RIP, You 80s Dancing Cheesearific Dude...

Patrick Swayze died today. So sad. I mean, it's not many men who can dance all cheesy-like and be totally masculine and completely 80s hot at the same time. He was somewhat of an anomaly, really.

I've seen Dirty Dancing about 18 times. Seriously. My friend Jeanne and I saw it at least 7 times, in the theatre, when it came out my Junior year of high school.

And you know what I learned in all those viewings? One very important thing:

No one puts Baby in a corner.

Words to live by....oh yes...

Holy CRAP, she's good.

I love Rihanna's music, and I'm a piano player since the age of four. I hardly play at all these days, but daaaaamn, this girl makes me want to start playing again.

So ridiculously good.



And, by comparison, here's "Please Don't Stop The Music" by Rihanna.



Go ahead. Shake what your mama gave you. I dare you.

The Pregnant Post

I never thought this day would come, but here it is. I'm writing my official "I'm Pregnant" post. It's a monumental day, full of streamers and parades and - O.K., I'm kidding. I actually have a head cold, I can't take any good drugs for it, and I'm working like a banshee, so no parades. But I am pregnant. Pregtastic. Pregalicious. Preggaleggadingdong. With child. Expectant. Knocked the heck UP.

I'm almost 4 months along now, and I haven't written a lot over the past few months, mainly because I've been preoccupied with the notion of being someone's mother and trying to get through the first trimester successfully, without any issues. I'm also what the medical industry refers to as a "woman of advanced maternal age," so I'm all old and senile and forgetful, apparently, and this obviously affected my writing ability as well. The major plus with being an almost 38-year old hag and pregnant? They dote on you. I've already had four ultrasounds, for chrissake. It's kind of awesome. They make you do genetic counseling and you get to find out how old your uterus really is. Mine turned out to be between 19 and 20, so I was thrilled. I asked the genetic counselor lady if she could also make my body and skin go back to being 19. I didn't have crow's feet then. And my butt was way perkier. But I digress.

So, am I going to be one of those chicks who blogs entirely about her pregnancy and becomes all Kathy Lee Gifford-esque and annoying as hell? No, probably not. But I will talk about it. I figure it's my one and only shot at doing it - this will be my first and last kid, I venture to say - so now that I'm past the first trimester hurdle, I'm just going to enjoy every last weird thing my body is undergoing. But I'm going to be honest about it. That's just my way. My friends tell me that it's a beautiful thing - it's magical and miraculous. I agree on part of that so far. It is incredibly miraculous, and I can't believe I'm actually growing a human right this second and still able to walk and stuff. That sort of blows my mind. As for the beautiful thing? Well, I feel like a bloated cow with borderline narcolepsy. So, if that's beautiful to some people, cool. I mean, whatever floats your boat. I, however, wouldn't necessarily call it beautiful. Miraculous and amazing, yes. Beautiful? Not so much, but I'm not giving up hope.

So there's my pregnant post. Daisywriter - the chick that was nomadic in the city a mere 4 years ago - thrust into marriage with the greatest dude and stepmotherhood with absolutely no training or skill whatsoever - is now going to be someone's Mom.

Holy crap.

Talk about the absolute pinnacle of delicious ambiguity....I just can't wait to meet the little Peanut.

Polish Prince Fabulosity

So yeah. It's been a month since I posted here. And, I'll get to the reason for that soon. But not today. Today, it's all about Prince. My friend Mock pointed out the other day on her site that Purple Rain is 25 years old. So, I'm officially ready for my AARP card.

And, then, my friend Scott sent this video of a Polish jazz group doing Prince's Diamonds and Pearls. Of course, I had to share it with you, my two readers:



I know. It's great. But the best part of his email - and really, the reason behind why we are friends - was when he said:

"If I find out that they produced a jazz cover of P***y Control, I'll let you know."

I really do love my friends.

And they happen in threes....

My partner in crime, Mock, celebrated her 40th birthday yesterday. And you know what that means? Well, besides creating a huge fuss over her (and rightfully so, as you only turn 40 once), it made me realize that holy CRAP, I'm on the slope to 40. Now granted, I'll be 38 in August, but I'm on the slope and gaining speed. It's official.

In addition to the Mock hoopla, Farrah Fawcett died yesterday, which totally sucks. I know she had her "I'm going to do abstract painting with my naked body" phase and appeared to be all druggified in her later years on Letterman and stuff, but I liked Farrah. I liked her because I LOVE Charlie's Angels, as I've always secretly wanted to BE a Charlie's Angel. In fact, I was walking on the treadmill the other night, watching the second Charlie's Angels movie (the Drew Barrymore/Cameron Diaz/Lucy Liu version), and I was asking myself: "Self....I wonder when they're going to come out with another Charlie's Angels movie. It's about time."

And my Self agreed with myself. It is time, indeed.

To top it all off, I get home after an exhausting day of work and birthday fuss to hear from Mr. Daisy that Michael Jackson had died. I was pretty shocked, as were a lot of people. Now, I'll freely admit that I think the dude was a complete vampire-like freak. I know it's not politically correct to say such a thing, as you're supposed to have respect and reverence for the dead. But he named his kid Blanket, and he was weird. You know you're thinking it, too...so don't even try to tell me I'm being snarky here.

I will give the guy credit where credit is due, and that credit for me lies with his music, of course, and the memories his music created for me. Thriller was one of my favorite albums of all time. I wore it out. And, my childhood and teenage years were just FILLED with Michael Jackson music. He personified the 80s. Hands down.

After hearing the news about his death, I called my sister and made the obvious next comment of, "well, you know this stuff happens in threes....so who's the third?"

To which she responded, "Duh...Ed McMahon."

And there's the triumverate. Three very 70s and 80s popular icons. On the day that my best pal turned 40. And the day that I realized that I'm really, REALLY not getting any younger.

With all that said, I look forward to my 40s. They say 40 is the new 30, and I even spewed that to Mock and meant it. I think my 40s will be the best decade yet...

Off to work now, listening to the radio playing softly in the background. Of course, programming has been set to Michael Jackson - all day long.

With that, I leave you my absolute favorite song of his of all time. On that downhill slope to 40, I'd like to at least pretend that I'm still a Pretty Young Thing.

I defy you not to shake it (you know you want to just a little bit):

Funniest Movie of All Time and Space

Husband-man and I went to see "The Hangover" for his birthday last weekend. And, I know I'm not in the business of reviewing movies here on my blog, but I feel compelled to tell everyone how freakin' hilarious this movie was. It was one of those flicks where you are laughing so hard - just in the first 20 minutes - that you're actually sore from laughing when you walk out of the theatre.

It's cinematic perfection. A complete laughing, feel-good, happy, friendfest, what-happens-in-Vegas-stays-in-Vegas good time.

Please rush out immediately and see it before I call you an old sourpuss.

P.S. - Bradley Cooper is yummy.

HOLY CRAP, It's been forever since I've written here....

Yeah. I always have excuses. I have none today, other than the fact that I lunched with the Governor yesterday and managed to kiss him on his actual face (pictured above....I'm on the left, FYI). But other than that, I haven't been doing much of anything lately besides pondering having a personal assistant someday to fetch me lattes while I twirl my imaginary mustache and plan world domination.

So, I'll update you on life and love and dogs and weather and jobs and all that stuff, dear readers. Pack your bags. We're going to spew-town...

First off, my job. I still love my job, love my boss, and love everyone I work with (well, almost everyone), but I'm loving the prospect of Chicks on the Right going places, and the thought of how far we've come in a mere 4 months makes me smile with absolute glee. I usually steer clear of glee, as it seems very clown-like, but this time, it's glee. There's no other way to describe my love for the site, what we're doing, the response we're getting (good and ugly), and the potential for it. Who knows. Life is spectacular in all its delicious ambiguity, after all.

Secondly, my husband turns 46 today. I, on the other hand, am still on the downward slope to 40 - my 38th will be fast approaching here, and that freaks me out a bit. Mainly because I'm faced with shrinking ovaries. But that's neither here nor there. I keep telling Husband-man that 46 is the new 36, and he must remember that both Brad Pitt and Johnny Depp are his exact age. And while they may have more hair, they don't have me as a wife. So he has that, at least.

Third, my puppy Jeb is so brilliant and painfully cute in his floppiness. His feet are as big, if not bigger, than his big, full-grown Great Dane brother's. He is enormous, and he still hasn't achieved the motor skills necessary to use his back two legs individually when he runs, so he instead uses them simultaneously and hops like a huge bunny. He's more than precious, and unlike Zeke as a puppy (he was a raging terror who I couldn't WAIT to see grow up into the wonderful dog he is now), I don't want Jeb to get any bigger. Now I know how Moms of toddlers feel...if you could just stall time and keep them that size for just a little....while....longer...

I went to the Indy 500 with my pal, Miriam, on Memorial Day while Husband-Man was in Singapore on business. It was fun as hell - not what I expected really - even though the gin and tonics really helped with the fun factor and all. Tube tops were a'plenty, and Jim Nabors singing My Indiana Home made me cry. Everything a girl could ask for from her first Indy 500...

Since I've written last, I've also met, and subsequently kissed, the Governor. I've been invited to my reunion (again) and have still not RSVP'd, hoping that I can respond with, "No, I'm sorry, I'll be on Hannity that night in syndication."

A girl can dream, after all.

So, let's recap. The Indy 500 was awesome, my ovaries are shrinking, my husband is getting older, but better, I have assaulted the Governor, my puppy may have rabbit genetics hidden somewhere in the proverbial woodpile, and it's Friday.

It just doesn't get any better than it is right...this...second.

Best Site Ever.

(look at the baby's finger)
A buddy of mine at work sent me this site this morning. If you've seen it, then good for you. I haven't yet, so I almost peed my pants laughing at some of the pictures.

Behold: Awkward Family Photos

God, it's like comic platinum.

Britney, Students, Newt, Bunnies, Reminders, and That Damn Maternal Instinct

This may be one of my longest posts EVER. Way too much to cover, really.

It’s been CRAZY these past few weeks. Between working my day job, going on a girl's trip, wrangling up college kids for finals, grading for another professor who’s sick, putting a lot of energy into COTR, gearing up for spring, and dealing with a new pup, life has been on fast-forward, to say the least.

First off, the Chicago-mid-week-Britney-shopping-eating girl's trip. I and my friends, Mock and Leroy, went to Chicago mid-week last week to catch the Britney Spears concert. Now, I'm not a "real" Britney fan, but I did wear a pink wig (see above) and worked it like going to the concert was my job. I was pleasantly surprised. She doesn't sing, of course, but the choreography and showmanship were plain awesome. It was fun as hell, and despite Leroy being sick, we all managed to have a spectacular time. We even got into the VIP room at the concert, where drinks were 4 bucks instead of 8. Oh yeah...

Jeb, the new pup, started out as a quiet little fuzzy man, and while still brilliant, he’s become a terror just like his brother was two years ago. He especially likes to gnaw on his sister, Tess’, nubbin tail. That goes over well with her. We fully expect him to be doing algebra sometime here soon, as he already knows how to open doors at 11 weeks. Mensa may want to consider its first canine. I’m just sayin.

Last week, I was offered a full-time job at the university. It pained me to have to turn it down – I love that job so much - it’s really the longest I’ve ever held a job. As a contractor/consultant by nature, I’ve always been sort of non-committal with jobs, changing every 6-12 months. But, my teaching gig has surpassed the four-year mark, and it freaks me out a little that I continue to love it more each day. If I was independently wealthy, there’s no question that I would’ve snatched the job up without as much as a blink of an eye. All I can say is that I don’t know how teachers eat. Or buy shoes, for that matter. Money is a necessary evil, and so my part-time-best-job-ever continues…

On the same day I had to regretfully and painfully decline the full-time professorial gig, I had two students tell me how much they loved my class this semester. Not one, but two. In college-age years, this type of feedback is like gold. I told them that I was so happy that they enjoyed my class, but asked in response, did you LEARN something? They assured me that they learned a lot and actually don’t mind writing now (a major feat for engineering students). They enjoyed coming to class and doing the work they thought they’d despise. This mended my broken heart in about 2.5 seconds. It’s the reason I teach, and no money in the world could ever buy the feeling that kind of feedback gives me. If I get one sliver of it a semester, than I know I’m not doing my job in vain.

My new site with buddy Mock, www.chicksontheright.com, is starting to gain momentum. We had lunch yesterday with some of the Governor’s staffers and got a bit of a tip that Newt Gingrich would be at the Capitol yesterday. So, of course we had to stalk him accordingly. We ended up meeting Mr. Gingrich, introducing ourselves, and saying hello to his secret-service-looking posse while handing out cards for our site. It was so political and pomp and circumstance and cool. Absolute cherry-on-top type of day.

When I got home, Mr. Daisy was working, of course. There’s never a dull moment or real down-time at our house – especially now with him singlehandedly finishing our basement, on top of us trying to keep up with 7+ acres of land that needs mowing, planting, etc. I planted my veggie garden last week, and it’s already better than last year’s. I fully expect to be a master planter within the next three years of gardening practice. I may have even missed my calling as a farmer, although I would totally miss stilettos. This year, I’m growing four different types of tomatoes, green peppers, potatoes, onions, and zucchini will be planted this weekend. I used to be addicted to Whole Foods in downtown Chicago. Now I’m becoming Whole Foods. I still can’t keep a houseplant alive, but my garden? It kicks ass.

Mr. Daisy usually mows the back acreage, and I try to do the front when I can. The Dixie Chopper is like riding on a race-car in the world of mowers. It’s actually fun to drive, and so I like taking my iPod out there and mowing like a good country gal. It’s instant gratification. Who would’ve thought?

In the first few minutes of Mr. Daisy mowing last night, he stopped and came inside to let me know that he hit a baby bunny. Our eldest Dane, Brina, “discovered” four abandoned baby bunnies this week, and while we assume that Mama Bunny didn’t just leave for a life of alcohol and prostitution and instead was eaten by a hawk or coyote, the bunnies are motherless now, nonetheless. We made them a shelter out of an old bucket and some dish towels, trying to give them at least some opportunity to fend for themselves, knowing that it’s going to be so difficult for them to survive without their mom. They’re docile and allow us to pick them up. They don’t even scream...it’s as if they like the attention. They are that young. They’re just plain tiny, and it kills me to see them vulnerable to the elements. But I think it kills Mr. Daisy even more.

When people come to our home, they assume that it’s me who’s the big animal-lover. And, I am - without a doubt. Anyone who knows me knows how much I adore animals. When I was a kid, I wanted to be the animal chick on Johnny Carson, for chrissake. But, the funny thing is that Mr. Daisy – tough, Carharrts-wearing, manly-man guy Mr. Daisy – is a bigger softie than me when it comes to animals. He’s the reason we have four dogs – I’m not complaining, believe me, but he would probably have 10 if we had just a bit more acreage.

So, when he came in, somewhat distraught over the bunny, I just felt for him...then for the bunny. The bunny didn’t have any visible cuts, but he was bleeding out of his ears and mouth – which I assume was a sign of a head injury. Obvious internal injuries. Neither one of us could do the “farmer” thing and put the baby out of its misery. It was just too small. I mean, I’m from the city. I couldn’t do it if someone told me how to. And, Mr. Daisy just didn’t have the heart. I asked him, do you break its little neck? How in the hell does someone DO that? Do you smother him? I can't do any of those things! Neither one of us could bring ourselves to do anything, so while I cried like a little girl, Mr. Daisy made him a makeshift bed, covered him with a warm towel, and made him as comfortable as possible. Mr. Daisy would say sweet things to him as we checked on him and periodically pet him. The little guy passed away this morning.

I’m sad about it. I realize it’s a bunny and I get the whole circle-of-life nature crap, but it upset me – more so because it upset Mr. Daisy, I think. I mean, I know I’m the same chick who would shoot a skunk. I would shoot Mr. Rabid "I'm-taunting-you-at-4-pm" skunk man. Without question. But a baby bunny – there’s nothing ominous about this creature at all. Just sheer vulnerability and weakness. Something I hate to see in an animal or a person. And, Mr. Daisy had an even harder time with it, reaffirming once again why I love him and married him. It’s the little things. Diamonds, shmiamonds. The stuff you see in movies? I’ve never been overly impressed by all the "normal couple" stuff. The impress-everyone-else stuff. In this case, it was a little bunny that made me remember why I married my husband. Go figure.

Mother’s Day is this weekend, and while my stepdaughter will be home from her first year of college, both my stepkids will be at their Mom’s to celebrate the holiday. Understandably so. I shall pamper my Mom and Mother-in-law with love and attention (while my sister and husband cook, as I’m a known domestic retard) this Sunday. In addition, I will dote on those three remaining little bunnies and see if I can’t help them in their survival in the wild. There’s that damn maternal instinct again. Life is so awesome that way...one day you’re living in the middle of downtown Chicago, all single and self-sufficient and sans anyone to answer to or take care of in any way. Then, the next day you’re playing Mom to two stepkids, four dogs, and now three homeless and motherless bunnies.

Delicious ambiguity. So delicious, indeed.

My 20-Year Reunion Plot.

Well, I COULD do this. My 20-year high school reunion is this summer. July, I believe. And, I'm on the fence as to whether or not I will attend. I'm not sure if I want to. I'd rather be a fly on the wall. Or, I can do what the chick in this video did. She used a stripper stand in.

The jury's still out, but I do think this is absolutely brilliant.

It's Official. My Puppy is Brilliant.

I know - enough with the puppy stuff already, huh?

I can't help it. My puppy is brilliant. Let me explain. Jeb is only 10 weeks old, and he's only had about two accidents in the house in 7 days. This may not seem like a big deal to the non-puppy-raising person, but it's monumental to an old dog-raising veteran like myself.

Now, if I could just get him to sleep, all would be well.

Regardless, he's brilliant, and his blatant intelligence makes me think that I should've named him Brian:

Speaking of Dogs....

My Dad sent this clip to me today. Love it. Had to share.

The Sun is Shining - and Jeb Lives

Today is a good day. It's Thursday, which means there's only one day to get through until the weekend. It's supposed to be 80 degrees this weekend, which has not happened in Indiana for, um, about 7 or 8 months, I think. I shall use a tiller to prep my garden, plant that said garden, and try as hard as I can to get sunburned and soak up as much Vitamin D as my pale and sun-starved body can possibly handle.

And, all the while I'm doing this and other various errands this weekend, I will be loving on my new pup, Jeb. Yes, I got a new puppy. He was a first-wedding-anniversary/it's-just-time-for-a-new-dog thing. Jeb makes our canine brood's number go up to four. I now have four dogs. I think I wished for this once...in fact, I recall actually saying out loud to someone, "You know, someday, I just want to have a lot of land and about 4 or 5 dogs."

See, kids? Wishes do come true.

As for Jeb, he's a now 10-week old, fawn Great Dane. His paws are huge, he'll surely surpass Zeke (our almost 2-year old Dane) in both height and weight, and I can already see that he's going to always believe he's the size of a Yorkie. Total lap dog.

Enjoy the mooshy squooshiness that is Jeb. You're welcome.

Music for a Rainy Tuesday...

I know this isn't a music blog, nor am I trying to make it that. But, I just can't help it these past few weeks - I've been very music-centric. There are three main reasons I'm posting the following Led Zeppelin song for your listening enjoyment:

1. I'm going to see Britney Spears in Chicago with my two gal pals in a few weeks, and I need to redeem myself with some "real" music. If not, I fear I may become just another chick who wears braided pigtails and Catholic school girl outfits at too old an age.

2. It's raining today, and so this song is apropos.

3. It's a gorgeous song. If you can't feel the pure emotion in it, then you're officially a music tard with no soul.

Ten seconds of fame, and my idea of fun

You know what I think is totally fun? Going through the local, small-town Dairy Queen drive-thru and ordering a butterscotch-dipped cone in a British accent. That is a self-imposed gigglefest, people.

Speaking of funny voices, the powers-that-be at my company asked if I'd be the "voice" of my company and do the voicemail message on my corporate main line. I know this isn't a big deal at all, but I am looking at it as my 10 seconds of fame, especially since I've always considered my voice to be about as professional as a 15-year old boy going through puberty. Now, everyone who calls my company will hear my scratchy voice in its full glory. I didn't get any sort of promotion or extra pay for this monumental task, but I am expecting Husband-Man to start stocking Perrier in the fridge, as I can now refuse well water, since I am a celebrity and all.

You know what else is awesome? Neil Diamond concerts. Since we're on the subject of doing very weird things like ordering Dairy Queen in a hill-jack town in a British accent, Neil Diamond concerts are about as cool. But I've been to three or four now, and they've always been great fun. I grew up on the music. My sister and I were subjected to it at a young age, as my Mother has always believed that Neil was her long-lost soulmate. Neil Diamond is fabulously sparkly, and I love that a good Jewish boy has put out a really great Christmas album. Love.

I was reminded of Mr. Diamond and his cheese-arific concerts when I watched Saving Silverman on satellite the other night. So, now you'll be subjected to the last few minutes of the movie's credits, where Neil Diamond sings Holly Holy with the cast.

You can thank me later. Again.

An 80s Flashback, Rip-off Music, and One Exception, Of Course...

The other night, Husband-Man and I were watching VH1's One Hit Wonders of the 80s. The only thing better than the "countdown" shows on VH1 is the show Tough Love (which has quickly become one of my Sunday night guilty pleasures).

I think I watched numbers 100 through 1, really, and it was truly a divine way to spend a few mindless hours. I love 80s music in all of its bubble-gum happiness. It's a representation of how much that decade totally rocked. You simply cannot deny its sheer awesomeness - especially if you lived through it as a teenager yourself. We had neon, legwarmers, and huge hair. We had Ronald Reagan, which meant that people were living pretty damn well and actually able to enjoy the fruits of their labor. I think I may miss Reagan more than the music, but that just shows my age, so I digress.

Now, I've always been a music person. I keep up with what's going on in the music industry, I know who people are, etc. I'm obsessed with my satellite radio and can't be in a car that doesn't have it for more than five minutes. On top of all of that, I have a 15-year old in the house part-time that keeps me on my toes when it comes to music, whether I like it or not. (I swear to God, I've heard Lady Gaga sing Poker Face against my will about 48,296 times - that is a man in drag, right?).

You know what I've noticed? So many of the popular songs these days are blatant rip-offs of songs in my past. Fergalicious (by Fergie, of course) was a total rip-off of Supersonic by JJ Fad (those girls just faded into obscurity, by the way). Dead or Alive sang "Spin Me Round," only to be completely ripped off by a heavy metal group (OK, I sort of like that one a little on accident) and now butchered by Flo Rida.

There's "sampling" everywhere you turn, and my stepson and his friends have absolutely no idea that a lot of what they're listening to is just recycled music wrapped up in their millenial packaging.

With all of this to slightly irritate me, there's only ONE exception of the remake gone good. And, of course, that's No Doubt in their remix of "It's My Life," which just happens to be one of my favorite songs of all time - then and now.

Lucky for me, the old version was in the VH1 countdown, and lucky for you, I'm posting a merging of the two versions. Kind of weird, but kind of cool. Happy Good Friday. Time to tease my hair now.

Crazy Days Call For Some Juno

Today was crazy and jam-packed full of too much crap. So when 7 pm rolled around and I saw that Juno was playing again on Cinemax, I of course had to plop my butt down and partake in the cinematic genius.

I'm a sucker for a cute ending.

Tomato Juice, Harassment, and Confirmation That I'm An American Patriot

This morning, I woke up in a Toronto hotel. And, my journey here was a long, weird, and very uncomfortable one, to say the least. In fact, I can't wait to get the hell HOME. God, I love America.

I'm on business again, and while I always hate traveling for business, this trip has already given new emotional, amplified meaning to the word "hate."

It all started when I got on the Air Canada flight to get here. First of all, the plane was no bigger than my Mazda, I don't think. It was tiny. In fact, my laptop bag couldn't even roll down the aisle, as it was too skinny to barely accomodate humans walking down it. I was wearing a white sweater - a beautiful, oversized, cable-knit white hoodie that I just love. Well, DID love, anyway. On every single flight I take, I always order tomato juice. (I'm sure you can see where this is going.) This flight was no exception, and the stewardess (I know I'm supposed to say flight attendant, but this one was a stewardess, believe me) brought me my tomato juice. Only, she didn't just bring it to me. She poured it all over me. Tomato juice - meet my white sweater. White sweater - meet tomato juice. Lovely.

So, I remain cool and smiling. I figured this was an accident, so there's no reason to become a raging bitch. However, she didn't even apologize to me. Not an, "Oh my goodness, I'm so sorry...let me get you some towels." I was sitting there, in my pool of tomato juice, trying to get it off my sweater with a beverage napkin that had about as much absorbency as a piece of baby hair.

Thanks for flying Air Canada!!

I get off the plane, looking like I murdered a small animal with my bare hands. I'm OK with this, beyond being self-conscious at this point, and I go through the cattle lines of customs. After waiting for about 20-30 minutes with people staring at my red-stained white sweater, I get up to the customs counter and the customs Nazi beyotch starts asking me all sorts of questions. I answer happily, politely, and she continues to be a an obvious "I-hate-my-job-so-I'll-be-horrific-to-you" kind of gal. "What are you doing here? Why are you doing it? You're a consultant? What exactly are you teaching while you're here? Have you ever been here before?" You know the drill. And, I respect that she doesn't want idiots in her country, so I obliged with my detailed answers - all done with a smile.

I figured all was well when she marked my customs paperwork and sent me on to the next step. As I was cluelessly walking towards the final customs Nazi to let me through to baggage, she flagged me and motioned me to go to Immigration. This is where the real fun began.

So, I walk over to immigration like a hardened criminal that had just murdered a small animal with her bare hands, of course. They push me on through to this other room with about 12 immigration officials. This really fat dude motions me to come up to his window, I do, and then he starts with the most inappropriate line of questioning I've ever encountered in my 37 years.

First, he made fun of my name. Now, I know I've never divulged my real name out here, but I happen to go by two names and they resemble a name you'd see on the show "Petticoat Junction." I'm O.K. with this. I kind of like my little country-like name. And, it really wasn't this fat bastard's place to make fun of it, but I let him, because he was the only thing standing between me and my hotel room.

His first question, "So, (insert my Petticoat Junction Name here), I bet you're a Daddy's girl just hearing THAT name."

I wasn't quite sure how to respond to that. Strike one.

Just some of the other wonderful tidbits in my conversation with him (and this is just the tip of the iceberg):

Him: "If you just agree with everything I say, then you can get out of here easier."
Me: "Um, alright."

Him: "Is that last name of yours a married name? You don't look like you've popped out a bunch of kids yet."
Me: (biting lip...fake smiling)

Him: "You have some pretty white teeth - your Daddy pay for those?"
Me: (more fake smiling, and 100% sure I could deck him and outrun the fat bastard)

Him: "So, you're a Consultant? We have about as much regard for those as we do attorneys around here....yeah, you're at the bottom of the barrel."
Me: (still fake smiling and seething with anger)

Him: "You realize why you're in immigration right now, huh? We don't take too kindly to anyone who may be wanting to take one of our jobs here in Canada, just like you guys in America probably don't want people taking your jobs - especially in your economy right now."
Me: "Yes, sir." (thinking: why in the SAM HELL would I want to come LIVE HERE AND WORK HERE, you bloated, ignorant moron?)

Him: "So, you've NEVER been to Toronto? How OLD are you? 37? And, you've NEVER BEEN HERE? Have you been living under a ROCK?"
Me: "No, sir." (Thinking: Yes, because you've been such a wonderful representation of this country and I'm just SHOCKED that I never, ever want to come back to this hell hole of a Nazi regime....but you're right, I'm sheltered. Now go home to your two cats and eat a dozen donuts while you wallow in your loneliness, you prick.)

And, this was just part of it. There were also comments about my hair, my American-jet-setting appearance (which I find hilarious, seeing as how I looked like a tomato-juice-covered hobo by this point), questions about whether or not I was married, had kids, had animals, other jobs I had, what I taught, where I live, etc. etc. etc.

I'm sure there are some really nice people in Toronto. I'm sure it's a beautiful place, even though I'll only get to see the inside of a hotel today. And, you know what? I don't give a crap...because I want to go home. To America. Today. I'm an official, American-loving, capitalist pig of a chick. A dirty American consultant.

My husband says I should file a complaint. I think I'll do that, but only when I'm safely the hell out of here.

I'm counting the hours.

GOD. BLESS. AMERICA.

Yet Another Reason Why Florida Sucks Monkey Poo

We still have a good 5+ months to go before SEC football starts, but I thought I'd go ahead and just remind everyone that Florida sucks.

Um, yeah.

BEST Movie of All Time

Because I recently posted a one-minute version of Forrest Gump - the second best movie of all time, I figured that the BEST movie of all time also deserved a nod. This version is what the last 20 minutes of Shawshank Redemption would be, had it been made in 1983. Totally AWESOME (I think that may be Frank Stallone singing...).

Awesome 80's Montage: Shawshank - watch more funny videos

You Keep That Change. I Just Bought A Gun.

In my 37 years on the planet, I've probably not really liked guns for about 34 of those years. I mean, they kill things, and I've never really been a huge fan of killing. That is, until I met with my arch nemesis, Mr. Skunk, about a year and a half ago on my new property. For those of you who don't know the story, here's the Reader's Digest version: When we first moved into our country home, my sweet boxer, Tess Larue, went outside at 5 am to do her morning business. My dog is enough reason to believe in God. She's a ball of unconditional, sweet love, uber-friendly to all creatures. She probably saw a shadow lurking on the side of the house and thought, "hey, that could be a friend...I should greet that new friend in the U-formation (this is when she is so happy that she greets you with both her ass and her face simultaneously)." I can see her doing this exact thing, and then Mr. Skunk looks at her and immediately sprays her with his skunkified butt juice in hasty retort. Regardless of what actually transpired that day, Tess was not only physically harmed, but I believe she was emotionally scarred. She was just trying to be a neighborly little gal, and Mr. Skunk went all prick-face on her. Not cool, Mr. Skunk. Not cool at all.

Is this a reason to kill him? Perhaps it's not quite enough, but when I saw him on the back two acres at 4 pm on a sunny September afternoon, I knew that he was up to no good. They're nocturnal, and he was taunting me. Just staring at me with his little skunk eyes, as if to say, "the sweet little Dane puppy is next, beyotch." Since that day, I've vowed to shoot him. I actually looked at him and said, "I will kill you, you little sh*t."

The timing is right, I guess. Since Obama's been in office, gun sales have gone up in a crazy way - mainly because there's been talk of his administration trying to outlaw certain types. Even if I didn't always aspire to having a gun, the notion of the RIGHT to have one being taken away was enough to make me want to buy one. Yesterday. First, it was that dirty little skunk. Then, it was our current President who pushed me over the edge to finally get one.

So, I am now the proud owner of a brand-spanking new, beautiful rifle with a kick-butt digital scope. I plan to go to my local military base and take a class on proper care, firing, and respect of my firearm. And then I shall show Mr. Skunk that I mean business.

Next on the list? The Chanel gun-shoe, of course.

Second Best Movie of All Time

If you've read my blog, you know my obsession with the two best movies of all time: Shawshank Redemption and Forrest Gump. Of course, my third favorite is probably Almost Famous, but that's a whole other genre in itself.

I've been so busy these past few weeks that I've not been able to sit down and watch Forrest Gump on AMC or TBS (because it's on just about every other weekend, as you know). As a result, I've resorted to this version - the minute long one.

Go ahead. Enjoy it with me.

Forrest Gump in One Minute, in One Take - watch more funny videos

The Shamwow Song

Husband man and I went to the Indy Home Show several weeks ago. The only thing I cared about and/or wanted to buy was ShamWows. I'm completely obsessed with them, and they're everything they have been advertised to be.

So, you can only imagine the sheer joy I experienced when Husband man pointed out to me today that there's a new video to further elevate the ShamWow status.

Behold - the ShamWow song. Again, you can thank me later.

One week down, and having No Doubt....

It's been a week since I started www.chicksontheright.com with my pal, Mock. So far, so good. We've even sent an email to Jeb Bush, and he ANSWERED us. I believe he may be reading the site right this second. In fact, he may be reading THIS site right this second, which means he's going to be able to jam out to one of my favorite songs.

In honor of our first week of trying to re-brand the conservative party, I am going to buy tickets to see No Doubt this summer. I'm giddy. While at the Gwen concert almost 2 years ago, my buddy Leroy and I proclaimed that we'd absolutely see No Doubt when they reunited. Now we have our chance.

It's a good Friday. Enjoy some Gwen. You can thank me later.

MAJOR, Life-Altering Announcement.

And let me just start with NO, I'm not pregnant and announcing it through the blogosphere before alerting my husband.

And, OK, so it's not THAT life altering....but still kinda neat.

I've started a new website - a very cool little blog that I'm quite proud of so far. Now I know you're asking yourself, "Why, Daisy? I mean, you're already working a full-time job, a part time job, and you have taken on the grading for a whole other class, making that a grand total of 2.5 jobs. Plus, you have a little bit of a life outside of all those jobs and commitments and need to pee every so often. So, WHY on earth would you take on something as major as this fabulous new website?"

Because, quite frankly, I'm nuts. And more so because SOMEONE had to do it. In this case, two people are - me and my fabulous friend, Mockarena, who I've plugged shamelessly (www.mockdock.com) numerous times in the past 6 months.

The site is www.chicksontheright.com.And, there's the first plug of many for it. It's the result of several lunch conversations between Mock and I - ones about the demise of foundational values in this country – values such as hard work, self-responsibility, and the capitalist notion of less government interference. We both realized, after several run-ins on The Mock Dock, that people tend to get their proverbial panties in a wad when you criticize liberalism these days. And we also realize that conservatives currently have a really bad rap.

So we have decided to do our part to help re-brand the conservative party by starting www.chicksontheright.com, a political blog that freely pokes fun at the political process and all of its related people and parts. We don’t profess to be political experts or economists or anything other than two hot chicks who like to tell people what we think about stuff.

So, if you read my blog - all three of you - and you haven't heard about the new site from me spewing about it verbally, check it out immediately and visit often. I shall always remain loyal to my own little personal ranting blog, but I'm looking forward to making www.chicksontheright.com an underground voice for conservatives in exile. After all, NO one puts baby in a corner (there's the picture reference, in case you were wondering why Dirty Dancing is there).

Last shameless plug (today). I promise. www.chicksontheright.com

Supergroup or Springfield and Skinny Tie Revival? You decide.

I stumbled across a video of a new band, Tinted Windows. All the members are from older groups - James Iha from the Smashing Pumpkins, the drummer from Cheap Trick, and of course, Taylor Hanson. I mean, it's not a band until you have a Hanson, people. Honestly.

I'm not going to be terribly Judy Judgmental, but the host dude (Godwin Alexander) is slightly creepy. And, James Iha is looking too much like Yoko Ono's elder sister. He needs a haircut. Pronto.

However, little Taylor Hanson is sort of John Taylor'esque, reminiscent of Duran Duran back in the skinny tie and Dep hair gel days. I can't deny his cuteness, but it's the kind of cuteness that only an 11-year old boy should have.

The music...I'm not sure. You can decide for yourself, but I'm in complete denial of the fact that one writer compared this "supergroup" to the likes of Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young. I'm just going to block that out. PUHLEASE.

Behold the cheese and Rick-Springfield-like feel. A swell "group of terrific guys," indeed....

Random Acts of Karma

Last week, Husband Man was at a retail store and found a wallet in the parking lot on the way back to his car. He picked it up, looked in it, and noticed that there was around 400 bucks in it. So, like any normal person, he strolled back into the store and turned the wallet in. When he got home, he told me about finding the wallet, and I said, “well, honey…..that’s good karma; it’ll come back to you.”

Fast forward to this weekend. We were supposed to go to the Japanese place, and we had even agreed to use that nice, crisp $100 bill that his mother slipped into our Valentine’s card. We were set to watch an onion fireball and everything when Husband Man threw a curveball at me.

“Hey babe, why don’t we just take 100 bucks and go blow it at the casino?”

To start, Husband Man and I are NOT gamblers. In fact, I’ve only been in a casino one time, and that was to basically hold my mother-in-law’s purse while she gambled and I watched in horror at how much a person can lose in the matter of minutes. Husband Man has been to Vegas, but he said when he went with his once-high-rolling mother back in the 80s, she gave him money to gamble and have fun. And, he pocketed it. So, yeah…Husband Man and I aren’t exactly the gambling types.

I thought it’d be fun to be a bit spontaneous, so I got on board with the “let’s blow 100 bucks” idea. We chucked the Japanese restaurant and made our way to the smoky, blue-hair-infested casino in Shelbyville, Indiana. This place was huge. And, people were EVERYWHERE. I saw my share of rednecks and old women. And they had a cover band with a big blond woman singing Guns -N-Roses. One lovely fashion plate of a diva had a shirt on that said, “101% Redneck.” And, Husband Man and I saw one of the biggest mullets we’ve seen in at least five years. Oh yes…we were among the beautiful people, indeed.

After walking around for about an hour, we decided that I should sit down at a 2-cent slot machine, which I did. I barely knew how to use the thing. I figured it out, though, put our $100 bill in it, and off I went. I got down to about 20 bucks at least two times, played for an hour and a half, and I almost quit. Husband Man stood behind me the whole time and said, “screw it, babe…just play it…we agreed to consider the money lost anyway, so just play it all out.”

I’m glad I did, because I hit the jackpot. Of course, it wasn’t a huge jackpot, but I won $420 total. And, being the non-gambler I am, I cashed out.

As we were walking out, Husband Man said to me, “You know, that wallet had 400 bucks in it….and we just won 420.”

Go figure. Karma rocks.

And it begins....I'm just sayin.....

Um, NO one has read it. And, a promise for transparency and I don't know - for people to be able to actually READ it - has already been broken.

GGRR. Socialism sucks monkey poo.

Bogus Politics, Burning Onions, and a Birthday Boy

I’ve been back from Atlanta for over a week now, and I really don’t have anything earth-shattering to tell my readers about the trip. Other than the fact that I was one of about five women in a hotel full of 1500 male tractor dealers, and that I feel as though I was visually groped about 1476 times while staying at the Hyatt Regency, there’s not much else exciting that happened that week. I did get to see my friend, T, and enjoy some sushi and sake with her my last night in town. I don’t get to eat a lot of that here, as it’s considered “bait” where I live. And, I was sure to do a short, yet obligatory nostalgia drive through my old digs. I went past the perfect, Colonial house I grew up in, the old apartments I lived in after my divorce, the Big Chicken in Marietta, of course, and my last place of employment before bolting out of the land of debutantes and dogwoods several years ago.

I love my friend T. She’s my favorite bleeding heart liberal on the planet, after all. If you’re reading this, T, I adore you and promise not to make fun of any more of Obama’s lame and non-tax-paying appointments to his cabinet. Or his ridiculous “economic stimulus package” that may as well be a box of vibrators, as they are about as relevant to economic stimulation as his so-called stimulus package is. Socialist healthcare reform in an economic stimulus plan? Really? Nice that the Dems are cramming in all of those little projects they never quite got on the docket into a package that’s labeled “economic stimulus.” Transparency? Um, no. It’s called socialism, people. Open your eyes and take a big bite of the Karl Marx rotten apple. Tastes kinda funny.

Phew. Sorry. Got a little sidetracked there.

So, T. My brilliant, yet liberal friend. I promise not to make fun of these things in front of you, anyway. But I still love you, nonetheless. Just don’t ask me to come along with you to get that eventual group lobotomy that’ll be served up with that rotten apple.

Upon my return from Atlanta, I was hit with work, work, and more work. No big shocker there, as it’s usually the status quo for me. But this time, I’m doing my day job, my night job, and then taking on the grading for another professor. One of my professorial colleagues has pancreatic cancer, and I was asked to do all of her grading for the semester. How could I say no to that? And, how on earth does that type of news not change one’s perspective on the work at hand? I haven’t complained about a single weekend I’ve had to work through since, nor will I. Instead, I’m thanking my lucky stars that I’m alive, healthy, and kicking. Perspective, indeed. If you pray to God, Allah, Buddha, Obama, or whomever, say a little prayer for Daisywriter's professorial colleague. And then go kiss and bear-hug the people you live with immediately after reading this entry.

Speaking of kisses, this weekend marks the holiday we all wait patiently for every year! And, if you didn't sense that dripping bucket of sarcasm in the previous sentence, then you weren’t reading hard enough. In honor of this Hallmark holiday, Husband Man and I are doing the great American dinner of Japanese food, cooked table-side by a genuine Japanese chef with big, sharp Ginsu knives and a miraculous flaming volcano formed by a simple onion. Pure magnificence. Our sweet little Indiana town just got this restaurant (which is conveniently placed right next to a John Wayne’s American Grill restaurant, I might add), and I’m very pleased to be able to have our inaugural dinner there on Valentine’s Day and spend it with my loving spouse - even though we would’ve just eaten there on Saturday night anyway.

Coincidentally, Valentine’s Day is also my father’s birthday, so I’ve always honored it more as the day my father was brought into this world instead of the alternative chocolate-and-roses capitalist plot (which, is indeed brilliant, I might add, but still bullshit, nonetheless). So, happy birthday, Dad. I hope you have a wonderful day. You taught me to be independent and self-sufficient and to not trust boys that don’t have their own toolboxes and can’t fix flat tires. You taught me that cold beer and good company can cure any trace of the blues. You taught me that with 50 bucks and a lawn chair, pretty much anyone can do anything in life. You taught me to be a fiscal conservative capitalist, but a social moderate who believes in love (but not necessarily Valentine’s Day, because you should always continue to question, question, question). And because your Mom wasn’t around after my 9th birthday, you taught me a little of what she taught you – that women in 4-inch high heels and matching accessories can be smart, graceful, and devastatingly down-to-earth funny.

And for that, I salute you on the Hallmark holiday and shall raise a glass of Japanese sake (or Asahi) in your honor while I clap like a monkey to the onion volcano. And get tipsy just enough to forget that the economic stimulus plan is a complete JOKE. Oh yeah - you taught me to recognize that if it walks like a duck and talks like a duck, it's probably a damn duck.

So thanks again, Dad.

A Must See? Or is it just because Brad Pitt is hot?

Or it could just be his ridiculously exaggerated, fake southern accent. I'm not sure, but I'll see this movie, nonetheless.

So THIS is where Quentin Tarantino's been for the past few years....huh.

I love this SO much.

I don't know if I'm just overly hormonal, but dogs and babies make me smile. It's the little things.

And, this dog reminds me so much of my Tess Larue, it's scary.

Enjoy.

Planes, Journeys, and Juno

Well, I'm here in that charming little city known as Hotlanta. Yesterday started off as a normal day, it seemed, then my AirTran flight from Indy got delayed by about two hours (which didn't even seem that abnormal on the AirTran scale, as I don't remember ever having a flight with them that was ON time, really). When I finally made it, I fetched my luggage and went to the Dollar counter to get my awesome rental car. The dude behind the counter acted as though he was giving me a brand new Porsche when he said, "Well, for special customers like YOU, I will give an upgrade to something cool. Something NEW."

I felt special for about 30 seconds. Like I may have won the rental car lottery. And, yes, the Dollar man - the dude who was speaking some sort of broken Swahili/English - I believe he was flirting with me. Normally, I'd be flattered at my age, but I wasn't so much this particular time, as I could smell him from approximately 30 feet away. So went my potential ego boost...

Wow, I thought. I mean, maybe I'd get to drive a brand new Honda Accord or something neato like that. Something kind of normal, I thought. No such luck. I grabbed my keys to space number 4, and came upon what appeared to be the offspring of a Dodge Caliber and the bus that Mrs. Partridge drove. Lo and behold, it was a Dodge Journey. Now, I apologize to anyone out there that has a Journey or that's getting ready to buy a Journey in the near future, but this car is slightly sucktastic. The outside of it appeared to be pretty nice, and I thought, "oooh..an SUV!." I tried to like it - I really did. But, I felt awkward in it. The kind of "doesn't suit me" type of awkward that can't be remedied by the seat adjuster thingies - no matter how hard I tried to adjust, readjust, and adjust again. And keep in mind that this is a brand new car - with maybe 100 miles on it total - and I was having to adjust my seat manually. I'm just sayin. I would venture to say that I didn't look like a complete dork in my Pearl Blue bus, but I felt like I was driving an ice cream truck. Again, my sincere apologies to those who love all things Dodge, but now I know first-hand why American car companies needed to be bailed out.

After my 8-hour quest from Indy to Atlanta, I wanted to just crawl into bed and order room service, but my client had other plans. So I was up until midnight doing Powerpoint edits for my client like a gerbil on crack. During my mad editing, though, I managed to simultaneously watch the movie Juno on HBO. I can NOT believe that I've never seen this movie. I always wanted to, but I just never got around to it - what, with all the jetsetting and Powerpoint editing and Dodge test driving that's consumed my life. This movie was great, and Ellen Page really did deserve some type of award for her portrayal of the main character. Jason Bateman was in it, too, so I think that helped to up its awesome factor, as I love that guy so much (see "Pepper Brooks in Dodgeball: A True Underdog Story" and the brother in "The Sweetest Thing," and of course - as Derek Taylor in the hit 80s TV show, "Silver Spoons"....GOD, I loved that show).

Tonight, I may take the Journey out for a quick bite on the town, but it will mostly be consumed by work stuff. Tomorrow night, however, I plan on breaking free and seeing my friend "T" for some dinner. They call it "bait" in my new home base of Franklin, Indiana, but as I recall, they call it sushi here. With some sake to wash it down, of course. :-)

So, what have we learned from today's entry? Always add 2 hours to every AirTran reservation you make, go rent Juno if you haven't seen it, and the next time you see a Dodge Journey, tip your hat to those American car executives that are currently playing 18 holes of golf with your tax dollars.

The Only Superbowl there is, really.

I'm not an NFL fan. I mean, I'll go to a Colts game and drink beer and hang out like a fan, but I'm not really a fan. Case in point: I was at my hair salon on Saturday, and my hairdresser asked, "So, what are you guys doing tomorrow?"

I answered with, "what's tomorrow?"

Nope, not a huge fan.

So, when the SuperBowl came on last night, Husband Man and I were watching other things - bits and pieces of other movies, Ghost Hunters, you know. And, of course, we watched parts of the Puppy Bowl, which is something that Husband Man had never seen. Despite the horrific parrot-delivered National Anthem (Jennifer Hudson definitely wins the battle of the National Anthems last night), the puppy bowl was a nice deviation between bad TV. Here's a slice, just in case you missed it.

Pure GENIUS.

Hotlanta and My Delusions of Grandeur

I leave tomorrow for a business trip to Atlanta. Let me first preamble with the fact that I love to travel, but I don't like traveling for business. It seems all glamorous and stuff, and one would think that I could use the company resources to see old friends and take time to enjoy a bit of my surroundings, but inevitably, I know I'll be working non-stop. For three nights and four days. I like my house, my bed, and my family. So, I guess I'm becoming an old, set-in-my-ways kind of gal, but yeah, I'm not a fan of the business travel.

I'm leaving for the place in which I grew up...the quaint little southern city that I spent my fun/formative years, as well as my divorce/pain years, giving me a nice dichotomy of love it/hate it feelings. Atlanta is WAY different now than it was when I was an 8-year old kid. I lived there before the superhighways and the traffic that rivals L.A. I lived there when people seemed to be a bit more laid back and the smog wasn't quite as prevalent. People still had lovely southern accents and the Yanks hadn't yet taken over. But by the time I left, it was just another pretentious city full of too many people living way beyond their means, an overabundance of mini-malls, and poor air quality, really. Still a great place to visit to shop, eat, and bar-hop of course, but I knew I'd probably never live there again by choice when I made my life-changing trek north a little less than 5 years ago.

I'm trying to be positive about my trip, even though I'm gripping myself for a week of being a pee-on at the hands of a very needy client. The client's always right...the client's always right. I'll keep telling myself that and pretending that I'll look like Victoria Beckham when I get off the plane. Ridiculously flawless.

Today's Snow Hell and Female Humans with Litters

This morning has been a doozy. I've already had my car towed out of the snow and I'm shelling out more money in the next hour to get my driveway plowed. Oh yeah, and snow tires, too. You'd think that after living in the Midwest for the past four years, I would've obtained a clue by now. Snow happens. Do not have sport tires on a tiny Mazda3 if you plan on getting anywhere. These are some of life's pesky little lessons learned the hard way, apparently.

Right after I shelled out about 300 bucks before 10 am for today's random snow "events," I see this article on Yahoo about a woman having a litter of kids. So, of course, this irritates me due to my already elevated cortisol levels.

You've been warned.

This woman having octuplets the other day has had a lot of press. Most of it is all over the place as a "miracle." People are actually calling this MIRACULOUS. Not to sound like a raging lunatic or anything, but it wasn't a miracle at all. In fact, God or Buddha or Allah or Big Bird or whoever you so deem as the Almighty Producer of Miracles had only a teeny-tiny portion to do with the birth of these kids. While I will admit to all children being miracles as individual human beings (so careful before you comment, pro-lifers, as I do agree with you there), she was taking fertility drugs. Presumably, she would be taking these fertility drugs because she so desperately needed to intervene with nature and try to take charge of her weak and withered fertility. Oh yes. This is what one would assume.

But wait - there's more.

I ride the fence on this fertility drug issue a bit, because well, I can. I think it's perfectly acceptable for a woman to go on fertility treatments if it's her first child and the process of getting pregnant has become a tedious, emotional nightmare of self-loathing because she can't seem to get a little sperm to stick to one of her eggs. I get that. I really do. I even understand the notion of getting some fertility "help" if it's a second child, and a hopeful set of parents just don't want to see their first born grow up without a sibling. I can get on board with that, too. But when you already have SIX KIDS running around your house, what on God's green earth possesses you to want to have more? Six healthy kids just isn't enough for you when your doctor tells you that yeah, you're going to have to go on fertility drugs to get your body to actually conceive again? Really? I don't get that at all. Could you not just count your blessings and use your vagina for something else? This woman had EIGHT more. Eight. I was an English major, but I believe that amounts to 14 kids total if I use both my hands and a foot to count them all.

I'm sure they'll get a TV show which will pay for all of them. That's what Jon and Kate did, much to the eventual stunted and screwed up early childhood healthy development of their children. I mean, it's normal to have a camera shoved in your face 24/7 when you fly out of your Mom's uterus and are learning how to use your motor skills, let alone understand why all of America is watching your every move, right? How is THAT not child exploitation? People will fight me on this, but these people don't work. Their work is the show, and that means that yeah...they're pimping their kids out for lots of money. Very nice.

So, the litter thing. I don't understand why this has become such a trend in our country. Especially when every other person is struggling to figure out a way to pay their increasing property taxes and power bills in this economy. I'm not one of those "green" types of people, even though I do have my own organic vegetable garden on the back two acres of our property. But I will say that anyone who wants to be "green" should start by not having kids like a Golden Retriever. This is just a thought, though, and can be ignored (just as my comments will be ignored by the next Angelina Jolie babymaking wannabe). God bless democracy.

When the show crumbles on TLC, I just can't wait to see how these kids turn out - and who will volunteer to pay for them at that point...I'm thinking it may be the couple who cloned their dog for the bargain price of $155,000. Holy INSANITY. There's a smart move. I wonder if they'll adopt me and pay for my next snow removal fee.

I warned you...

Blizzards and Snow Drifts and Low Temps, Oh MY!

Holy shizzat on a stick, it's cold.

This morning, I woke up at my usual 5 am, and I corralled the dogs to take them outside. When I turned on the back porch light, I realized that it had been snowing most of the night, and everything was covered in a very, very thick blanket of it. It’s beautiful, I’ll fully admit, but it’s the kind of beautiful that I like to look at from afar. Today, I don’t necessarily want to be in it. Well, unless Mr. Husband decides he wants to strap a sled on the back of the 4-wheeler and pull me in it. Which could happen, so stay tuned – especially you readers that live in warm climates (jerks).

Zeke, my big baby Dane, is the ultimate depth test for the snow. His giraffe-like legs are so long that I can gauge how deep the snow is just by watching him hop around in it. If he starts to look like a miniature dachshund, then I know it’s probably not terrain that my little Mazda 3 with sport tires can get through easily. He jumped out there like a champ this morning, and quickly resembled something about as big and long-legged as a Yorkie, so we got about a foot of the white stuff. More than a foot in some places, as our house seems to attract snow drifts like a bum on a ham sandwich. So, yeah. We have more than a foot. This is from my very calculated and scientific estimation, of course.

So, here I am...another day of brutal Indiana winter, snowed in out in the country. Fighting off the Seasonal Affective Disorder with a few work deadlines and an occasional daydream about Mexico. I could allow myself to feel somewhat trapped, but have Internet, satellite, coffee, and alcohol, so really, what more do people need? The glass is half full still, but today marks the exact day of ’09 that I’m officially ready for spring, short sleeves, and sunshine. I have a long way to go until late March.

The picture above is an aerial view from our radio tower this morning. The other two cameras up there are completely covered in snow, and our house looks like a tiny little speck wrapped up in that overbearing white blanket.

Viva la Mexico. Someone pass the cocktails.

Go See This Movie, Please.

Husband Man, Stepson and I went to see this movie yesterday. I have to say, I don't usually gush over movies, but I just LOVED this one so much. It had that quality that every good piece of Daisywriter cinema has: the "underdog" coming out on top. It's the reason Shawshank Redemption is my favorite movie of all time. They both have those "common man" beating the system, fighting back in the face of inequality, corrupt power themes....you know. A good ol' kick the system's ass kind of movie. This movie, however, was a true story, which made it even cooler. Set during WWII with the backdrop of genocide, it was about three real brothers who ultimately ended up saving tens of thousands of Jews. Amazing and very inspiring stuff. The kind of movie that makes you remember that love and loyalty can truly conquer all.

Now go see it. That's an order.

You Go, Vols...

This crappy, tape-it-from-the-TV footage doesn't really do them justice, but this is the Pride of the Southland Band playing at the inauguration yesterday. They've played at the last ELEVEN of them. I'm biased, of course, but I think it's kind of nifty.

All I need is a bad 1990-ish haircut, a flask of Southern Comfort, a couple of blond sorority sisters, and some really drunk frat boys in my midst, and I'd feel like I was back in the old days, listening to them playing at halftime...

Oh, how I love tradition.



Oh, and because I've been tracking my readers and I have yet to get one in Korea, here's something for my eventual, beloved Korean readers. I love this so much and just want to eat all their little faces with a big spoon.

I Just Don't Know About This.

I can't seem to get on board with this. I'm trying...I really am. Perhaps it will grow on me, but it reminds me too much of that Poppity Pop tour they did.

Is nothing sacred?

Change, Hope, and Cautious Optimism...

"Each of us has the freedom to make of our own lives what we will, but... we also have the obligation to treat each other with dignity and respect."

Obama said that. I believe it's a very nice sentiment, indeed. We SHOULD be nice to each other. I try to do that every day. I appreciate you telling me, American government, how to uphold the golden rule that my parents taught me when I was 4.

Obama's also said that cynicism is one of the biggest obstacles he faces. After the previous paragraph, I guess I can't deny that I'm one of those kooky cynics who's waiting to see how everything he promised to everybody will be fulfilled in the next 4 years. I'm cynical of ALL politicians. I feel as though they all blow a bunch of sunshine up our collective asses while they're at the absolute mercy of the image-makers, given that image our media decides to bestow upon them. Obama has been given the image of deity, and while I feel as though it's nice for people to have something to believe in, I don't necessarily believe that Obama is the Messiah. I don’t think any politician is the Messiah. But then again, the Messiah I was raised to believe in was a carpenter who, in my mind, resembled Willem Dafoe in Scorcese's "The Last Temptation of Christ." So, I suppose I’m already jaded. And as I’ve grown up and read about other religions and their deified figures, I believe even the Dalai Lama can be seen as somewhat of a deity, but a lawyer-turned-politician? Yeah, no.

In my mind, Obama's rise to presidency and subsequent deified status is the result of people who want so badly for someone to swoop in and swaddle them in the blanket of change. His inaguration tonight is a testament to both the power of our media, the power of amazing branding, as well as underlying desperation and desire of people in this country to see some sort of change. The ones who are screaming "Change!" and "What about ME?" outnumber the ones who aren't, and as someone who really believes in democracy, this is a true testament that it's alive and well, after all. I have to be happy about that, and I am.

Obama also has been quoted as saying, "It's not that I want to punish your success. I just want to make sure that everybody who is behind you, that they've got a chance for success too. My attitude is that if the economy's good for folks from the bottom up, it's gonna be good for everybody ... I think when you spread the wealth around, it's good for everybody."

CHANGE is what people want. And, as a woman who's never been afraid of change herself, I suppose I should be hopeful about the possibility of it. Problem is, the changes that I personally wanted from my government didn't include someone taking care of me. I've always done an O.K. job of doing that myself. Regardless, I’m doing my civic duty of remaining a positive and patriotic American today, and I, too, shall be hopeful for change that his administration does many good things, while keeping people accountable for their own individual lives. I’ll have faith that Mr. Obama will do all of the things he promised to do. I respect his position, as starting tomorrow, he's got to roll up his sleeves and get to work. At the same time, I don’t see me spending hours in front of the TV today watching the coverage. For the record, though, I may have watched at least some of it had he chosen Mary J. Blige over Beyonce to sing for the President/First Lady first dance. Not sure what happened there...

Cheers to the next four years and my democratic right to be cautiously optimistic.

Paul Blart, Segways, and Chimps: The Final Frontier

My friend Mockarena and I were at lunch yesterday, discussing important life things like we always do while lunching on arroz con pollo at El Meson. While expressing what we both wanted to accomplish in life, it boiled down to several important and very personal things, but one thing stood out for both of us as yet another weirdly common bond and presently unachieved shared goal: the one-on-one interaction with a chimpanzee. I know, to some people this may be weird, but I've always LOVED chimpanzees. When I was a little girl, I wanted desperately to be Joan Embery when I grew up. She was that cool zoo lady that used to be on Johnny Carson all the time, and she had chimps around her constantly. Hanging out with chimps isn't something that you can just decide you want to do on a Saturday morning, find a number, then just go mark it off your list. It takes research and perseverance. It's an elusive goal, I tell you. But I will not give up until I find a way to hold a little infant chimp with a diaper on or give a somewhat grown chimp with a hat on a high five all BJ-and-the-Bear-like. This I shall do before I breathe my last breath, so help me God.

Tonight, Husband Man, my sister, and I went to see Paul Blart: Mall Cop. It was a lovely little piece of comedy that I thoroughly enjoyed after a week of too much work drama. My favorite prop in the movie was the segway, of course, and I can think of no better way to end this entry than to combine both chimps and a segway. You can all thank me later.

The Ridiculousness of Posh and My Valentine's Wish

Look at Victoria Beckham's shoes. I mean, just look at them. First and foremost, if you're reading this, dear sweet Husband-Man, I probably need these shoes for Valentine's Day (even though I think Valentine's Day is a Hallmark holiday invented for suckers). Because I'm sure they cost about as much as three car payments, I won't be completely crushed if you don't actually purchase them, but I thought I'd put it out there, just in case you were feeling kooky or something. And for me, it's kind of enough to just close my eyes and imagine myself in them. Walking through the streets of Italy with two gorgeous little kids that I happened to create with my tiny little uterus.

If I ever became a mom, I'd want to look just like her. I know that the smart-girl correct thing to say is that she's a vapid fashion caricature of a person, but I just can't do it, mainly because I think it's amazing how she can teeter on Christian Louboutins with two boys yanking her in different directions. I don't want to hear her opinions on national security or the economy or anything. I just want her shoes. It's Friday, people. And, after the week I've had, that's about all I can muster for a thought-provoking, intelligent entry today.

Seriously. Those shoes kick ass.

A New Semester and My Call of Duty

Tomorrow, I start another semester at the university, teaching and molding young minds into great leaders of tomorrow. (It sounded nice. Leave me alone.) My teaching gig, albeit a $5/hour, tedious and mostly thankless job, is my absolute favorite job of all the jobs I've ever had to date. My students are both varied and interesting, and out of approximately 10 to 25 students (give or take) in a semester, I feel as though I actually reach 2 or 3 in the 16 weeks I have to try to teach them something useful. To me, these are great odds, and they make the crappy pay worthwhile.

I've referred to my writing classes as "teaching English as a second language" and "keeping monkeys from throwing their own poo at innocent bystanders." These are both appropriate analogies and explain pretty much what I do while trying to impart wisdom about active and passive voice and the difference between their, they're, and there. Writing is a lost art these days, it seems. I witness the constant slaughtering of the English language on a daily basis, and I'm just doing my duty to keep the dream of good grammar and the transition sentence alive and well.

At the same time, I teach what is now referred to as the Millenial. This is the kid who's raised by what sociologists now call "Helicopter Parents." These are the kids who can't take a crap without Mommy and Daddy orchestrating it. They're the entitled generation; the kids with the iPods implanted permanently in their heads and the attitude that hard work is for suckers. I truly believe that teaching this generation has taught me more patience than any other thing I've endured in life. And, I also believe that I may actually get into heaven one day as a direct result of not killing at least one a semester with a ballpoint pen.

Speaking of duties, today was spent putting out fires with my own spit. I was greeted in the morning by a pseudo-boss person who felt the need to scream at me, in front of everyone outside my office. That was lovely. Then, I was bombarded with client madness as if the whole world's gone mental and I'm the one who's taken away the meds. Everyone's just pissed OFF today, and I was apparently the perfect target. All. Day. Long.

So, I did what any normal, 37-year old woman would do. I came home after my obligatory 10 hours on the job, finally got home, changed into my comfortable black sweats and lounging leopard socks, ate some Lucky Charms for dinner, and then I sat my butt on the couch in front of the big screen TV to try to forget about my day. My stepson sat down with me, and before I knew it, he was teaching me to play Call of Duty. After a day of piss and vinegar, I shot Nazi zombies with a double-barreled shotgun in my living room, and I must say, it was KICK ASS. Even though my stepson had to intervene every so often to make sure I didn't get my head eaten by a rabid zombie, I started to hold my own, reload and everything, and shoot the crazed Nazis like it was my JOB. I'm not bad, people. Practice will make me a force to be reckoned with, I'm afraid to say.

My stepson agreed to leave the game with me this weekend so I could hone my Nazi-zombie-killing skills. I have taken on the challenge of learning what I can, as my stepson has given me a gift - much like the gift of wisdom I impart on those college students in my classes.

Now if I could only figure out how to upload my boss-person's head on the zombies. I would be a pro by Sunday. Seriously....where has this game been all my life?