God, I love semantics.

This link is to the annual Lake Superior State University's List of Words to Be Banished from the Queen's English for Mis-use, Over-use and General Uselessness. I love that "going green" is making more than just me nauseated, as well as the word "Maverick." I used to like that word. Such a shame.

It's kind of funny, though, that the list comes direct from the U.P. (this must be said with a very heavy Wisconsin accent for effect), as they say Yah instead of Yes. But whatever. The list is something I find interesting, and people in the U.P. are really pretty cool for the amount of cold they have to endure.

http://www.lssu.edu/banished/current.php

The Big Purge of Irritants and Looking Ahead to The Year of the Ox....

Some believe that with a new year comes a new, clean slate. A shiny new look at life that allows us to chuck all the negativity from the past year and start anew. This week, I’ve been in somewhat of a funkified mood. I could blame my hormones, the stress involved with the holiday season, the overabundance of sugar and salt, or the fact that I’m facing another year, still have some unattained goals and therefore am feeling my mortality. But the reasons are neither here nor there. I’m a solutions kind of gal. And, the ultimate solution to this week’s funk is to look lovingly at the present, then forward to a bright and sparkly future, free from any negative vibes from the year past. Keeping with that notion, I’ve constructed a list of everything that’s annoyed the crap out of me this year. Yes, it SEEMS somewhat negative, but really, it’s a positive, cathartic way of gaining clarity and focus on the pending happiness in 2009 that I shall revel in like a giggly little girl. So, before I create my not-yet-thought-about, let alone written New Year’s Resolution list, here is the list to end all negative lists of 2008. Expelled like a good sneeze to make room for the positive of 2009 – the Chinese-calendar-proclaimed year of the Ox.

The List of Everything That’s Annoyed me This Year – 2008 Edition.

1. Kim Jong-Il. Might as well start with Lucifer himself, right? This guy’s a complete whack job psycho, and his beady little eyes and the way he looks like a horrible Korean Elvis impersonator irritates me. Al Qaeda Shmaeda. Jong-Il is Hitler reincarnate, and yet the guy still gets up every day, brushes his teeth, puts on his pants, and rules an entire country full of a gazillion people as a horrific dictator. The devil himself is living and breathing in North Korea, he’s got the stature of a newborn gopher, and yet we can’t off him with some cool technologically-advanced sniper or bomb or something? There’s no group of Navy Seals or special-force group of military excellence that can go over there and just eliminate this guy? Really? I don’t get it.

2. Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie just keep having babies and are actually starting to frighten me a bit. They’re overpopulating the world so much that I fear we may completely run out of natural resources due entirely to their offspring. I don’t understand when it became trendy to reproduce like the canine species, doing it so consecutively that you can’t even ENJOY the child that you delivered five minutes ago, because you’re too busy having a turkey baster shoved in you to conceive the quadruplets that you MUST HAVE within your belly before the previous baby can even focus on an inanimate object with its little newborn eyes.

3. Going Green. I married a guy that doesn’t even believe in Global Warming. Now, even though I do think it exists to some degree, I am pretty annoyed by all the hype and propaganda surrounding it. I bet all the hippies of the 60s are shaking their non-shampooed, patchouli-smelling heads and asking why all of a sudden it’s so celebrity-chic to be “green.” All those REAL environmentalist vegetarian/vegan hippie people are wondering how in the hell Paris Hilton can say she’s environmentally aware when she uses up more natural resources than most third world countries. It’s become trendy in a stupid, US magazine way, and smart retailers are capitalizing and charging more for all this crap that is labeled “green.” And people are buying it. I mean, wearing a t-shirt that says, “Go Green” sort of becomes null and void when you’re driving a Suburban, don’t you think? And, if I decide to buy a Prius to help the environment, why in the hell should I shell out 30K for it? It’s not worth 30K. If I’m spending 30K on a car, I’ll get a nice-looking BMW (a used one…how’s that for recycling?) – not an ugly Prius, thanks.

4. The Duggars. Kind of the same thing as Brangelina, but I believe their ultimate goal is way different. Even though they’ve inspired the taglines, “Uterus – it’s not a clown car” and “it’s like throwing a hot dog down a hallway,” I feel as though they are good, God-fearing people that actually do cherish their kids. But I also think they’re certifiably nuts and that their child-stockpiling may be a plot to ensure that their family survives beyond the Armageddon. The sheer number of children will put them at a clear advantage for familial and genetic survival. And this sort of annoys me perhaps for the same reasons I get annoyed by packrat people who save everything and have too much clutter in their homes. I’m just sayin.

5. The Republican Party's Withered Image. If I thought being an Independent Libertarian would actually make a difference in this country, I may have voted as one in the last election. However, I usually vote Republican in most elections I participate in, because of two very specific reasons. One, I loved Ronald Reagan and wished he was my grandfather, and two, I’m vehemently opposed to anything resembling socialism in any way, shape, or form. With that being said, I attended a Sarah Palin rally back during the 2008 Presidential campaign and I was so taken aback by the amount of rednecks and old people that call themselves Republicans. First of all, the Republicans need a way overdue, complete face lift. They are in desperate need of a marketing and branding overhaul. I think they need me and a team of people much like the guys on “Queer Eye” to completely re-brand them from the ground up. They need to ditch the country music, learn to embrace new technology, and become just a bit more “hip.” Otherwise, they will perish. I saw it first hand at that rally a few months ago. People like me don’t particularly want to be associated with anything resembling white trash, rebel flags, or country music. I find all three offensive, really. I’m not saying that everyone who’s a Republican is a redneck, but I saw firsthand what the major demographic is, and it’s not educated, working white females in their 30s, that’s for sure. Nor do they have even a small chunk of the younger demographic, who will eventually take over this country (yeah…it frightens me, too). When the “what will my country do for me because the world owes me something” mentality finally takes over for good, we will all be equal and drone-like, whining and pathetic and waiting in line for bread. I don’t want to see that happen in my lifetime. Rebranding is necessary…..it’s as simple as that. Wake up, Republican Party. Get your heads out of your asses and do it for the Gipper.

6. Heidi Montag and Spencer Pratt. I don’t know what she is or does, but I want her to go away. And that thing called Spencer has pubic hair on his facial area. They’re not actors or entertainers, nor do they work, I don’t think, yet they’re slathered all over magazines in the checkout line at Target. I don’t get it. Someone please make them go far, far away.

7. Michael Vick and everyone else who abuses animals. If you can treat an animal like crap, you can treat people like crap, and you, therefore, are a piece of crap. Case in point: Jeffery Dahmer tortured animals. In fact, all serial killers have three attributes in common: arson or a fascination with setting fires, bedwetting, and abuse or torture of animals. Anyone who mistreats an animal should be looked at closely and monitored from that point forward. Period.

8. MTV - Making your young, impressionable daughter a raging slut since 1989. I think 1989 was around the time they quit playing music and began to teach our young women how to be promiscuous and vapid little tramps. MTV blows. I miss the days of fun A-Ha videos and Martha Quinn.

9. Scientology. A religion? Really? Come ON. It’s a cult based on a science fiction writer dude who had a fake degree. You might as well praise a box of tampons. But, people are stupid enough to buy into this crap. The celebrities, then the wannabe non-celebrities who join this freak show brigade make me shake my head at the human condition as a whole. Do you remember when Katie Holmes wasn’t in a Scientology prison, spoke actual words from her mouth, and was really quite cute? I know it’s hard to remember, but she was a pretty young woman once. So sad.

10. Pretty much all 18-24-year olds. OK, that's a bit rough. I fully admit that there is a big handful of this demographic that I do love, like, and can tolerate, but I can honestly say that most of them annoy me. This is because I am in contact with them on a very regular basis, and I feel as though I’ve earned the right to say that. This generation is one of false, yet almost overpowering entitlement. They’re completely out of touch with reality, spoiled-rotten, and the people my age who’ve raised them perpetuate this new cycle of greed, materialism, and a lack of self and civil responsibility. Time Out is the dumbest thing I've ever heard of, and half these kids would've been well-served to have a good paddling. I suppose I should list 35-50-year olds on here, too. OK, I will. See number 11.

11. 35-50-year olds that have raised all the bratty, self-absorbed, materialistic little 18-24-year olds mentioned in number 10.

12. Pageants. I was horrified to learn that these still exist in 2008. And, although I was in one once –I was a freshman in high school – I even found it creepy on the other side, experiencing it. They’re antiquated, and the ones with the little itty-bitty girls are total freakshow advertisements for pedophiles. Pageants blow. They should be made illegal.

13. All those American car company bailout jerks. I have to bail them out WHY? Because their cars suck and people preferred more reliable, ahead-of-the-curve foreign cars that actually did good R&D, and now I’m forced to pay more taxes to make sure all those American-car executives get to keep their cushy jobs and golf memberships? That is a pile of crap. Do your job well, hire good people, and make a good product, American car companies. Then you wouldn’t have to ask Jane Q. Taxpayer to bail you out. This is a capitalist nation, last time I checked. If your business fails, no one should have to bail you out. That’s life. Get over it. Get up. Move on. Start another business or go work at McDonalds if you have to. That’s why America rocks. All those slimy little executives screaming, “HELP!” should send me some sort of fruit basket to thank me for the fact that I’m paying for them to be playing 18 holes of golf right now. Jerks.

14. The Kennedys. Maybe it’s because they’re all a bunch of posers who do bad stuff and then repent and give a lot of money to the Catholic Church expecting to go to heaven, of course, as a result of their insanely huge bribe abilities. Right now, it happens to be the fact that Caroline Kennedy thinks she can slip into a senate seat because she’s, well, a Kennedy. And what’s really scary is that she probably will. No matter that she has no political experience whatsoever...she’s a Kennedy. And a lawyer to boot. So very irritating.

15. And, last but definitely not least, the Florida Gators. Because it’s so much FUN to hate them. All the chomping hand gestures and stuff...my own father, who lives in Jacksonville, has been taken in and fed the proverbial Florida Kool-Aid. They've gotten to him, obviously sucked the loyalty out of him, and made him believe that they're worthy of being in the same category as the Vols. Yeah, right. It's called senility, Dad. Gators SUCK.

It's official. I feel cleansed and purified to now start working on my 2009 New Year's Resolution list. Funk GONE. Kaput. Goodbye.

Christmas is over? Really?

It was one of those holidays that I shall always remember as, well, crappy. It just wasn't a good one, people. I was sick with one of my world-famous migraines stapled on top. I can't sugar coat it any more than to say that I love my new, long, pink snuggly robe and my makeup toolbox from Sephora and my new, bright orangey-red purse that is both obnoxious and fabulous. I love my new pajamas and the scarves and gloves and the new bottle of my signature scent. I love my little Buddha charm and handmade earrings from Breckenridge direct from my sister and the pink John Deere mug and teapot from my stepson. I do love the material things I received, only I don't really remember getting them at all. I don't remember actually opening them, truth be told, because I was in a complete sickness fog through Christmas Eve day and Christmas day. Complete. And. Total. Blur. 2008 is almost gone, and I've slept-walked, all ill-like, through the latter part of it. Chalk one year's festivities up to hydrocodone and phenegren. It's official. I'm just now, on December 27th, able to actually revel in the fact that it occurred.

I did manage to eat a juicy filet, my weight in pigs in a blanket, I believe, and several Christmas cookies. And, in keeping with the rest of the world's New Year's resolutions, I shall ditch the narcotics, the sugar, the fat, and get back on track tomorrow with working out.

Happy almost 2009, loyal readers. My Christmas gift to you is this old school workout for you to enjoy at your leisure today. I'm a giver like that.

Only one more day of work....

Well, here I am. At the end of my Friday. I have a half day, and it's going to be glorious, despite the cold rain and sleet. I think I may start it by mailing packages for family (yes, I'm just a tad late in doing so), and then I'll go home and start cleaning a bit for the mad rush of visitors we'll have starting this weekend, then I'll nap like a kept woman with a sugar daddy. I pretend to do this about once a year.

In the meantime, I'm done from work for the week, and Christmas is almost here.

A Really Cool Website...

I'm usually not one to share the websites Husband-man points out to me, because they're mostly techie or somehow aeronautical or contain some sort of engineering jargon, and therefore are a bit over my head. I admit this. I mean, a Shakespeare site would be over his head, so I'm not really saying that he's smarter than me. He's just more sponge-like than me and understands the intricate workings of things that I'd rather not try to understand, as I have other things to do. Like buy shoes. Because I feel this way about many of his choices in website reading, I naturally assume they are over my readers' heads, as this blog isn't exactly a stop for Mensa members. No offense, readers. I mean, I've done the mock Mensa tests in Sky Mall magazine on a couple domestic flights in the past years, and I've done pretty damn well on them, I must say, but yeah...I've never really aspired to be Mensa's poster girl. I am, however, a closet dork.

So, after that ridiculously long preamble (it's Friday, I only have one more day until I'm off for Christmas, and I'm a little chatty this morning....WOO HOO), this is a site Husband-man showed me last night. I felt the need to share, as it is really kinda cool. It's basically a site that shows all of the abandoned places around the world. Places like little towns near Chernobyl, whose residents literally had to pack up and leave in like 36 hours with what they could grab. Remnants of living, breathing societies just frozen completely in time. It's truly fascinating. And it makes you think, "what in the hell would I do if I had to pick up and move my entire life in 36 hours?"

I'd take my photo albums, my dogs, several of my cherished books, and my shoes. There you go.

http://www.artificialowl.net/

God help me. I'm stuck in the Illinois suburbs.

I'm stuck in a hotel room in Chicago. OK, it's not really like cool, downtown Chicago, but rather a northern suburb with a snazzy new Springhill Suites by Marriott that happens to have both a Wal-Mart and a Chili's across the street. Oh yes. I'm living large.

I've been here since Sunday, and I was supposed to be home by now, but there's one hell of a storm outside. It's snowing and icy and crazy cold. It took me an hour to go two miles back to my hotel tonight, and it was during that time that I realized that returning home to Indiana was futile.

So, here I am. Sitting here with I Am Legend on in the background. I hate that part where he has to kill his dog. It makes me want to go beat the crap out of some rabid people. Speaking of dogs, this is how bored and completely shut off from the world I am. I just watched this video - yet another in the Oscar the Boxer series. And now I miss more than just my husband and his ability to make my icy feet warm in mere seconds while also pretending to enjoy my endless conversation, but I miss my dogs a ton, too. I've also vowed to start my own video library of my canine children, as they're WAY more interesting and adorable than even Oscar is. Sorry, Oscar. You're damn cute and I love your videos, but my youngest Dane can drink out of the kitchen sink without even standing on his hind legs. And, my girl Tess has a bigger vocabulary than most of my college students.



Well, if I'm stuck here for more than one more day, at least I can go hang out at the Wal-Mart. They sell vodka there, right?

Another great one says goodbye...

I'm a big fan of Saturday Night Live. I used to watch it religiously, and even though I don't see it real-time as much as I'd like due to increasing inability to stay up past 11:30 on the weekends, I do try to keep up with who's on and what new skits they're brewing. The women on the show have always been my favorites. Hell, this blog and its tagline bloomed from one single quote by Gilda Radner. She personified everything I like in a person - down-to-earth, funny as hell, and the able to not take life so seriously. Delicious ambiguity is what it's all about, after all. Gilda was platinum.

Fast forward to the era of women ruling the roost at SNL. Tina Fey is one of my self-proclaimed personal heroes, and the fact that she is the first female head writer of the show is just plain cool. It's about time, really, and since she's been there, I think they've had some of the best writing they've had in decades. All the women on that show have been funny over the years, but she and Amy Poehler and the new cast of increasingly funny chicks has raised the bar, in my opinion.

Poehler's first was being promoted from featured cast member to full-fledged cast member in her inagural year - a distinction held only by two other cast members. Both men. So, when I found out that Amy Poehler was leaving SNL, it made me a little sad. My Dad likes to say that I look and act like Tina Fey (he contends that she'll play me in the cinematic biopic of my life, but the jury is still out on that), and while I'll take that as a compliment (nothing wrong with being compared to a smart, funny chick), I'd like to think that Amy and I have a few things in common as well. For starters, she was born exactly 20 days after me in 1971, and we're both Virgos...which really just means that we're both earthy, organized perfectionists who have a professional exterior but wild interior. Or something like that. She's married to a guy named Will. I, too, have a husband with a four-letter name.

We're practically twins, people.

I'll miss watching those two girls do their thing on the Weekend Update, but I'm sure she'll show up someplace else real soon. In the meantime, here are some of the SNL women acting like half the 19-year olds I teach at the university.

Long live the funny girl.

A Rite of Passage and My Regression into the Teenage Years....

This week, my stepson was scheduled to get his permit. Husband-man fully intended to take him, but was hindered with a last-minute work meeting. So, I got the call and request to fill in for him. I gladly accepted, acted somewhat parent-like, and within a short half hour at the BMV, the little man walked away with a legal, picture-ID permit in his pocket - and even thanked his stepmom for doing so. What a kid. I even convinced him to become an organ donor, although he only committed to being a "partial donor," which we decided meant that he would end up merely having to give one eye and a foot when all was said and done.

In the same week, I secured a newer, shinier position at work - a better fit for me overall. I hopefully won't be working 60-hour weeks on a regular basis anymore, but have a more manageable, writing and editing position that has a bit of leadership thrown in on the side. Very responsible and mature, I might add.

To completely contradict all the grown-up stuff, I participated in the joint purchase of Britney Spears "Circus" tour tickets this week. Yes, you heard that right. The girl that loves the Foo Fighters and Led Zepplin is going to see a Britney Spears concert with her pals Leroy and Mockarena (and maybe Nashvegas) in the wonderful city of Chicago. While not until April, I have already been thinking about both my outfit choices (Catholic school girl or head-to-toe red leather?) and the fact that I shall dance like a 16-year old all night. Hell, all of us old married women will dance like we're idiot teenagers, and I can...not...wait. Britney's no Gwen Stefani, and I don't even think a real note will come out of her head, truth be told, but the fun and fluff factor will be high nonetheless.

They say that Christmastime brings out the childlike response in people. And let's face it - there's nothing like the thought of unadulterated, mindless fun with your girlfriends to get you in the party spirit. At my age, regression - or even the thought of it - is just plain grand. This is what it takes to get a 37-year old woman into the childlike (or teenage-like) Christmas spirit - a slutty blond bimbo from Louisiana that lip-synchs. Alrighty then.

Let's all ponder that thought with a Britney video.

(You didn't really think I'd post a real one? Please.)

Let's All Go Beat up an Animal-Abusing Woman in Wisconsin, Shall We?

Today, my friend Scott sent me this article. It's a horrific article about a horrific woman in Wisconsin who chained her dog outside in the freezing temps and neglected to care that he was frozen to the sidewalk. Scott loves dogs like I do. He's particularly obsessed with killer schnauzers and has two trained killer schnauzers in his own home.

Amazingly enough, the neglected dog lived, and I imagine he's still wagging his tail and still loves people. Truly amazing.

Here is how Scott and my email conversation went this morning:

Scott: Please read: http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/28072038/?gt1=43001

Daisywriter: Oh yes, my friend sent this to me the other day, and I wanted to DRIVE TO WISCONSIN to find this woman and then NAIL her fat ass to the sidewalk to see if she, too, would survive the cold. I hate people. I really, really do.

Scott: I'm considering quitting my job, moving to Wisconsin, starting law school, becoming a prosecutor, and sentencing this woman to death by schnauzer bite.

Daisywriter: Oh my God. That's brilliant. I'm doing the same. Except the lawyer part - I hate lawyers. How about I just go with you and I beat her to death with my shoe?

And that is all I have to say about that.

I need to get one of these...

I'd like to point out that it's Saturday night, and I'm working. I'd also like to point out that tonight is my company's Christmas party, and I'm working.

So I've made a monumental, executive-like decision. I'm going to purchase one of these. I believe it may very well be the best $19.99 I ever spend.

See more funny videos at Funny or Die

Canine gratitude and the fear of Old Yeller...

My dog Zeke was a 36th birthday present from my husband over a year ago. I won't sugar-coat it - as a puppy, he was the biggest pain in my ass. Being a diehard dog lover, I often found myself wanting to drop him off at the pound - and I threatened it to his face several times. That's how sleep-depriving and rotten of a puppy Zeke was.

So, it makes me smile these days to see that Zeke has grown out of most of his bad habits. My boxer, Tess, has always been my favorite (I've always said you can pick favorites with dogs while you can't outwardly pick a favorite kid), but Zeke's now joined the high-ranked status of Tess, the obvious angel in a dog's body. He can still be a rotten prick, but I've found that I love all my pups like human children. Hell, my dogs ARE my kids.

Like most dogs, Zeke is ritualistic. Even though he was my birthday present, he's definitely Husband-man's biggest fan. Case in point: Every night before we go to sleep (both the Danes and the boxer sleep on their own separate beds on our bedroom floor), Zeke starts to get settled in his bed, then walks over to Husband-man's side of the bed and puts his head on his chest as if to hug him. Then he kisses Husband man direct on the mouth, walks back over to his bed, and completes his "say goodnight" ritual, before laying down and letting off a loud sigh that sounds much like a 65-year old man with sleep apnea.

In the morning, though, that's when he saves his rituals for me. I'm up at 5 every day, and like clockwork, Zeke is there to greet me. Or, his nose is, anyway. Even on the weekends, he puts his snout right in my face to remind me that dogs don't understand the difference between workdays and sleep-in weekend days. He's a giver like that.

Call me the crazy lady down the street with all the dog hair in her house, but I just love them. I'll never apologize for being grateful for those little furry masses of love. They've given me so much more than I could ever give them. And, I simply cannot imagine a full life without dogs.

Which is why I hesitate to go see the new movie, Marley and Me over the holidays, even though I want so badly to see it. Husband-Man has been vocally against going, as he believes it'll be another "fall in love with dog on screen, then get your heart ripped out as you watch the dog die like Old Yeller" movie. Think about it - K9 cop, Turner and Hooch, Old Yeller, I'm sure there are more that I've blocked out - they're all the sap-filled movie that makes you think about how much you love your own dogs, then BAM! Death. Merry Christmas.

So, our Christmas Day movie choice is still up in the air. I never got around to reading the book, so I could be wrong about this ending thing. We may see Marley as a geriatric old furball and then the credits roll. But in my heart, I know the formula too well. Regardless, I'm seeing this movie eventually. And, when I do, I'm going to be a complete friggin mess by the end of it.

Sweet, sweet karma....

I've had a cold/flu thing all week, have managed to still work between 10 and 12 hours every day, and have to work all weekend. Daisywriter is not a happy girl today. But do you know what makes it better for at least a good 15 minutes?

O.J. is finally going to do some time. The self-righteous murdering prick is going to be someone's girlfriend in jail. And this alone makes me smile today.

And it begins.....with smugness and heart....

Last Saturday night, I accompanied Husband-man and stepson to the Indiana High School State Football Championships - played at Lucas Oil Stadium (where the Colts play). The southside's Center Grove Trojans played the northside's Carmel Greyhounds. It was a rival match made in heaven - the stuff that good games are made of, really. The southside has always been perceived as the more "blue collar" part of town (even if we do have many million-dollar homes and ridiculous farmhouse spreads), while the northside is more mini-mall yuppified. We have farmers down south. They have a Saks up north. So, the match up was truly divine. It ended up being a pretty cool and historical night, as my stepson's high school team (the southside underdogs) came back from a horrible first half to win the title. They say it was the biggest comeback in Indiana high school football history.

While they were kicking the northsider boys' asses, I was watching Tennessee kick the crap out of Kentucky. We were in a friend's suite, so I had the luxury of watching both simultaneously (which, I might add, is not too shabby for a hick chick from the southside). I got a little teary-eyed when I watched Phil Fulmer coach his last game. Players hugged him like they would their own Dads, and you could see the emotion in Coach Fulmer, his family, and all of those who understand that he was born and bred to play and coach in Knoxville. In the city with the nicest, most genuine people who not only love the Vols so much, but truly have more heart than any other school in the SEC.

It's heart, I believe, that wins the best games. My stepson's high school had heart the other night. It was palpable. Center Grove's red colors took up 3/4 of the stadium, where Carmel only populated the other fourth, at best. There was a lot of heart in that place. So much so, that a Carmel High School father proclaimed it to Husband-man. "Well, you guys played with so much heart and you really deserve this." Something along those lines, anyway, as we all filed out of the stadium.

But, as we all know, every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end. And so it goes, right?

With Tennessee's Fulmer formally gone now, there's a new Sheriff in town. His name is Lane Kiffin. He's young. Very young. In fact, I couldn't believe how young this guy was when Husband-man pointed him out to me the other day. Impressive career for his age, but yeah....he's damn young.

Apparently, he's already started recruiting players. And, while I'm kind of excited of the prospect that he's actually doing some recruiting, he's doing it a few days earlier than he should. At least for people like Steve Spurrier - who obviously feels the need to watch him like a hawk. And let's face it - that may be the biggest testament to the potential Mr. Kiffin has.

I'm attaching the full article in its glory at the end of this entry, although as a writer and hack blogger myself, I wouldn't really call this a journalistic article. It's a blog. An opinion, and a smug-as-hell one, to boot:

Mr. Kiffin may have wanted to wait, sure, but I do love the fact that he's like a rabid, frothing-at-the-mouth dog, wanting to start his role immediately. Sure, he's young and has a lot to learn, but there's something to be said for ambition. Let's just hope he has that heart that I'm so used to. That all of us Vol fans are used to, really.

In the meantime, Mr. Hinton appears to be a little condescending, at best. He must've gone to Florida or something.

But what do I know? I mean, I'm just a southside redneck that likes corn from a jar. Yep...and I do so with all my heart. So eat that, Mr. Hinton. :-)

http://rivals.yahoo.com/ncaa/football/blog/dr_saturday/post/Welcome-to-the-SEC-cheater-Signed-Ol-Ball-Co?urn=ncaaf,125819

To get us all in the mood for Christmas....

The Good, the Bad, and the Giving of Thanks

I wrote the following entry on the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, but I never posted it. It’s been that weirdly busy with work, family, food, more family, and more food. So, in honor of Turkey Day passing, I thought I’d go ahead and post it anyway, even if it is like a really bad flashback. It’s my blog, after all, so whatever.


They say that you should start with a positive, give people the negative, then end with a positive. I don’t know who “they” is, exactly, but I’m going to try it to see if it helps buffer my complete lack of enthusiasm today – just a few days before a day of thanks and gratefulness for all that I love.

I had oatmeal for breakfast. In a mug. (That was the positive. Yep.)
I’ve been working for about 10 days straight now, with a day of tailgating thrown in that mix somewhere. It was the final, and coldest, tailgate of the year. I couldn’t even enjoy bloody marys...that’s precisely how cold it was. My once robust and caffeinated “I love my job so much” attitude has now been secretly replaced with the Negative Nancy Blend of Folgers’ “I am wondering why I took a salaried position to work 20 more hours a week and ultimately get half the money I made before I so stupidly listened to everyone telling me that salaried positions and 401Ks are for grown-ups and Daisywriter, you’re a grown up now” decaf thoughts. My mortgage payment went up without notice a few weeks ago. And, I can’t wait to see what Obama wants to take on top of that in 2009. I’m already stretching and limbering up to assume the position. I've always had a love/hate relationship with money, and for more than one reason this week, Mr. Money and I had some major tension going on behind the scenes.

So, this morning, I had my oatmeal. I did so in a very hurried, frantic manner, apparently, because it wasn’t until around noon today – a mere 5 hours later – that I realized that a huge hunk of dried up oatmeal was in my bangs. Just sitting there in all its glory, being thoroughly enjoyed by the three people I had meetings with, since it was lodged in the most conspicuous portion of my hair. It wasn't a little piece of oatmeal, mind you, but rather a nice chunk. And not one single person pointed this out to me. No one. Crickets chirping here. Oatmeal in my hair, people. I look like a homeless crack head alcoholic who just vomited in her own hair. Nice...really.

And, to top that all off (yes, there’s more), my Argentina trip was cancelled. That business class ticket (with the really big, comfortable, reclining seats) just flew right on out the window and my dream of a 2008 South American half-day adventure has been squelched. Because of safety issues. Safety shmafety. I mean, let’s get real - like someone would want to kidnap a homeless crack head alcoholic with dried-up puke in her bangs. As if.

So yeah. That was where I ended. Pathetic, huh? Which is why I shall do what I intended to do days ago and end on that positive note. Despite my bitchy attitude last week, I am still grateful for many, many things in my life, and I'm still the "glass half full" gal. As tradition calls, I shall provide my yearly notation of all the things I truly am grateful for, providing that uplifting exclamation point.

My Thanksgiving 2008, “I’m Thankful for” List
•My husband. I didn’t have one of those last year at this time. I like him.
•Dunkin Donuts’ coffee and flatbread sandwiches
•My backyard view
•My Jessica Simpson black stiletto boots
•Indiana sunsets
•Rock and roll – it’s not dead yet and still legal
•My stepson asking me for help with his English.
•My stepson actually listening to me when I help him with his English.
•Tailgating and bloody marys
•US magazine – fluffy, mindless, fabulous reading on a lazy Saturday afternoon
•My university teaching gig…the kids completely outweigh the fact that I’m sorely underpaid
•The MockDock
•A 5 am alarm clock in the shape of a brindle Great Dane nose
•An office with a door
•The stars at night (you can see more of them out in the country, you know)
•My new fashionably chocolate brown Carharrts (the one gift I know I’m getting for Christmas)
•Sephora. God bless Sephora.
•My new Venus, even if it does have a huge, gaping new scratch in it
•My stepdaughter’s friends telling me that I look 28, even though they have no idea what the difference is between 28 and 37 at their age. I take what I can get.
•The back two acres – cleared so I can see the new colt in the pasture.
•Michigan Avenue and the rest of that toddlin' town - only 3 short hours away
•The Bargersville flea market on a Sunday morning
•My fabulous Polish slippers
•Tito’s vodka
•Imitrex
•Time
•Target…I really could live there.
•Democracy
•Indiana sunsets
•Shamwows. I don’t even have these yet, but they’re friggin GENIUS.
•Old, snoring dogs
•My best Nashville bud's boyfriend....home from Iraq, safe and sound
•Online Christmas shopping
•Family Guy
•New friends, and old friends that have become new again
•My Kohler, extra-big soaking tub
•My books
•My intellect
•My memories
•My health
•My friends
•My family

And there you have it. Another year of stuffing myself full of too much food, fun, and festivities with family galore. I didn't drink ANY VODKA this year, so I consider myself both classy and certifiably insane.

Thank God there's plenty of time to make up for my lack of Thanksgiving sins at Christmas.

Hello Winter, Goodbye Tailgates...

Winter is officially here - early, I believe. I think we completely bypassed Fall and went straight to the gray, nasty winter stuff, to be honest. But Mr. Old Man Winter doesn't care about our feelings or our lack of Fallness. Instead, he just pelts us with his painfully cold presence before turkey day. Thanks, you old fart.

Just as the weather's getting icy, this Saturday marks our last home tailgate at Purdue, my Husband-man’s alma mater. As an SEC girl by southern, formative-year molding, I am quite loyal to my Volunteers. However, I also have a motto of “when in Rome...” And, I am definitely in Rome now – the Midwest – a.k.a. Big Ten country. As someone who is used to a 102,000+-seat stadium (largest football stadium in the South, fourth largest in the U.S., and the seventh largest in the world, to be exact), my first Purdue game was a little like watching a really, really big high school team in the South. However, I’ve grown to love the Boilers, I now root for them at will, and I will faithfully defend their honor against the likes of those pesky Michigan and (ick) I.U. fans alike. Weirdly enough, West Lafayette reminds me a bit of Knoxville – the campus layout, architecture, and overall spirit. It reminds me of that place I used to call home.

When Husband-man and I attended our first game this year, I told him that if we were going to make a habit of this Big Ten football-thing, then I insisted on tailgating our asses off and bringing a bit of the SEC to the Big Ten. If you’re going to do it, do it all the way, I say. As a result, we have grown from going to the game in a car with nothing to packing our little truck until it’s on the verge of bursting - full of gear, food, drink, and tailgating paraphernalia - all in one short season. I believe our tailgate will become progressively more dedicated as the years go by. And, I'd venture to say that we’re the only Big Ten tailgate that has an SEC flag waving right below the Purdue one – the big orange and white checkerboard flag flew proudly this year, despite the Vols’ monkey-ball-sucking season.

I haven’t made it back to Neyland Stadium to see my boys play in several years, and this year was a pretty painful one to watch when I did for brief moments at a time. But, I still love that town, that school, and my team. And, I know we’re in a pile of ashes right now, just waiting to be that Phoenix who comes out flying high, kicking butt again. I've been irritated, of course, but my hope still remains intact.

Until I make it back to Knoxville, I’ll put my energy into rooting for the Boilers and bringing that SEC “thing” to the Big Ten. But I couldn’t let the season come to an almost close without raising a proverbial 16-oz. can of Coors Light in one hand, a glass full of moonshine in the other, toasting my boys and singing a chorus of Rocky Top with slurred speech and a face painted tangerine orange. So, to make me happy as well as any random, diehard, loyal UT fans....this one's also for you. Because you know what they say...you can take the girl out of Tennessee, but you can't take the Tennessee out of the girl...

Oh, wait. No. This one's even better.

This one was especially funny to me today. OK. That is all. My work is done here.

Must....have....comic....relief...

It's been a crazy couple of weeks. I've been asking people at work things like, "Hey...I've only been here like three months, so you tell me if this chaos is normal, or if it's just that time of year."

Apparently, the chaos, the working weekends, the juggling of 14 projects and hoping you are talking about the right one at any given time during conference calls - this is all the norm.

So, my norm today required a laugh. And what else do I turn to than a monkey for a bonafide giggle.

I'm sure I've posted him someplace before, but he's worth a second giggle.

All behold - Whiplash, the cowboy monkey.

A Hairless, Toothless Puppy: Um, Huh?

So I read this on Yahoo this morning:

A four-month old puppy that goes by the name "Ears" is seen in Lima November 10, 2008. Peruvians crazy about their national dog the Peruvian Hairless Dog, a bald and often toothless breed popular among Incan kings, offered on Monday to send a hypoallergenic puppy to the Obama family.

Um, yeah. Toothless and hairless, I might add.

For those who know me at all, you know how maniacal I am about dogs. I have two Danes and a boxer, and there's always room for about 4 more in my house. Love dogs. LOVE.

But this dog? As the White House representative canine? For chrissake...if you want hypoallergenic, get a turtle. I'm sure he's lovable and all, but it's like picking Sandra Bernhard to be the next Miss America.

Wow.

Horoscopes, Stilettos, and Slippers

I've always read my horoscope. I know some people think this is completely stupid and lame, but it's just a habit of mine that's stuck. Today, my little horoscope talked about how completely fierce I'd be, and then ended with this:

Wear the highest heels you can walk in without falling down, and loads of black. You're a killer. Grrr!

I really should've worn black and my highest stilettos today. After all, I booked my business-class ticket last night to Buenos Aires the first week of December. I'll be presenting a global branding strategy to a bunch of Latin American executives. And the ticket alone, I believe, cost more than my car is worth. It gave me a slight panic attack when I charged it to my corporate AMEX. Regardless, I feel as though I am entitled to act like an overbearing, ridiculously bratty rock star today.

It's funny, though...the whole "grrr" thing, seeing as how I worked at home today, in my pseudo-pajamas, didn't take a shower, shoved my hair into a ponytail, and I didn't change out of what could possibly be the most unassumingly fabulous footwear EVER. My friend Mockarena surprised me a few weeks ago with these homemade slippers - direct from her Polish grandmother. All the way from Poland, which is about as glamorous as Argentina. I mean, the woman knitted them with her bare hands in Poland, while speaking Polish (because she doesn't speak English). And as much of a heels-wearing girl that I am, I love these slippers as much as my red "power" stilettos. It's as if my own Polish grandmother (I may have had one of those in the woodpile somewhere) is hugging each one of my feet individually and serving them cocoa with those little marshmallows. They're like that unconditional, Grandmother love, wrapped in yarn, contoured to fit my size-9 feet. Absolute genius.

So, yes, I booked a ticket to a country a gazillion miles away. I'll be there, sans any counterparts, for approximately 18 hours without a plan other than to try to drink some of the city in. Do I feel fabulous? You bet I do. Am I a little nervous? Absolutely. That's good for me. And, I may never get to go to Argentina again, so I realize the enormity of the situation. Does it warrant my red stilettos? Quite possibly.

But for today, I shall wear slippers.

Lunch of Champions

Once upon a time, I used to eat really, really healthy. I mean, I was over-the-top healthy, with my raw fruits and veggies and my lean meats. I would never be caught dead at a vending machine, except for the occasional Snickers once every six months or so.

You know what I had for lunch today? Bright orange crackers. I mean, those weirdly neon-orange ones that look straight out of Chernobyl and conveniently placed in my office vending machine. My life and work have become so overwhelmingly busy in the past few weeks, that I've now resorted to skipping lunch altogether and eating unnaturally orange crackers. This is my Monday. Welcome aboard. Tomorrow, I'm thinking I'll live on the edge and get some Combos or some of that pricey trail mix that was made and packaged circa 1987.

Happy Monday, faithful followers!

It's Official. I've Become a Grumpy Old Woman.

Or, at least I sound like a grumpy old woman. But hear me out.

I have been feeling all week as though the Kool-Aid has literally been consumed by a little over half the American population, and I’m just sitting and watching it happen. I've come to terms with it, and will be nice and polite to the looming socialist party. I just don’t know what the people in this country are thinking. I didn’t, that is, until I heard a few comments last week that have shaken my sense of democratic, patriotic stability a bit. The kids in this country – those pesky 18 to 25-year olds – have pretty much called the shots on this one, folks. And, I’m going out on a slight limb here when I say that they’re all a bunch of spoiled, over privileged little brats. Visionaries? I think not. The visionaries I've always looked up to weren't living off their parent's dollars.

I taught class last Thursday night and heard one of my students blabbing about how excited he is that we finally will have socialized medicine and "rich people will finally have to ante up.” This kid said, and I quote, that “people who make more than 150,000 dollars a year have the responsibility to pay for people who don’t make as much money as they do.”

Huh. OK. (My lip was bleeding at this point. I'm a professional...I'm a professional...)

Now let’s preamble, as I always do. I did the calculations one time, a few years ago, about how much money I actually make teaching at the university. It’s job number two for me, mainly because I couldn’t afford to eat if I made it my sole source of income. When I did the calculations, it came out to around 5 bucks an hour – less than minimum wage – when you take into account the hours of lesson planning, grading, driving there and back, etc. It’s more than obvious that I’m nowhere near making 150K a year. I wish I could say that I was, and I wish I could say that I made a dollar to every MAN’S dollar, too, but I can’t. But do I go through life wishing that I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth? Do I feel as though rich people have the responsibility to take care of me? Do I feel as though a rich person OWES me money that he or she made?

Um, no. I do not.

I don’t particularly like most rich people. I mean, I was married to one for eight years, and for the most part, those people were not smarter than me in any way. They didn’t have more class. They weren’t wittier or superior. They were just luckier, really. It doesn’t take a brain surgeon to realize that some people are smarter than others, some are luckier than others, and God didn’t put us all on this planet to be exactly the same. That’s the joy of it. As much as I love having money in my pocket, it never made me happier when I had it. For the most part, I thought about 75% of the rich people I lived among were pretty much pricks BECAUSE of the money they seemed to hide behind. But, never did I EVER feel as though they were responsible for me. Or my lot in life, for that matter.

The kid went on to say that his “parents taught (him) to give to those who needed it – (He) was raised to take care of others and be charitable.”

My lip bleeding profusely from biting it at this point, I answered with, “Well, that’s interesting, because my parents raised me to take responsibility for myself, my actions, to be independent and self-sufficient, and never expect anyone else to take care of me.”

To top off that lovely sentiment, I mentor young writers at work. One of them, in her first year out of school, actually made the statement this week – “I didn’t sit in class for four years to NOT be respected.”

Thank God I heard about this second-hand from one of my colleagues. I may have been fired for a potential response had I actually been there.

What is it with this generation? I know I sound like an 80-year old woman, but have we raised a bunch of kids who feel they’re entitled to everything? I myself have never birthed my own offspring, but I'm surrounded by them. And the vast majority of the ones I see in my life day-to-day have this air about them like the world owes them something. They’re the “time-out” generation – the kids who were put in a corner in their room when they were bad, forced to have quiet time (quite possibly with their flat-screen TVS and their 150-gig IPods). They’re the generation who all got trophies when they made 7th place in the track meet. What the hell is THAT? If you’re 7th, you LOSE. You’re a big, fat loser. Suck it up, kid. In real life, there is no trophy for 7th place.

As much as I love my stepkids and their friends, I see glimpses of that entitlement in them, too. The color-coded Christmas lists, the “I want, I want, I want” statements. The expectation that parents are responsible for certain things, 40-hour workweeks are only for people in their 30s, and every kid should have a car with a bow on it for their 16th birthday - not to mention a wardrobe that would be worthy of Imelda Marcos. They’re loving and kind and compassionate kids, for the most part, so I hold that as saving grace for them. But I’m also the wicked stepmother who reminds them that color-coded Christmas lists and the notion of entitlement are ridiculous bullshit. I’m a giver like that.

I told Husband-man that if we ever had a kid (and that may not be possible with the powdered eggs that linger in my uterus), I would try to raise the little person like my parents raised me. If I could just figure out how they did it, though. The genius way they made me love them so much, but fear them at the same time. I keep trying to figure out how they managed to do that, but neither my Mom nor Dad can answer me succinctly when I ask, “how did you make me believe that disappointing you in any way, shape, or form was the absolute WORST thing I could do in the world?”

So, back to that kid in my class. Upon his statement proclaiming that it was everyone else’s responsibility to take care of HIM, I answered, “Mr. Obama promised me that he’d have the national debt balanced in 4 years. In fact, his Vice President – that wonderful Mr. Biden - said it directly to me on TV one night during the campaign, so it must be true. I’ll be very happy to see that they’ve accomplished exactly what they’ve promised at the end of their term. I’m hopeful they will come through with all those many, many promises.”

And then I handed the self-absorbed little socialist bastard his C+ paper.

I'm just not ready to talk about it yet.

Yeah. Obama is President. I'm not stunned, per se...not really even fearful. Just disappointed in the direction of this country. I think I said it best in a comment I made to another site this morning, so I'll just post it here. And, yes, it's dripping in sarcasm:

The year was 2008, and everybody was finally equal. It’s going to be totally bitchin’ awesome to finally be lobotomized, chipped, and told where my hard-earned money is going to be spent. Phew. I mean, living in a democratic society where I had to actually use my feeble little capitalist brain and choose things on my own - such as my doctors and personal philanthropies - was so friggin EXHAUSTING. Thank you, Mr. Lawyer Congress man, for finally getting into power so I could quit thinking for myself!

God. Bless. America.

You know how I got through the elections last night? I watched Purple Rain. That's right. Purple Rain. Prince in all his purple, puffy-shirtified hotness. There's nothing like a little cheese, Appolonia, and Morris Day and the Time to get your mind off the upcoming demise of America.

http://video.aol.com/video/princepurple-rain/1799330

Michigan makes babies cry.

This shirt would be really fun to wear this weekend, if I was not a responsible and completely politically correct, domestic stepmother (that was really hard to type, you know).

In honor of the Michigan/Purdue game this weekend, I also felt compelled to post this YouTube clip. Sorry, but embedding was disabled, so you'll have to make the jump. Michigan makes babies cry. It's documented here, sportsfans.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H-fc5os23mI

(Go Boilers)

Opie, God, Revelation chips, and a needed superhero...

My friend in Nashville sent this to me this morning. It's a clip of Ron Howard, endorsing Obama in a way that is, well, creepy as hell. He's using the character of Opie to express his belief, after drinking the Kool-Aid (the celebrity batch was especially strong, I think), that we should all vote for CHANGE. Which is Obama, according to him and a gazillion other people in the country. And, to make things worse in this already creepy video, he pulls in Andy Griffith, who's more than likely 125 years old right now and half senile, to put that proverbial cherry on top of a shit pie.

So, to preamble (faithful readers know I like to do so), if I didn't like vodka, sex, and shoes so much, I'd probably be a Buddhist with Christian foundation. I appreciate all faiths (the Lama visit was a religious experience in itself), but I do believe there's some sort of a God. At least I have faith in a God that I believe in, and he may not look, sound, or act like anyone else's. Call it weakness or call it strength, but I just think it's narrow-minded to believe that we're on this earth to only become dust one day. I'd like to think there's much more to it. I suppose I'm one of those optimistic idealists with a realistic hard candy shell.

It's very interesting, because some of the notions in Revelations have been showing themselves. It doesn't scare me, per se...it just interests me. I do know that if we all spiral down this socialism path and become as equal as possible, "sharing the wealth" and enjoying a lobotomized life of Vonnegut novel-like mediocrity, there will more than likely be some centralized and dictated manner of buying goods and services once we get to that severe equalized state. And, if you've ever read the Bible, you know that a chip in our hands or whereever the government chooses to implant it would be that "mark." If you don't accept it, then you'll more than likely starve to death.

I didn't write it, folks. I'm just reminding people of a piece of literature here. One that is weirdly timely right now. That's all. It's still a democracy, last I checked, and I have at least until January to say that SOCIALISM IS A CROCK OF MONKEY CRAP. :-)

My friend, Mockarena, said it best this morning. "We need a superhero!"

We totally do. One that can undo the spell of the Kool-Aid. This, of course, makes me wonder what Linda Carter is doing and if they've gotten to her yet. If they've forced the Kool-Aid down her throat. I always LOVED Wonder Woman. In Obama's world, she'd have to cut her invisible plane up into small pieces and share it. Very useful, indeed.

So, yeah....that creepy little video from Ron Howard. Here it is in all its "take advantage of the 50s and all it stood for" glory:

http://www.funnyordie.com/videos/cc65ed650d

My new favorite lawyer

First a journalist, then a lawyer. It's been an eventful day, thinking about how the demise of America could very well start taking place next week, in between working my butt off to pay my mortgage. Happily, I might add.

Mark Levin is kind of cool.

The Kool-Aid must be some good stuff. I've never been one to give into peer pressure, though...

http://marklevinfan.com/?p=3686

8 days left, and I love this woman....

At least she ASKED the question I would've asked. For that reason alone, she's my new favorite journalist. You go, girl...

Mr. Lawyer McCheaty is getting angry.

The Harrison Bergeron-ing of America.

I have been very heads-down these days, trying to juggle about 7 different projects that I'm both managing and creating deliverables for. So, I rely on things like Fox News and the mind behind www.themockdock.com to give me my daily scoop of both snarkiness and news.

Yesterday, my friend Mockarena sent me the following movie trailer. We're both slightly disillusioned by the fact that we may be leaning towards becoming a more socialist country, and as a result, this irritates us WAY beyond the fact that Tara Reid can make a really, really good living as an actress. She is an actress, right?

So, two things. One, when our country spirals into socialist mediocrity, don't blame me. I'm voting for the other guy, because I think capitalism and all that it represents keeps us on our toes. Sort of like when I used to play tennis, and I always played better when they put me up against girls that were nicknamed "Moose."

Two, this movie is going to rock, mainly because Kurt Vonnegut rocks, but also because I think it's quite timely.

I'll be there opening night. God bless your brilliant soul, Kurt.

Second in line to fainting goats, I now want "Robert" on my property.

I can't understand a word this man is saying, but he's a German dude named Karl who raises these giant rabbits. The rabbit is aptly named "Robert" (he does look like a Robert, I believe). I must have one immediately.

He was featured in the Chicago Tribune. Here's the snippet husband-man sent me today (at lunch, of course):

First bred in Germany by veteran breeder Karl Szmolinsky. The breed made worldwide news in 2006 when 23 lb (10 kg) "Robert" won a prize as Germany’s largest rabbit. As a result, the North Korean Government has begun a breeding program to use these very large rabbits to feed the population. It is reported however, that the rabbits sent by Szmolinsky were eaten at a birthday banquet for Kim Jong-il.

NICE. Kim Jong-il is an asshole. Karl, however, is keeping one, because he apparently fell in love with the fuzzy little man like I have.

If you haven't watched this yet, you must immediately.

Democrat, Republican, Independent...whatever. She plain rocks, and you can't dispute it, people:


http://www.themockdock.com/2008/10/19/poehler-palin-rap/

Bruxism, becoming brunette, and Brazilgentina

You know that migraine I had the other day? It was quite possibly a hormone-thing, but after consuming 3 Imitrex over the course of 2 days, the pain moved directly into the right side of my face and prevented me from chewing food. So, I decided to go to the dentist. I hate the dentist. I've proclaimed my hatred for the dentist in previous posts, as I'd rather have four pap smears - one right after the other - than go to the dentist. So, me going is a big deal. I either have to be punched directly in the face and have teeth knocked out of my head or have the raging pain I had the other day to ask for an appointment. But I know that if I can't eat solid food, there's an issue. I like food.

Lucky me...it turns out I have this little thing called Bruxism. It's a fancy name for clenching and grinding of the teeth. I do this at night. Why, you ask? I have no friggin' idea, other than the fact that I am a freak and a half. I'm a historically-maniacal insomniac who apparently thinks too much not ONLY while awake, but also while I'm asleep. I guess my sleeping brain believes that clenching and grinding my teeth with four times as much power as I do when I'm awake will rid me of all worries and life stressors. Welcome to my type-A little world. Jump right in. The water's warm.

So, my dentist said that I have good, strong teeth, but they're being worn down with the constant grinding, and the pain I'm experiencing is a result of this. The solution for this problem is to STOP DOING IT, of course. And the only way to stop doing it is to wear this really attractive mouth guard at night. Kind of like a very thick condom for my teeth. A teeth Trojan, if you will. My first mental image was Joan Cusack in Sixteen Candles...the vision of her with that hugely awesome headgear.

Within 10 minutes of the diagnosis, dentist-man shoves this nasty cement crap in my mouth, holds it there for three minutes, and oila! Instant mold of my upper mouth. I shall have my really sexy cure for bruxism by tomorrow afternoon. In my very own hands. Lucky, lucky me!

To add to my extreme overall hotness, I got my hair cut tonight. And colored, of course. Brown. Really, really brown. I'm a brunette tonight for the first time in YEARS. And, while I realize I have to let it settle and grow on me a bit...fade out and find its groove...I'm a blonde by nature. Yes, I realize that my blonde may not be all real, but I'm truly a blonde from the depths of my soul. Tonight was one of those, "I just need a change, and it's winter, so why the hell not?" nights. I went full-on brunette and got a little Posh Spice cut to go with it. The cut is adorable, and I love it. The color? I kind of hate it. I'll let it try to change my mind in the next few days, and if it doesn't convince me of its sheer sexiness, I will reconsider and kill the brunette me. And that's OK. Because I live in a constant hairocracy...and I'm the dictator.

To top off my sexy brunette bruxism, I also found out today that my slated work trip to Brazil has been derailed. Instead, I shall be going to ARGENTINA. I am BEYOND excited about this. Brazil was going to be a cool place to visit, but I started becoming fearful of my eventual slaying upon my arrival at the Sao Paolo airport. Argentina is where Oscar the Boxer lives, so it must be OK. This news made up for any dental condoms in my future, as I'll finally be visiting a Spanish-speaking, South American country at 37. I've been wanting to do this since I sat happily, conjugating verbs and going by the self-imposed Spanish name Cha Cha, in 10th grade Spanish class. My undergraduate minor in Spanish will finally have a shot at rearing its head, other than to say, "Otra margarita, por favor!"

So, to recap. I am the coolest writer-chick on the planet today, as I'll be jetting to South America in December. This completely overshadows my complete brunette indifference, the teeth Trojan, and the fact that I could very well be morphing into Joan Cusack's character in Sixteen Candles.

And with that, I bid you goodnight.

This is basically what happened, only the bird that hit us was real.

Concerning my last post about the flying chicken....Well, it was a lot like this. I am Christina Applegate, and she's Cameron Diaz, only I think we're way cuter.

Flying Chickens, vodka, and my deferral to themockdock

I could blog all of the events of this weekend, but Mr. Daisywriter has made me his world-famous, "the kids aren't with us tonight, so have a cocktail" cranberry vodka drink. He missed his calling as a bartender, because as a man who doesn't drink very much at all, his cocktails are unbelievably dangerous and yummy. I am somewhat tipsy, if you will, so I shall refrain from trying to sound smart in any way, shape, or form.

Instead of acting like I can spew original thoughts, I shall defer blogging of the weekend's festivities to my fated fabulous friend Mockarena. She blogged what really needed to be blogged - the wedding to end all weddings. The big, huge, obese Greek one that everyone wants to attend. We attended it, indeed, in true Mock/Daisy fashion.

I would like to point out, though, as I did in a comment to themockdock.com, that I believe that Jesus threw a sacrificial fowl at us. I'd also like to publicly proclaim that Hacienda in Kokomo, Indiana, has salsa that I truly believe is laced with crack.

http://www.themockdock.com/2008/10/11/greek-orthodox-weddings-suicidal-chickens-and-hacienda/

The simplicity of men.

I don't often write about my husband-man, as I love him dearly and admire him greatly. I keep the majority of my blogging focus off him, as he's a private man, and I try to respect that. Unlike me, he doesn't talk unless he has something of real value to say. I, on the other hand, am a walking mouth that jabbers constantly. He's always been unassuming, never one to be flashy...doesn't care about what brand of clothes he wears or car he drives. He buys a car because it's practical. He's quietly confident. He doesn't need the fluff, and I know that he's pretty cerebral, which is one of the main reasons I was first attracted to him. I've always been a sucker for a smart man. Smart men that don't use hair products and have no idea what Burberry is. The kind of man that's rugged...the one who wears work boots and has substantial facial hair and often grease or dirt under his fingernails. No way around it...this is just plain hot - at least to me.

I wouldn't normally "out" my husband for anything in my blog, mainly because there's not much to "out" about him. However, I felt compelled to do so today. You see, my husband - the guy who watches only Discovery Channel, Sci Fi, TLC, and the History Channel (with the occasional exception of Family Guy and South Park) - is a thinking man. Case in point: last night, I came in from my night class, set my keys on the counter, said hello, and noticed that he was watching a documentary on how lead was made. Yep. Lead. As in that heavy stuff. Yeah.

So, knowing what kind of a guy my husband is, it makes me giggle when he gets excited about the one show I never dreamed he'd get excited about. It's the exception to the cerebral rule to end all exceptions. The season premiere of this show is tomorrow, I've learned, and all things will be set aside to watch it. Leave it to cheerleaders to make my cerebral husband a deer-in-the-headlights. God bless CMT's Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders "Making the Team." In all its anti-feminist glory, I, too, love this show. It's a train wreck. It's simply awesome.

Yes, I'm outing you, hon. Because it makes me smile that we can sit down together as a happy couple, I can snark on the girls' dancing ability and lack of world and political knowledge while you stare at their abundant boobs. It's the little things. And in this case, I find bonding with my husband over blatant T&A just plain sweet.

To hook any potential viewers out there, Joel McHale highlighted my absolute favorite scene from last year's show. Enjoy the blondeness:

Chuck Norris the Visionary

My Dad sent me this article today in a roundabout way. I just love that Mr. Norris is giving commentary on Washington. I secretly hope that he goes to Washington and opens up a can of whoopass on everyone. Yes, I just wrote the word "whoopass." That was a first. Congratulations, Dad.

http://www.humanevents.com/article.php?id=28902

Appraisals, churches and chicks

Yesterday was a blur of work, work, and more work. I worked at home yesterday, which makes me once again proclaim that I love my job. I didn't shower all day, didn't wear a stitch of makeup, and didn't wear any shoes except flip flops temporarily while taking the dogs out a few times. It was non-stop chaos, con-calls, and creative writing from 6:30 am to 6 pm. But it was a gloriously mish-mashed day. While juggling work, I was also expecting an appraiser to come to our house, as we're trying to take advantage of the financial ruin of our country and refinance our home. Additionally, I had a date after dinner to see my neighbor's new shipment of chicks - little, fuzzy, baby chicks that I'll be tending to this weekend when they're out of town. Who would've thought that there's actually work into keeping these little fuzzy things alive?

While on my second conference call of the morning, I was interrupted by what I refer to as the "bible people." These people have come to my house before. In fact, I think that in the past year of living in my country residence, I've had at least 4 visits from people trying to make me see the "light of Jesus Christ." Right after we moved in, The God Squad was in the form of a 16-year old kid and his little girlfriend - who didn't speak much, as I don't think she believed it was her place as a woman to do so. The teenage boy was trying to tell me - a 36-year old at the time who, I will venture to say, has lived a few lifetimes in those years - how to live life. He asked if I had been "saved" yet. I still don't really even know what that means. And, he couldn't even grow facial hair yet, for chrissake. My lip was bleeding from biting it, and while I wanted so badly grab the girl, shake her, and give her some Camille Paglia to read, I didn't. I kept my mouth shut, was polite, and smiled at them while explaining that I was busy working. I actually work and all. I did the same thing yesterday. It was a lady and a man, dressed in those horribly unfashionable dark suits that scream cult couture. I mean, why can't a woman of God come to your door in Jessica Simpson shoes? Is there some I-accept-Jesus-into-my-life paperwork you sign that says, "I'm going to forfeit the fun of being a put-together, sexy, strong-willed woman. I'm not ever going to consciously appreciate the fact that I have a nice rack, because that would just be wrong. Even though God made me as a woman and has given me these long legs, I know I shouldn't show them. EVER. No way. I'll be dowdy and wear my husband's clothes instead. Yeah. That's what God intended."

When I told the lady that I was in the middle of a conference call and that I had no time to take away from my workload, she said to me, "well, bless your HEART."

Bless my heart? Because I have to work? I like to work. I like making money. I like buying food and shoes, lady.

Bless. My. Heart. Alrighty then.

I think I've said this before, but I do believe there's a God...I just believe that he's up there shaking his head at all of us, saying, "This is SO not what I had in mind...you people have just royally f*cked up everything I set out to do." THAT is how I think we, as a people, are flawed. We're just not nice to one another. We just don't GET it as a human race, I don't think. Plain and simple. And, while I think some people find their own way and do it in a sincere manner, I think a lot of the Christians I know, at least, have this air of "I'm in a special club and that makes me superior." It's an extension of a high school clique, and heaven is like that awesome club you want to get into, but aren't sure if the guy at the door is going to let you in based on his own perceptions of you.

I don't believe that's the way God intended things to be. And the Catholic church? Well, my steady readers know the drill there. Money makes people - and institutions - corrupt. And that's all I got to say about that.

When spirituality gets wrapped up in money and elitism based on who finances the biggest and grandest stained-glass windows in the church....when it becomes a way for insecure people to point fingers at me and judge me...when it is a way for other flawed humans, such as myself, to justify their own sins and wrongdoings by thinking, "well, I can just ask for forgiveness for being a complete son of a bitch most days of my life and still get into eternal happiness in heaven"....then it's not something I'm genuinely interested in.

Try explaining that to the Church Lady at your doorstep. It's harder than you think. Next time, when she tries to make me over to be more in Jesus' likeness, I, in turn, may offer a makeover for her. I'll start with the shoes and work my way up. And THEN we can talk about how cool God is.

More fun from Oscar the Boxer.

I'm getting ready to head home for the day - much work to do tonight. When the humans piss me off, I turn to the pups...and I love some Oscar Schnookums. He looks so much like my Tess Larue. His little clips have inspired me to start documenting my three canine children's lives more. I shall begin that promptly. Until then, here's Oscar at the beach in Argentina. It actually made ME smile, and that's a huge feat today. I especially like the porn-like 70s music. Solid gold.

I love my job. I love my job. GGRRR. I love my job.

Today sucks. I'm irritated beyond repair today. Today, I really hate my job, but I'll just keep reminding myself that it's the first day I've hated my job in 8 weeks, and I really, for the most part, adore my job overall. I just hate it today. I hate it so much today because of one distinct person, actually. Then the one condescending, blood-sucking, soulless excuse for a human has made it his/her mission to make my work life both inefficient and as difficult as possible today, which in turn makes me irritable towards all other normal human beings, of course. Today is a grand reminder of why I have worked contract my whole career. Corporate politics are such raging, smelly, ridiculously unnecessary bullshit. It also reminds me of how wonderful life may be had I actually majored in piano performance and gone on to play backup for Clapton. I don't know if Clapton provides a dental plan, though.

I must snarf down my sandwich now, then catch up on the 50 million things I have to do, due to the fact I spent all morning cleaning up the mess caused by that said soulless human. In the meantime, the above clip sums up my day. I'd like to emphasize that I am the chicken. Enjoy.

October Foo Fix

It's been a year (on September 25th, to be exact) that Echoes, Silence, Patience & Grace came out, and I still friggin LOVE this album like I was hearing it for the first time. It may very well be the new millenium's Abbey Road. I can say that, because I'm now a member of the "I'd Sell my Family to Marry Dave Grohl" club on Facebook, which makes me ridiculously cool and borderline psychotic stalker.

My favorite song on the album - and it's taken me a year to really pick - is "Let it Die," which is the first song they played at the concert I took Speedy to in Indy this past July.

I know you want to thank me for giving you this month's Foo Fix. But, it's OK...you don't have to thank me. It's the least I can do for my three adoring fans. I'm a giver like that...

Flying Shlongs and the Best. Job. Ever.

Forgive me, faithful Daisywriter companions, for I have blog-sinned. It’s been a week since my last confession. So much has happened in the past week, even though none of it was really that blogworthy.

First and foremost, I captured a fabulous snapshot at the Purdue/Penn State game this past Saturday. It’s a flying penis. A really, really large penile member floating around the stands in a glorious, inflatable format. Someone actually BOUGHT this thing somewhere. In fact, it’s created such curiosity in me to find out where in the sam hell you can actually buy 8-foot blowup shlongs. The flying penis first reared its head (no pun intended) a few weeks ago at another Purdue home game -in the student section, of course - but it was snatched up so quickly by security guards, it eluded me. This time, I was ready for the big one-eyed wonder worm, and lo and behold, I got my photographic evidence. There’s nothing funnier than a flying penis. Much like chimpanzees, it’s up there as comic gold on the funny list.

So, there was that blogworthy occurrence. Pictured above for posterity.

Fast forward to this morning, when I arrived at work like my conscientious early-bird self, opened up my Outlook inbox, and saw a really cool surprise. My boss #1 is Mr. Communications man-in-charge of my company, and I am, for lack of a better phrase, his right-hand writer/editor/manager chick. He’s like a marketing and communications-slanted John McCain, if you will, and I’m his Sarah Palin. If he’s not able to do something merely because he is incapable of cloning himself, I’m his little Alaskan princess stand-in, whisking into action with my rifle to combat communications terrorists and such. I'm just amazed that I have a shred of imagination left, people. Honestly.

My boss will be out of town on business in Tennessee in early December. He has committed to being at an engagement and as a result, he will not be able to travel to Brazil to handle yet another engagement. Yeah, you read that right. BRAZIL. What does this mean? Well, this means that I, Daisywriter, the girl who doesn’t speak a lick of Portugese but feels as though her Spanish minor may still come in handy beyond ordering margaritas one of these days, gets to possibly go to BRAZIL. I almost urinated all over myself with excitement.

Of course, my thoughts went immediately to colorful, party-filled, naked people in the street in Rio, free and festival-like and very, well, Brazilian. People with this fabulously sun-kissed skin, soaking up rays and being decadently carefree while I watch, all WASPy and pasty and ginger-like, in absolute bewilderment. However, upon conveying the wonderful news to my husband, my thoughts were somewhat squelched. Husband-man is petrified that I’ll get killed anywhere near a Brazilian airport by random gunfire (much to my surprise, their murder rate is four times that of the United States). Or worse - I'll be kidnapped and sold into Brazilian sex slavery. He’s completely freaked out about my safety or the lack thereof in such a turmoil-infused country. Which, I’ll admit, is very sweet and protective and dutiful-husband-like, but I keep telling him to give me at least 5 minutes to bask in the glory of my Brazilian, half-naked, sunshine-filled, party daydreams.

I guess I never really thought about the crime, but he has made me promise that I’ll have either a traveling companion or some sort of escort for the trip. Traveling alone is, in his opinion, not an option as a pasty tourist chick. Even the boring federal transportation sites tell travelers to be cautious, as “random acts of violence” are common in that neck of the woods. And here I always thought everyone was just drunk and in costumes all the time.

So much for carefree and colorful. Although I am thinking about confiscating the giant shlong and taking it with me as a peace offering.