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?

Once again, I'd like to point out that I have no children.

Seriously. Can we just spend 30 cents on a bullet and make this guy go away?

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