Bedtime T.V.

7ft long

4ft high

800 lbs

Can move over 30 mph

Can you guess what it is?    And no, it’s not a new Uber-Smart Car.  Give up?

Wild hogs!  Texas is having a scourge of these wild hogs.  And last night, while I lied in bed…listening to the sounds of scuffling outside… I watched a show about these wild hogs. I watched as they terrorized small children.   I watched as they destroyed cars that contained food. I watched as they barged into homes of unsuspecting English teachers, destroying books in their wake (Ok, I made that up).

I have to admit, I’m a big scaredy cat. I really am.  I startle easily and have an overactive imagination. Talk to me about ghosts or aliens and forget it- I’m done for the night.  In fact, I’ve often snapped at The Boy for scaring me.  On his behalf, many of the times he scares me are based basically on him living in the house with me.  I scream when he calls my name. I jump when he walks passed a room I’m in.  I hyperventilate when he hides behind a door in a dark room and jumps out in an attack-stance.

Recently, I haven’t been able to sleep very well, so I’ve started watching television.  In truth, I very rarely watch anything, so it helps me kinda zone out and start to drift off.  But recently, evening programs have become a problem.  I refuse to watch Jersey Shore or anything else like that.  I can’t do it. Call me an elitist.  Cannot.  It’s left me in a conundrum.  Stay awake or watch t.v and stay awake. As a result of my veto of shows that capitalize on my generation acting like imbeciles (by the way, my 7th graders hope to be them one day.  It makes my soul cry),  I’m stuck with shows like Infestation and When Simingly Safe Things Kill You.  Wonder why I can’t sleep at night.

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“Where do you put the apostrophe in ‘wed’?”

“That’s a contraction?  I thought it was a name. Like a Chinese dude. ‘Dey always have weird names, ya know?”

“Ok…. how do we fix ‘weve’?”

“My auntie’s a hairdresser. She do it.”

:bangs head on projector cart:

I wish I made these things up.  But I can’t.  I don’t have the brain to do that.  As it stands, my brain has turned to scrambled eggs.

I’ve found a new personal torture system.  It’s called 7th grade research projects.  No matter how organized I tried to be, I stilled ended up with 32 students screaming my name throughout our time in the library. “Miss, I have a question. Miss, help. Miss, I don’t understand. Miss, miss, miss, ” Aaggghh!  The outline has us doing this 2x a week for the next 6 weeks.  Heaven help me.

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Bone Collector

I nearly died.

A few nights ago it was raining armadillos and bluebells (that’s how it happens down here) outside, and I was driving.  And it was dark. And Houstonians don’t do so well when it’s not sunny out.

I was driving on the highway when a large pickup truck pulled out in front of me from the righthand lane.  I slammed on my brakes to try to avoid ending up in this guy’s glove compartment.

Tires squealed and I was shaken.

Breathe, breathe. Did you pee yourself? Okay good.  Wow, adrenaline makes you kinda buzzy feeling. 

When I regained calmness again, I noticed that on the back of this lifted, chrome grill, double exhaust truck was a huge sticker that said, “Bone Collector”.

Great, I was almost killed by an anthropologist.

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Closet Fun

The Boy is 6,000 miles away right now, and he’s spent every conversation we’ve had mentioning that I should clean out our bedroom closet while he’s away. He feels it will give me a sense of completion.  He has it in his head that I’m bothered by having to go into the spare room each morning to find my clothes. Personally I don’t care.  Perhaps this is what those in therapy call projection?

In any case… I cleaned out the stupid, frackin’ closet today.  Let me preface this by saying that I believe projects like cleaning out the closets in this house is my punishment for living in sin.  Had The Boy and I moved into the house together, at the same time, I would have had a starting point.  But since he was well established, albeit disorganized, I sorta’ melded around his existing set up. In an effort to make this our house, I have been given full rein to do whatever I want. 

So this is what I started out with:

I love him.  I hate his closets.

So I begin with a cheerful heart and a lot of caffeine coursing through my body.  The Boy likes to have his t-shirts hung up. I don’t understand it. But in truth, he gives me any and everything I could possibly want, so I can let the man have his t-shirts on a hanger. Relationships are all about give and take, after all.

Within twenty minutes, I had realized two things:

1.  We didn’t need to buy the 3 packs of hangers….we have plenty.

2. This guy has a lot of freaking t-shirts!

Within forty minutes, my cheerful heart had faded and I was feeling dizzy from the coffee.  I became frustrated. His t-shirts were too long to put on the bottom rung, which was the most convinent place for them and 45% of this closet is too high for me to reach.

Became too annoyed to continue.

So obviously, I decided to quit and eat Skittles.  

Okay, so I took a break, watched some Julie and Julia before deciding that  I could continue on.  Mainly the idea of having all these clothes surrounding me was too much for me to handle.  So after a while, I was able to get a handle on everything.  I moved stuff from my spare room closet into the new one and even got rid of a fair amount of clothes that I can only dream to wear again.  Is it me or do clothes magically shrink over the years in a closet? I just can’t explain the physics of it all.

While I was on a roll, I hit a cog in my wheel.

In one’s closet…where does the traditional African outfit go?  I don’t feel it fits with The Boy’s t-shirts…. though I’m not sure it really counts as his work clothes either. 

I had a similiar issue with his ice skates and snow goggles. Have I mentioned that we live in TEXAS?  I feel like perhaps we could put those up in storage for a while… if only I could reach the attic. (Or was allowed to go up there. The Boy is concerned I will fall through the ceiling.  I would take offense to it, but history serves us well.  I should stay on the ground and out of the attic.)

So, long story short…it took me a couple hours, but I got our closets converted into our closet.  We have unity. We are one. Or some crap like that.  It feels good to get rid of clothes.  I wonder if The Boy will notice that some of his are missing too :) 

So consider this closet finished!  Now don’t think that The Boy’s encouragement to clean it out is just a coincidence.  It’s a darn shame he’s 6,000 miles away and can’t help.  Hmm.

Oh, I also want to mention one more important person in my life. The pup. You’ve heard about her obedience training earlier.  She was eager for us to get up and get working on the house.

So the first picture is the pup before I cleaned the closet. The second is the pup when I finished.


How could I feel lonely with a companion like that?

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Miss Amerikiddingme?

I can be catty.

Ok, I  admit it. I can be.  It doesn’t happen often….probably because I don’t hang out with many other girls.  You know how cattiness is encouraged by other females.

But last night. Oh last night. Last night V.G and I sat around and watched Miss America.  Oh boy howdy!  We critiqued and giggled and mocked while the women pranced around in their high heels and bathing suits. Were we really that far off the mark?

Our favorite of the night were the talents.  She and I both feel awkward when women start dancing by themselves…the ballerinas and such.  Perhaps because I would rather amputate a limb than have to dance/sing in front of others.  But the coup de grace was the ventriloquist country singer. 

Take a moment. Take that in. Ventriloquist. Country singer.  Complete with two country dummies.  Dummies….braids and freckles for the girl…bow tie for the fella.  Creepy eyes for both.

The least creepy pic I could find

And that girl got up on that stage and sang a country song and those dummies sang right along with her.  Bless her heart.

What I learned last night:

  • I have no sense of style (ok, I didn’t learn that last night)  but wow…..evening gowns.  I found only one that I tolerated.
  • Beyond not being tall enough or having enough self esteem, I could never be in a pageant because I certainly do not have an appropriate pageant talent.
  • Ventriloquism dummies make me really uncomfortable.  I’m  certain they come to life at night.
  • I giggled everytime the women said they joined Miss America so that people would take them seriously in their future careers.

Here she comes….

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Astrology Signs

So welcome to a life of personality crises…  you are probably no longer the astrological sign you’ve grown to know and vaguely believe in.

Naturally, the world of Facebook is in uproar…because, well, it’s Facebook. In fact, there is a new element of sadness in my life, because I only learned of the new signs through Facebook.  I don’t want that to be my news outlet.  (I’m not suggesting astrological signs are big news. Please don’t get me wrong.)

In any case, I couldn’t help but think of my brother.  He has a tattoo of Scorpio on his arm.  Well, lo and behold, he is now a Libra.  His natural reaction was, “Well crap. Now what do I do?”  Since tattooing over it is not an option…he’s decided to stay a Scorpio.  I thought that stubbornness was restricted to my sign.  Who knew?

(On a side note, I am still a Taurus. I made it by just a day.  I’m a Mega-Taurus. The original and stuff. Yo.)

I must admit that I did make sure that The Boy was still a Pisces.  Our signs aren’t exactly compatible… since I’m a Taurus and we’re known for being…um… spirited. Our signs are more on the less-likely-to-end-in-a-murder-suicide sorta signs.  Must be love!

To save you a Google search:

Capricorn: Jan. 20-Feb. 16

Aquarius: Feb. 16-March 11

Pisces: March 11-April 18

Aries: April 18-May 13

Taurus: May 13-June 21

Gemini: June 21-July 20

Cancer: July 20-Aug. 10

Leo: Aug. 10-Sept. 16

Virgo: Sept. 16-Oct. 30

Libra: Oct. 30-Nov. 23

Scorpio: Nov. 23-29

Ophiuchus: Nov. 29-Dec. 17

Sagittarius: Dec. 17-Jan. 20

So.  Feel free to hang on to your old sign.  And Pluto is still a planet, dammit.

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Spelling Bee

Spelling Bee from h-e-l, well, you get the idea.

It was like a comedy of errors. The E. W. Scribbs Company would have been outraged.  By the end, we were all trying to maintain our professionalism, which becomes a challenge at the end of the day regardless. 

So, we didn’t have a dictionary, which means that the kiddos couldn’t ask that all important question:  “Can I have the definition please?”  At one point we just started winging it. We knew what the words meant, it just wasn’t a Mr. Webster version. I couldn’t look at the other teachers, because I wouldn’t be able to maintain my composure. Giggles were about to occur.

 By Round 17, we were fairly certain that the spelling bee was never going to end. The words kept getting easier and easier.  At one point a student got “magazine” and he actually rolled his eyes.  Round 8, Round 12, Round 83, Round 183, Round Aggghhhh!

And at the end of the hour…we still have three contestants in the contest.  Due to time issues, we had to finish the next day. After the contest, another student said she spelled a word correctly as well. We went back and one of the judges agreed. So now we have four kiddos to carry on. 

BUT…. when one of the teachers became upset about the whole thing-  I was able to say it…

Bless her heart.

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Disappearing Diamonds

“Oh, hmm… is that diamond on the floor over there? I think I lost it.”

This past weekend, The Boy and I went shopping for engagement rings.  

Going to the store, I was nervous. I’m not a big fan of having direct attention on me, so the idea that I would have people waiting for me to pick and choose and such makes me nervous.  So, needless to say, I was feelin’ a little odd from the get-go.

In any case, we get in there and an aged, long-term smoker began showing us case after case of engagement ring options. Yikes!  She mentioned that they had a new line of rings from _____ (enter well know jewelry maker for movie stars).  I stared at the woman vaguely. We then moved on.

In time, I found a ring band that I truly loved. Swoopy, elegant and unique.  Well, as unique as a ring from a jewelry store gets. And then she starts tossing around diamonds.  She is very casual with them all, whereas I have the ring on my finger and am trying not to move too much. My hand was shaking. We try diamonds. The Boy and I stare at charts of colors, depth and other various lettered things.  We pretend to understand.

At one point, she takes the diamond off the ring and ‘whoops’, diamond is gone.  We search everywhere.  They have employees searching by us, our jeweler is dipping and bending trying to find the lost rock. But still nothing.

The employees start to look at us. We keep looking at everything else. I’m keeping my hand, with the ring still on it, near the counter so no one suspects anything else. Employees disappear to back rooms. I figured we were soon to be dragged to the back. When, voila!  The woman finds the diamond in the front of the container. Apparently it popped in there without her knowing. And The Boy and I got to walk away with all our fingers intact.

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Lost forever

After 121 hours of watching Lost, I have finally completed all the seasons. Gosh, I’m glad that I made it to the end so that it could answer all my questions. Yeah….

The end of the show went something like this-

: Eyes close: Credits roll.

“Wait. Is that it? What happened?” I said with my squeaky, concerned voice.

“Whatever you believe happened,” The Boy replies with his superior understanding voice (I hate that one, by the way.).

:Stomps out of room:

Thankfully The Boyfriend had an element of frustration today as well.  He bought the complete Blu-Ray series before it went on sale. Then, he waited for the box set to be completed, sent and finally recieve it.  Later, he learned that there is a hidden episode included in the set. He waited the four months it took us to watch all the episodes, so that he could finally watch that last kernal of information.  So today, finishing up that four month Lost extravaganza, we watched the four minute clip.  Half of us were amused. The other half was rather frustrated. You can guess which was which. Heehee.

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Monster Truckin’

No longer am  I a city girl. No sir. Now I can pass for a country gal.

I’ve gone to my first Monster Truck Show. Moreso, I was actually cheering.  Even more, I liked it!

Now, heading into this adventure, I was less than excited.  I felt that this was a fair trade for The Boy’s attending The Nutcracker last month.  Even walking in to the arena, I was still wondering what I was doing there.  Granted, I was thinking that as I jogged to catch up to The Boy, who was so excited he actually elbowed a large redne…er.. gentleman.  Boys.

Now granted, I still feel that the Monster Truck Show had a very large collection of sociological mishaps.  But who am I to judge? Bless their hearts. :) ( I learned that phrase down here. I can say whatever I want so long as I say ‘bless their heart’ afterward. This needs to spread north. It’s wonderfully liberating!)

We were just five rows up from the arena, which means we were close enough for me to cringe everytime the truck came barreling toward us.  The Boy found great joy in this fact and drew the attention of those around us. Everyone’s a comedian.   I’m sorry, but if I’m going to die young, it better not be from a piece of debris at a Monster Truck Show  Besides, I’m holding off for a martyr-y death saving a bunch of orphans and puppies from a burning building. I’m vying for that memorial library to be named after me. So yes, I was cringing.

So at the end of the day, I’m a Gravedigger fan. I have visions for a Dinosaurs and Cheese Monster Truck in the future. Yellow Truck. Purple and Green Polka Dots. All tough.

Update on Dog:

We brought her home, went to drop my car off at the dealership, and she promptly pooed on the floor.  She’s never done that before. Neat trick Trainer Guy. Thanks.

Ah yes, the car. I received a letter explaining that they’ve determined the next step in the recall of my car. Recall?  Apparently I got a letter months ago. Hmm. In any case, my power steering may  go out at any moment. They said not to worry. I can turn off my car and try it again. Yeah… try that on a nine-lane highway.

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