drill the braces into the window frames ( again through whatever miserably hard wood this house is constructed from) and get the darned things in the windows. To date, this has been the simplest project. And they work! We didn't trip any breakers with our faulty work and we didn't burn the house down from power overload.

Why we don't hire someone you ask.First, like all single moms I'm on budget that doesn't have the ability to budge. The president should hire me to handle the deficit in this country. I can trim a budget folks. But I realized. It's not just about the money. It's about showing an adorable 6 year old that if you put your mind to something, you can do it. That if your lucky you'll have supportive people around you who will be there for you but at the end of the day your survival is up to you.

Now do I wish I didn't have to go it alone all the time? Sure but I knew when I chose to have her that it would be just the two of us. Going it alone and making it work. My mom moved in after she retired and now we're three woman making it work-getting it done and hopefully setting a good example for my little one.

Single moms everywhere should pat themselves on the back every day. I now have another accomplishment added to my resume of life. I did break a nail in the process but that now entitles me to go have them done today. There will be no renovation work today. My daughter and I are going for manicures and if I've ever deserved one it's today.

Disquisition on Renovations – Or how two idiots fixed a house. Lock installation.

July 9, 2007 - Monday

The locks on our entry doors were horribly inadequate. They're original to the house and apparently no one broke into homes in the 1920's because this thing was pitiful. I've seen stronger locks on little girls' diaries.

I purchase my deadbolt kit (at Home Depot) and my "shoppers" have told me it's the simplest to install. Piece of cake. All I have to do is unscrew the old locks, pop this bad boy in and presto, instant security. I have no doubt that I can do this as the label says "Simple 3 step process". I've attended an institution of higher learning. I can handle 3 steps.
These locks took 2 days, 4 pots of coffee, 2 Klonopin and a Red Stripe to install.

The three step process should be 4 steps and read:
1. Find a hammer.
2. Hold hammer firmly in both hands.
3. Beat yourself in the head with hammer until you lose consciousness.
4. Call a locksmith.

To begin with I install the lock backwards with the screws on the outside of the door where any 13 year old hoodlum with a pocket knife can easily access what I'll now refer to as my "palatial estate". I realize my mistake and reinstall in what I think is a correct manner only to find that once installed the key won't turn the lock meaning, (and I know this now) that I've not aligned the inside properly. I'll cut to the chase. I finally take the deadbolt off and use the lock system from another door in the house and later installed the deadbolt on that door where it worked like a charm.

Now I'm worried that I still need more protection on this outside door but I'm feeling good about life because I happen to have one of those nifty locks they have on hotel room doors left over from another house. The type of lock that would let you get the door open but this little gadget would catch and you couldn't open the door any further. Sort of like an old slide bolt but fancier.

After an hour of trying to drill through the toughest wood ever grown by the hand of God, I get this installed. I yell for my mother and daughter to come to see my handy work and sing my praises. I feel proud. I feel strong. I am woman. My mother walks to the door, pulls the newly installed handle and the door won't budge. It won't wiggle. I'm talking it's frozen in place.

I have installed both sides of the lock base to the door frame. We are locked in the house.

I didn't cry. I didn't even curse. I was numb. My mind was racing with a thousand thoughts of how one woman with instructions in three languages and brand new shiny tools could have failed so miserably. I just wanted to protect the people I love and I had let them down. Dejected but still humming songs from Les Miserables I disassembled everything and begin again. Yeah that's right I've got a tool belt and have seen Les Miz. Pretty impressive,uh?

I'm rethinking this whole lock system and am giving great thought to just placing a sign in my yard reading: I have a gun and I don't call 911.

Disquisition on Renovations – Or how two idiots fixed a house

DISCLAIMER: This will be a recurring blog as this process of renovation and redecorating are still in their infancy stages and quite frankly I see no end in site. You are in no way obligated to follow this story as I believe it's more therapeutic for me than it will be informative for you. It will contain no actual renovation tips, know how or any form of construction expertise what so ever. I should start from the beginning.

We live in a quaint, quiet college town in the foothills of the Smoky Mountains. Our house is located in a Historic District, and while my neighbors spend a huge amount of time being impressed by that fact, I simply see an 85 year old house needing massive amounts of TLC. Located on one side of our house is a lovely historic cemetery. On the other side is a 93 year old man. Either way I look…oh, wait that's not nice.

I thought I'd take advantage of my untimely departure from my previous employment to begin with a list of chores and repairs which I felt my mother and I could accomplish before the stampede of return phone calls regarding my resume submissions began arriving……oh, what's that? Oh, just the sound of the phone not ringing. I felt certain that if we stayed within our budget and time frame of the very few weeks before I was hired somewhere fabulous, we could turn this lump of coal into a diamond. (No, I don't smoke crack but you wondered for a minute didn't you?)

So the characters in this drama: My mother: She's 65, on total disability. She's had 2 heart attacks; one stint put in and has many of the ailments which 65 years of life will bring. Yeah, sucks but you move on. Me: I am 46. I stand at a staggering 5 foot nothing and thanks to no on the job nervous binge eating am currently topping the charts 15 pounds lighter than 8 weeks ago. As a result of a car accident I was left with 30% use of my right hand (and of course I'm right handed), and 20% use of my left hand. In addition there is nerve damage which resulted in almost no use of the thumb or forefinger of either hand. (I must say that I've adapted to the point that very few people even notice that I'm doing anything differently). There are things I'll never be able to do again, but you suck it up and move on.

I think physical exertion is over rated. I'm exhausted if a restaurant doesn't have curbside service. Mental exhaustion is finding the perfect jewelry for a new suit and I'm totally drained when I have to switch out the clothes in the closets because the seasons have changed.

I point this out in its entirety so you, the reader can picture a middle aged, maybe not so handy woman and her mother, neither being a specimen of strength, agility, or construction expertise taking on this mind boggling task.

I won't begin this blog-a-thon with any actual story today but rather with just a few things I've learned.

1. Remember to tighten the jigsaw blade BEFORE you turn it on.

2. Gorilla Glue is the stickiest substance ever created by human hands and I'm really not sure why NASA is not using to hold those damned tiles onto the Space Shuttle.

3.When Home Depot assigns two people to help you each time you're in their store shopping you have: a) Spent too much time in there. b) Spent too much money in there. c) Frightened the other customers with your aisle roaming and mumbling to yourself to the point they've actually appointed tool store police to you under the guise they're to help with your shopping so you'll get the hell out there and go home.

My police, uh shoppers, must love seeing me pull up in the parking lot. And finally, yes honey that is you stinking. I'm a city girl and southern. I didn't think we had sweat glands. Wait, I believe they're ceremonially removed around the same time your old enough to attend your first afternoon tea, in July, in New Orleans.

Besides, Southern women don't sweat - we glisten. Well I'll tell you, I'm glistening my ass off now.

Could no one mention to me that I was stupid?

June 27, 2007 - Wednesday

I had considered myself a well read woman and was under the impression that I could carry on a reasonably intelligent conversation. Dare I say I'd fancied myself one pretty smart cookie. As a result I tend to watch way too much History and Discovery Channel. (I know, I should get out more but that's a subject for another blog). So I'm home watching a series on the Theory of Time- cause my social life is a friggin hoot nowadays. But it seems simple enough so I'm gonna hang with him for a minute and see what I can learn. Well this bozo begins to explain how it's possible to time travel into the future and he says "let me show you a simple way to think of it". Well now I'm all in a tizzy cause I know that in the next few minutes the doors of all knowledge will open to me and I will be one with the mysteries of the universe. He begins to stir coffee in a cup and as the liquid spins faster explains that time can move faster and faster just like this coffee so in theory we could individually move within a faster band of time than those around us. Just like the spinning coffee. I swear to the sweet baby Jesus I lost consciousness for a moment. I stared at the television in total disbelief. My brain actually hurt. I couldn't in any form or fashion wrap my brain around what he'd just said. That's when it hit me - I know nothing. I'm an idiot with an IQ a tad above room temperature and no one's had the guts to tell me. If I can't understand coffee spinning in a cup how the hell can I be expected to function on my own? Who are you people to allow me to leave my home unsupervised, operate a moving vehicle or take care of my child? Shouldn't someone be assigned to check on me at regular intervals to make sure I'm ok and not a danger to anyone? You people let me vote. What's wrong with you?

Mean Kids

March 9, 2007 - Friday

Mean Kids My 6 year old has just announced to me that …..(oh, let's call this child Suzy) Suzy hates her. It appears that Suzy is quite vocal about her dislike of my child and it's become lunch room gossip. I asked my daughter if she'd ever done anything to Suzy that may have caused this dislike and was told no, she couldn't think of anything but that Suzy had not liked her since the first day of school. Let me briefly describe my youngest child. She was born with a Zen like calm that I realize now is God given. It can't be taught or learned. If there's ever a female reincarnation of the Dalai Lama, it's gonna be this child. I'll admit that I'm everywhere. I'm out there and in the middle of it all. She is the anti-me. She is the calm center of the storm. That's what makes this so surprising to hear. I took her onto my lap. I wiped her sweet angel baby tears away and. This is what I said: Honey, I know it's hurtful to have someone not like you, especially when you've done nothing wrong. There will always be people who will love us - just because, and there will always be people who hate us - just because. What you do is try your best and then move on. It's a big world and there are tons of people to be friends with. If you're lucky your entire life will be filled with meeting new people and enlarging your circle.You don't even worry yourself with that silly child. You just mark Suzy off your list. This is what I meant: Honey, Suzy is a little slut. I know this because her mother is a slut. All the mommies talk about her. Also, have you noticed that she has beady little eyes? No, well that's a sign of rampant stupidity and she's wearing it like the mark of the beast. You just don't worry yourself with Suzy. She'll be pregnant before her senior prom and her claim to fame will be the meth lab explosion that levels her trailer to the ground.

I was wrong....

I was wrong

I realized that I have in fact called out people by name in my blogs. I had stated in a blog earlier today that I had never done so. So realizing that I will in fact " call you out your name" as they say down here, I have a beef with Angelina Jolie never smiling....

Ok Angelina, we all agree the world is terrible scary place and really crappy things happen to wonderful people... but if you feel strongly about it you should stay home instead of showing up at red carpet events to visually mock the unwashed masses who don't appreciate the severity of the situation.

How noble of you to bravely face a life of privilege which enables you to give away vast amounts of money. How exhausting it must be to be so strong in the face of adversity. How horrible to have to prostitute one's self by being paid millions of dollars but alas, how else would you help the world? Enough all ready with the rich people whining…

What a fun place that household must be....."no, not tonight Brad I'm worried about Darfur".

My haters

Re: My Stupid Boy Post

I logged onto myspace this morning like I always do and it appears that some well meaning, blog searching folks took offense to my Kroger blog. I had a knee jerk reaction and deleted some comments from some upset folks (and one not so upset guy-sorry).

If you're in the inner circle of my universe you know that I have an opinion on everything and am an authority on nothing. With the exception of the Dixie Chicks my rants are never about a particular person but more about the mind- set that particular person represents. I have a healthy respect for the pulp wood industry and truly believe that legends of inbreeding taking place in the mountain regions of our country are simply urban myths.

Having said that, if I am in any way offensive to you please click the unsubscribe button and quit reading my blog. My father didn't tirelessly defend New Jersey in the Coast Guard only for me to lose my freedom. (I'd like to point out that New Jersey remains free of communist control thanks in part to his efforts), and as long as I live in the United States of North Mexico I say what I please.

What got on my nerves.....today

What got on my nerves.....today

1. I need for Rosie to STFU. This is a Christian country founded on Christian beliefs. If you lived China you'd kind of have to play along with Buddhist laws, customs, etc. Now I realize that American Christians burns your ass so I suggest you hop the first plane out of the country. You can carpool to the airport with Alec Baldwin and Barbara Streisand.

2. George Clooney will be on Anderson Cooper's show tonight yapping about something. Because I'm basically a shallow human, I will "mute"him and just look.

3. Please for the love of all that is holy, don't ever publish another photo of Lindsey Lohan's crotch.

4. And last but not least....The Dixie Freakin' Chicks. If this crew were performing a free concert in my back yard I'd burn my own house down to avoid seeing or hearing them. I think Natalie and Rosie should form a fat-assed duo and take their piece-of-crap show on the road. First stop -France.

We're fighting over a Tickle Me Elmo?

September 26, 2006 - Tuesday

We're fighting over a Tickle Me Elmo? I read an article recently about some crazy parents fighting over these damn dolls in a store.Some fool pulled a gun resulting in several people being hauled off to jail. Now maybe I'm a different breed of parent cause I'm just not getting it. Aside from teaching our children some bizarre ethics we make asses out of ourselves. Let's see how this work. First, I'm going to get up at the crack of dawn so I can line up in some red-neck "super store" and then I'm gonna whoop some ass for a doll? Uh, no. Now, make it a "Tickle Me George Clooney" doll, modeled by the George himself, as said doll is down the crotch of his Calvin Klein's and then we'll talk kicking some ass for a toy. Until, then I'm sleeping in.

Pretty Girls Don't Have To....

I recently made a purchase which for me at "five foot nothing" I'd consider large. As I hauled the box into my shopping cart, pushed it breathlessly towards the checkout and loaded into a 2001 Hyundai, I must have passed a dozen men working in the store. So I had to ask myself "Would they have let Nicole Kidman walk through the store with this box"? Let me answer.....I'm going with a no on this one.

Not because she's famous, ok. Lot's of people are famous. It's because she's beautiful. Think about the beautiful girls in high school or college. Think they're carrying on their own boxes? Have you ever seen a beautiful woman shopping on the dented can aisle at the grocery? See, I'm right!

In all fairness there was this one guy who looked as if he may have been raised properly and for a moment he looked as if he were going to help me out. Then when I passed him he simply nodded as if to confirm that I did in fact have enough ballast in the ass of my Levi's to counter any weight from the box. Now if Nicole Kidman had been trying to carry a thimble to her car twenty men would've tripped over each other....

The Stupid Boy

March 7, 2007 - Wednesday

The Stupid Boy I make no bones about telling me age. It's 46 and for better or worse it just is. I don't have a problem with the fact that I look 46. I won't be mistaken for a 30 year old and that's ok. I did not think that I'd be mistaken for a senior citizen but that's exactly what happened to me. I'm in the checkout line at Kroger and when the young man swipes the Kroger card he asks if I'll be using a "Senior's Discount" today. I said "no honey I'm not senior citizen, I must just be having a bad day". There's an audible gasp from the two men standing behind me and they actually took a step back in anticipation of the ass whooping I was surely going to put on this young man. No one wanted to get caught in the Kung Foo like crossfire they were sure was going to ensue. This inbred, slacked jawed, mouth breathing young man didn't even understand what he had done. He sort of shrugged his shoulders and began scanning the groceries There is a point to this rant, and it's not my being insulted. I'm not. I don't walk the floor at night wondering what people think of me and praying they'll think I'm "cute". What concerned me about this entire incident is the blatant stupidity of some people. (He'll clearly never do well with women). I realize he's being raised by out of work pulp wood workers. I can also appreciate that had his mother been able to outrun her brother he'd have never been born but……oh, I digress. This is my time proven advice. When in doubt –lie. Lie like you've never lied before. Lie like you're Bill Clinton under oath. If I mention to you that I'll be using my Senior discount, please have the decency to look shocked. Beg to see my I.D. and then swear it's a fake.

Ladies..Oprah is not just -like- you....

March 15, 2007 - Thursday

Oprah Ladies..Oprah is not just -like- you....She is not your friend either.You watch her show and gaze at her as if she were the second coming but she'd pass you like a freight train on the street if she saw you. I suppose I stopped watching her show when she preached to me one too many times, that I should "find my inner self". That she's only the person she is today because she made time to be her own person and work on herself. She took the time because she deserves the time. Well, let me hit you with a big news bulletin Oprah. Most of us don't have time to work on anything except brushing our teeth before we drop into bed at night. We don't have time to converse with authors or celebrities.Deepak Chopra doesn't hang out in my neighborhood. There's no self proclaimed guru sitting on my sofa helping me to experience "my genuine self". Now if that same guru wants to follow me into my laundry room and fold some towels while we discuss ways for me to get in touch with my warm fuzzy side then I say bring it on. Look, I appreciate that Oprah spends the better part of her day running an empire. I too have an empire to run. My empire consists of a single parent home, a full time job, a pile of bills and a 6 year old. I manage everything by myself and do it wearing lipstick. I'm amazing and unlike Oprah's Harpo organization I am a one woman organization. Oprah is not just like me but I am more like Oprah than she could ever imagine.

Hi it's me.

I blog because I think and reason, bitch and complain. It then magically finds it's way from my brain to the keyboard. There's no theme here and my initial posts will be from my journal of blogs so that's the reason for the huge posting today. I've decided to put everything here in one place so you can get a feel for the way I write.

I suppose it's situational writing. Sort of like a situational comedian. I can, if necessary, write on a topic given to me but unless it has a spin on it that intrigues me, it just won't really have my heart in it.

I have an opinion on almost everything and even those that I don't give a fig about will strike me on a level which compels me to write about it.

Don't me unkind. If you don't care for my writing style, lack of proper punctuation or views, I encourage you to move on to a blog of your liking. It's more of what I think....

For the record, I prefer to write in Tahoma, which is not an option here and I feel compelled to justify the type. Obviously one compulsion not worked out in therapy. I know you couldn't care less.