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.

The Female Chuck Norris

My friend Paul sent this to me today (I totally used your name, Paul...consider this your very sad and pathetic 10 seconds of fame, dude). It's an article about who I believe is the female Chuck Norris. While my Vols suck donkey balls this year (they do...they really, really do), the girls basketball team still rocks, as I know it always will as long as Mrs. Summit herself is in charge.

Summitt has shoulder surgery for raccoon attack
Sep 25, 1:39 pm EDT

KNOXVILLE, Tenn. (AP)—Tennessee basketball coach Pat Summitt had offseason shoulder surgery, not for a sports injury but because of a tussle with a raccoon.

The winningest basketball coach in NCAA history has had problems with her right shoulder since dislocating it while chasing away a raccoon poised to attack her Labrador. The attack came near her home on March 5, just days before the Southeastern Conference tournament.

A month later, Summitt guided the Vols to their eighth NCAA title.

Summitt had arthroscopic surgery Thursday in Knoxville, Tenn., to repair recurring instability problems.

The coach will begin rehab in about a week. The Lady Vols begin practice on Oct. 17.

She didn't even have to use her gun. You know she has one. Total studette.

Oscar the Talking Dog: My New Obsession

I love this dog. I swear, I first saw him in the video above, but there are about 15 more videos of him on You Tube. He's Oscar, the talking boxer, and he's so adorable, I may eat his scrunchy, wrinkled, mooshy little face.

Bizarro World and My Fabulous New Gig

Yesterday was the weirdest day. First of all, my alarm was nonexistent at 5 am. It never woke me up, and my biological clock woke me up about 45 minutes past my usual waking time. So, from minute one of rising, I was in a state of panic frenzy, rushing like a crazy lunatic. I finally made it to work, everything seemed to be fine, when I realized that I am still a pre-menopausal woman and suddenly had cramps that would kill a large horse.

Fast forward to end-of-day. Because I do an 80-mile round trip to work every day, I try to get up with the roosters and get there early. Then, I feel OK with leaving by 4:30 or 5. Yesterday, I did just that, thinking I'd be home in time to hang with the stepson on our scheduled Wednesday night together. I got on the highway to realize that, SH*T, a semi had somehow lodged itself under a bridge or overpass or God only knows, so traffic was at a standstill. Thirty whole minutes later, I had driven one mile and made it to the next exit. People were irritated and driving like morons at this point. After I turned off the exit, I noticed a wreck that happened right behind me. I missed it by seconds. Then, I traveled about 3 more miles, came to a stop light and saw that it was clearly a shade of yellow. I slow to stop, while the crazy bastard next to me decided to gun it and subsequently flew through the dangerously then-pinkish light. He did, and I thought, "wow...this idiot's going to slam into someone." Which, in fact, he did. Right there. About 10 feet in front of me. Slammed into a woman that was trying to make a left turn. It's as if it was all in slow motion in a 3-D movie.

So, I wait to see if people are OK. Once I saw that everyone was up, moving, and yelling obscenities at one another with no protruding bones or bloodshed, I thought, "get me the hell OUT of here," and I drove around them. Perhaps it wasn't the nicest and most helpful thing I could've done, but at that point, I felt as though I had entered the Twilight Zone and wanted desperately to just get home. With all my parts intact.

After 2.5 hours just to get home last night, you can imagine my elation when I saw that I will be allowed to telecommute a few times a week starting next week. My collective bosses - I have two that "share" me - left the approval on my chair. This allows me to transition into how much I friggin' LOVE MY JOB. I love my job, people. I do. It rocks. I have an office with my name on the door, which would be enough for someone like me, really. After contracting for 14 years, I'm used to the corner supply closet the size of the backseat of my car as my office. I'm used to being the red-headed stepchild, of sorts. I tend to be more grateful than your average permanent employee-type who has had a 401K and this really neat thing called Vacation time for their whole career. I'm the nomad who has landed. And, after years of either crappy or nonexistent bosses, I now have two down-to-earth, respectful, appreciative, fantastic bosses. Both men, thank God...and nice, down-to-earth, normal, family-type, good-guy men. And, even though it's a gazillion miles away from my house, I love to come to work every day. This is huge. I would guess that my father has probably just fallen over in his chair upon reading this paragraph.

I get to dodge communications bullets and catch speeding ones in my mouth on a daily basis. Some hate the chaos, but I thrive in it, and so it's been a joy to be able to write a video script one hour, while editing a brochure the next and then driving to another state to actively serve as project manager on another project. I have not been bored since Day 1. I've been super-crazy-girl-busy, and I've loved every single minute of it. For once in my adult life, I don't just like my job. I friggin' LOVE my job. So there you go.

From the madness of yesterday comes the appreciation of today. That's what life is all about, right? Perspective. The kind that can change on a dime.

Carpe diem, indeed.

Friday Night Saks Bitches

My entire weekend consisted mainly of football. College and NFL. Before I blog about my football experiences (some were too painful to write about just yet), I shall tell you a quick story about my Friday night.

Another preamble to a quick story: I love to shop. It's as if I woke up at 30 and became especially obsessed with shoes and handbags. I have lived in many cities, shopped in many different stores, and while some have been more uppity than others, I've never felt as though I wasn't good enough to shop at any store I've visited. I've bought things on Newbury Street (the "Rodeo Drive" of Boston), been in several boutiques on Oak Street (Chicago), and LIVED in Atlanta, for chrissake. If anyone's going to be uppity, it'll be some sales clerk in Buckhead. Believe me.

Well, fast forward to Friday night. My friend Mockarena (www.themockdock.com - story also chronicled there, but from a different perspective, of course) and I were having a girl's dinner and cocktails night out. It started out lovely. I followed her to her house after work, met her 2.5-year old son, Mini-Mock, and hung out for while reminiscing with her husband (who happened to go to my high school in the South, of all coincidences). We then took off for our intended destination - The Cheesecake Factory - at the big fashion mall here in town. Knowing that the wait would be horrendous on a Friday night, we thought it would be nice to walk through Saks Fifth Avenue and mock all the overpriced crap. So, we did.

Upon entering the handbag and shoe department, I spotted this supple, platinum gray leather Prada bag. Price tag? $1500. It was extremely lickable. I seriously wanted to either lick the leather or put it on the floor, take my clothes off and roll around on it for a while. That's how yummy this purse was, people.

Knowing that I'm way too intelligent to ever spend $1500 on a purse, I thought it'd be funny to get my picture taken with it - much like I would have my picture taken with the Pope, should I ever get to meet him. So, Mockarena took my phone and snapped a picture. Within a second of the clicking sound, the two clerks in the department shuffled quickly over to us as if we were hardened criminals. Older-lady clerk behind the counter (who I assume was in charge of overpriced scarves) motioned for younger lady clerk (who looked just like Michelle Obama) to stop us. I thought she may confiscate the camera. She told us that pictures were not to be taken...blah blah. I sort of tuned her out when she was scolding us, instead going into an immediate daydream about what Prada prison would look like. I was livid.

Mockarena was shocked. Just astonished at the whole spectacle, and kept asking, "Why? Why?" Remember when Nancy Kerrigan was smacked in the knees with crowbars by Tonya Harding's posse? Yeah, it was like that.

Only the bitch could NOT give us an answer other than, "It's Saks policy."

Of course, Mockarena was shocked and nice, whereas I was irritated by the whole thing. If it's a stealing-ideas-to-combat-counterfeiting thing, then they clearly need to explain that to customers instead of being uppity bitches. I think they just like being uppity bitches, though, and thoroughly enjoy being condescending to customers, mainly so they can feel better about the fact that they barely made it through high school and make $9/hour.

I have four fake Pradas in my closet right now. Not to mention a Dolce and Gabbana and I've always wanted a Balenciaga knockoff (although I have yet to see one at my Marathon Gas station, state fair, or flea market - where the other knockoffs were purchased). The day I spend $1500 on a purse is the day I've officially gone insane. Certifiably nuts. Especially when I can get one at my local gas station for 30 bucks.

Now, I understand the whole counterfeiting thing...I feel really bad for people who invent something cool and then get their ideas stolen. But this is a plain, gray leather sack. It's not like it's the cure for cancer or a revolutionary solar panel, people. This is a f*cking purse. It's 2008, and if you think that you should get some sort of patent for a plain, gray purse, then you're obviously making way too much money and taking way too many drugs.

Get over yourself, Ms. Saks purse manager. And, I can't wait for the day I shall walk through your store again, wearing all four of my fakes at once.

Now THAT would be a picture.

I gotta get me one of these.

So my husband sends me a clip this morning about these goats that get scared and faint. I found this additional video, which I had to share, of course. I now want 10 fainting goats on my property. Immediately. And, I will love them like I love my dogs, but I shall also scare them approximately every 20 minutes just to pee my pants laughing. It's the little things, people.

Random Capitalist Plug

This is extremely random, but I came across this site this morning and I have fallen in love with the jewelry. Had to plug.

http://store.brevitydesign.com/

God, I love Dunkin Donuts

I just found out that there's a Dunkin Donuts right down the street from my office. This could very well be one of the happiest days of my life, people.

The Difference Between Men and Women

My husband showed me this picture, and asked what I thought. I pondered for a second, and I expressed what first came to mind: I wasn't quite sure if her shoes were Nikes or Pumas, but they're green. I mean, they don't really match what she's wearing, although I guess I could try to like them if they were part of a cute marathoning ensemble or something. I could maybe make them work in the right fashion situation, as the color could really add a pop to an otherwise drab outfit.

Then he turned to me and said, "She has shoes on?"

Yeah. This is precisely the difference between men and women.

If I did at least one of these, I'd be the coolest professor EVER.

My good pal forwarded this to me this morning. I have to say, number 15 is one of my favorites, but it's really hard to pick just one. Mr. Meiss is rather humorous.


50 Fun Things for Professors to Do on the First Day of Class
by Alan Meiss

1. Wear a hood with one eyehole. Periodically make strange gurgling noises.
2. After confirming everyone's names on the roll, thank the class for attending "Advanced Astrodynamics 690" and mention that yesterday was the last day to drop.
3. After turning on the overhead projector, clutch your chest and scream "MY PACEMAKER!"
4. Wear a pointed Kaiser helmet and a monocle and carry a riding crop.
5. Gradually speak softer and softer and then suddenly point to a student and scream "YOU! WHAT DID I JUST SAY?"
6. Deliver your lecture through a hand puppet. If a student asks you a question directly, say in a high-pitched voice, "The Professor can't hear you, you'll have to ask *me*, Winky Willy".
7. If someone asks a question, walk silently over to their seat, hand them your piece of chalk, and ask, "Would YOU like to give the lecture, Mr. Smartypants?"
8. Pick out random students, ask them questions, and time their responses with a stop watch. Record their times in your grade book while muttering "tsk, tsk".
9. Ask students to call you "Tinkerbell" or "Surfin' Bird".
10. Stop in mid-lecture, frown for a moment, and then ask the class whether your butt looks fat.
11. Play "Kumbaya" on the banjo.
12. Show a video on medieval torture implements to your calculus class. Giggle throughout it.
13. Announce "you'll need this", and write the suicide prevention hotline number on the board.
14. Wear mirrored sunglasses and speak only in Turkish. Ignore all questions.
15. Start the lecture by dancing and lip-syncing to James Brown's "Sex Machine."
16. Ask occasional questions, but mutter "as if you gibbering simps would know" and move on before anyone can answer.
17. Ask the class to read Jenkins through Johnson of the local phone book by the next lecture. Vaguely imply that there will be a quiz.
18. Have one of your graduate students sprinkle flower petals ahead of you as you pace back and forth.
19. Address students as "worm".
20. Announce to students that their entire grades will be based on a single-question oral final exam. Imply that this could happen at any moment.
21. Turn off the lights, play a tape of crickets chirping, and begin singing spirituals.
22. Ask for a volunteer for a demonstration. Ask them to fill out a waiver as you put on a lead apron and light a blowtorch.
23. Point the overhead projector at the class. Demand each student's name, rank, and serial number.
24. Begin class by smashing the neck off a bottle of vodka, and announce that the lecture's over when the bottle's done.
25. Have a band waiting in the corner of the room. When anyone asks a question, have the band start playing and sing an Elvis song.
26. Every so often, freeze in mid sentence and stare off into space for several minutes. After a long, awkward silence, resume your sentence and proceed normally.
27. Wear a "virtual reality" helmet and strange gloves. When someone asks a question, turn in their direction and make throttling motions with your hands.
28. Mention in passing that you're wearing rubber underwear.
29. Growl constantly and address students as "matey".
30. Devote your math lecture to free verse about your favorite numbers and ask students to "sit back and groove".
31. Announce that last year's students have almost finished their class projects.
32. Inform your English class that they need to know Fortran and code all their essays. Deliver a lecture on output format statements.
33. Bring a small dog to class. Tell the class he's named "Boogers McGee" and is your "mascot". Whenever someone asks a question, walk over to the dog and ask it, "What'll be, McGee?"
34. Wear a feather boa and ask students to call you "Snuggles".
35. Tell your math students that they must do all their work in a base 11 number system. Use a complicated symbol you've named after yourself in place of the number 10 and threaten to fail students who don't use it.
36. Claim to be a chicken. Squat, cluck, and produce eggs at irregular intervals.
37. Bring a CPR dummy to class and announce that it will be the teaching assistant for the semester. Assign it an office and office hours.
38. Have a grad student in a black beret pluck at a bass while you lecture.
39. Sprint from the room in a panic if you hear sirens outside.
40. Give an opening monologue. Take two minute "commercial breaks" every ten minutes.
41. Tell students that you'll fail them if they cheat on exams or "fake the funk".
42. Announce that you need to deliver two lectures that day, and deliver them in rapid-fire auctioneer style.
43. Pass out dental floss to students and devote the lecture to oral hygiene.
44. Announce that the entire 32-volume Encyclopedia Britannica will be required reading for your class. Assign a report on Volume 1, Aardvark through Armenia, for next class.
45. Ask students to list their favorite showtunes on a signup sheet. Criticize their choices and make notes in your grade book.
46. Sneeze on students in the front row and wipe your nose on your tie.
47. Warn students that they should bring a sack lunch to exams.
48. Refer frequently to students who died while taking your class.
49. Show up to lecture in a ventilated clean suit. Advise students to keep their distance for their own safety and mutter something about "that bug I picked up in the field".
50. Jog into class, rip the textbook in half, and scream, "Are you pumped? ARE YOU PUMPED? I CAN'T HEEEEEEAR YOU!"


And, of course, I shall cite this work:
http://monster-island.org/tinashumor/humor/profs.html

And Robbie Williams, also, is not gay.

First there was my Prince shout out. Not gay, people. Just has a really, very, superbly gay stylist. And then there's Robbie Williams. Now, I know I'm a bit behind the times. I don't always know who the kids are listening to these days, and I definitely don't keep up much with British pop music, but I was recently introduced to Robbie Williams - the face - beyond the lame song (I think it was called Millenium) I've actually heard on the radio one, maybe two, times. He has a splendid voice when he's not singing the poppy crap. Angelic, even. But I don't think America will ever hear it, because they're too busy listening to Heidi Montag. Please stab me in the ears.

Robbie Williams has never really made it big over here, but he's HUGE in England. I don't get why some people make it here and some people don't. I mean, look at Amy Winehouse and her popularity in the States, then you look at Robbie's and it's truly perplexing. I personally think Amy Winehouse died about 3 months ago, and they're holding her up a'la Weekend at Bernie's. No one can live through what that woman has does to herself. Honestly.

So, Robbie Williams the somewhat unknown British pop star, is not gay. There you go.

And, his hotness and the hoopla surrounding his hotness has prompted me to once again break out my long-awaited Top Five list, which includes the top five men that I, Daisywriter, should have a thumbs up from husband man should they ever come sniffing around for a smooch. The trump card notion. Don't say you don't have a list. If you do, you're a lying sack of crap.

I've told husband man that he can have a list, too, of course. I encourage the creativity. I've been very upfront and said that if Demi Moore actually came knocking on our door, I'd first ask if she was lost, then ask for proper identification, and finally would allow my husband to take her out for a night on the town. We have a truck stop nearby I think she'd enjoy, after all.

So, the top five list is forthcoming. I know you're eager. Try to contain yourselves.

Correction and Clarification.

In my latest post, I stated the following concerning said friend Mockarena:

"I believe we're friends primarily for one reason and one reason alone: we both feel that Prince is heterosexual."

This prompted one of the two comments I think I've received on my blog (two of which came from her, I believe). I would like to clarify that yes, for the Prince connection alone, Mockarena and I would've become friends. However, we are also friends for the following other 10 random reasons (and this list excludes the 10,000 OTHER reasons currently on the living list):

- We both love Victoria Beckham and Sarah Palin. Fascinating. We just can't look away, people.
- We both appreciate Robbie Williams' talents and penchant for grabbing his genitals (blog entry forthcoming). We especially like it when he sings either with his father or to his mother (usually surpassing Sinatra's prowess in a Sinatra song), as this parental affection shows that deep down, he's a good boy. A good boy who likes to grab his crotch as often as humanly possible.
- We both love men and have married two individual males who are, well, MEN. No hair products. No whining. No metrosexuality anywhere in their genetic makeups.
- We both think that kids are amusing as hell. Especially when you dress them up in chicken costumes at Halloween.
- We both love old 80s music and movies and appreciate all things from that beautiful, innocent, Reagan-infused era.
- We both loathe the young celebrity of today, especially those little bitches.
- We both laugh at things other people would not see as funny. Others may think this makes us sub-cerebral and just plain giggly; I say it shows that we know something that they don’t.
- We both think that Jessica Simpson looks painfully constipated while singing, and if he was not still living right this second, we would equally agree that she is Joe Cocker reincarnated as a blonde, bowel-challenged bimbo who peddles great shoes and handbags.
- We both believe Madeline Kahn was a comic friggin’ genius. And Mel Brooks was even more of a genius for showcasing that fact.
- We both love candy corn in its pumpkin-molded form (and I just found that out today, so it didn’t even make it to the real list yet).

10 reasons of 10,000. I needed to clarify, apparently. I apologize, my Mockarena friend, and will be more cautious of my words the next time. Even if I do sling a blog entry in between "I need it now!" deliverables. Like I tell my students, “Always read something more than five times before you turn it in, as Bill Gates can’t do everything for you, you lazy slackasses.” And, because I only have four readers, I can't afford to lose any. Regardless of what the Schoolhouse Rock song said, three really is NOT the magic number.

Now go read her blog one more time (shameless plug #14 - www.themockdock.com) so she can get on 20/20 again and let me represent her from a public relations perspective (I want to personally hijack and shave John Stossel's Magnum P.I. 'stache).

And so it goes. One of Daisywriter's first retractions on record.

Prince and Bigfoot

"Perceived Gay Prince"

One of my newest girlfriends is a woman I work with ("Mockarena" herself...shameless plug...www.themockdock.com). I believe we're friends primarily for one reason and one reason alone: we both feel that Prince is heterosexual.

Now, mind you, I believe that Prince is in touch with his feminine side. I also believe that he's dripping with sex appeal, and I just refuse to believe that all of the women he's worked with over the past 20 years didn't indeed have sexual relations with him. I'm just saying.

Of course, there are naysayers. In fact, Mockarena's sister pokes fun at us, as does about 9/10 of the general population. It is difficult to defend album covers such as the one depicted above.

I'm posting this, however, because I feel as though I'm one of two women in the world who truly believes that this man is weirdly sexy in his own, "I-break-all-gender-categories" way. It's as if Jimi Hendrix and a non-gay Little Richard had a baby and named him, aptly, Prince.

So, to all you women who love Prince. I salute you. While he wouldn't be on my top ten hottest men of all time (or at least for this week) list, he'd still be an intriguing catch if I was a fishing single woman.

Prince is not homosexual, people. He's just misunderstood.

And, I also believe in Bigfoot, so sue me already.

This guy's a quack and drives me to require a sedative.

I seriously want to yell at this man. With words. CORRECTLY F*CKING SPELLED WORDS on paper, with apostrophes and correct grammar and everything that's holy.

http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/life_and_style/education/article4698949.ece

New season, new class, and a possible new candidate for the role of a lifetime.

Today marks the end of yet another month and begins a new September. I have always loved this time of year. It's that time of year when sweaters and coats are already appearing at the mall, yet you're sweating your ass off in 90-degree weather. Fall is glorious, and I cannot wait for it to be in full force. It's number one of my two favorite seasons, really. Spring is my other. Why, do you ask? Well, for starters, I grew up without much of either. In the south, you experience a really friggin' melt-your-face-off hot or the alternative kind of cold'ish weather. Not much in between. So, when I moved semi-permanently to the Midwest (permanently in my book is 5+ years, so I'll say permanent in '09), having four seasons was a novelty.

As a kid, September marked another year of my life gone and another year of school beginning. I always had new clothes and shoes and some really snazzy notebooks and a bitchin' new Trapper Keeper. It was the little, dorky things that made me smile. I guess this is why I loved husband's birthday gift of an antique 1932 Royal typewriter last week. It's clean, the keys are immaculate, and it even works. The clicking sound of the keys is enough to make me completely geek out with utter glee. Total. Dork. Alert.

For the past four years, I've been able to relive my school days by teaching at the university. And this Fall, I have a pretty interesting class. A kid who is about to graduate at age 17 (can you say Doogie Howser?), a kid who has traveled across the United States on his bike (and it only took him 6 months, while it took Forrest Gump several YEARS on foot), and a kid who doesn't speak a lick of English. The latter is one I'd rather not talk about, as I'll surely come across as a right-wing crazy bitch who believes, well, that you should actually be able to speak English to pass enough English classes to make it to a 300-level English writing course. This is just a theory. Call me looney. Really.

And, with the newness of all these things in my world right now, I see that McCain has nominated a Mrs. Sarah Palin as his running mate. I'll have you know that my psychologist best bud ("T") called me IMMEDIATELY to let me know that Mrs. Palin is my apparent older twin. She said - and I quote - "It's like you in about 10 to 15 years!" Alrighty then...move over Uma Thurman and Cate Blanchett, we may have a new girl in the running for the role of Daisywriter's life biopic.

It's either the updo or the glasses that's forcing her to make this comparison, mind you. And I'd like to think I don't look as Heatmeiser-ish as her - I'm way blonder and perkier. However, I'll take it as a compliment, because I'd rather look like a pro-life Alaskan right-wing ex-beauty queen than say, Courtney Love. At my advancing age, I take compliments where I can get them. Even if they do come from homeless men downtown that make noises like they just ate something scrumptious when I walk by.

So far, I like Palin. And as my readers know, I'm one of those kooky moderates. Regardless of how I vote, it is nice to see a female take such a leading role in this political race. A real, somewhat fashionable, mom-like yet fierce competitor female. The chick that can give birth to a fifth child and go back to work three days later. My uterus has never been occupied, but I'll be happily compared any day to a chick that can hold her own in the boys club.

So, she's officially in the running - for the biopic of my life, of course. For the record, though, my 17-year old daughter would've been on the pill. Abstinence, my ass. And the comparison ends there, folks.

Seriously. What IS that?

My eerily-similar new coworker/friend, Mockdocker (www.themockdock.com), sent this to me today in response to my butt lift entry yesterday. In honor of my birthday, it's from the Sweetest Thing, one of my favorite chick flicks of all time. Enjoy, and seriously....what IS that?

Looming 37...

My 20-something buddy Scott wrote me today to wish me a day-early happy birthday. He's sort of like my really cute little baby brother that I never had. He dresses like a J.Crew model, and I believe his perfectly gorgeous wife is the sister of Heidi Klum, only she's brilliant and not at all stuck up and she's just as sweet as can be (I want to hate her...I really do). Upon receipt, I replied with this and thought I'd share, as it reflects where I'm at mentally for this year's birthday:


Thank you for the birthday wishes. Yes, I'm 37 tomorrow. They say that 37 is the new 27, but I know that I'm quickly approaching the downhill slide to 40. I'm f*cking old. When did that happen? It's like I was 23 yesterday, then all of a sudden, I'm 37.

You should really go get naked tonight and stand in front of a mirror and appreciate your 20-something body. I'm serious. Take a picture, and then go, "God, dude...you're so young and virile and still have abs." Because tomorrow, you're going to be 37. I'm just sayin.


Sometimes, when husband-man and I are alone and I'm sans clothing, I'll grab my butt with both hands and hold it up just right so it looks like it did when I was 27. Then I'll let it drop and say, "37." Then I'll lift it up again and say, "27." And drop. And lift. And repeat. And repeat again.

I do this until my husband shakes his head and leaves the room. I really do love that man...

If I was ever going to be arrested, this is exactly what it would be for....

http://www.foxnews.com/story/0,2933,409382,00.html

Mi padre y el tempestad mal...

My Dad and stepmom live in Jacksonville, Florida, and I fear that they are being washed away by the storms down there. So, as any nice daughter would do, I'm sending Farley cheer in lieu of an ark, raft, or other flotation device.

Enjoy, Dad. Oh, and that minor in Spanish really has come in handy. I'm so glad no one forced me to study something useless like International Business or Economics.

:-)

September Vogue and the Countdown to 37.

Today, September Vogue finally came. I mean, I'll be honest. I consider myself somewhat intellectual, but I am like a friggin' 5-year old on crack when I find September Vogue in my mailbox. Because we live out in the boonies, we usually get the mail while driving the car (God forbid we walk the acreage to actually get the mail...the horror). So, when I grabbed it out of the mailbox today, I turned around to the backseat of the car, where my stepson was sitting, and I said, simply, "this is my bible."

After three years, I think he finally understands it. It used to be as if he was looking at an alien. Today, though, he looked at me as if to pat me on the head and say, "that's nice, stepmonster lady. That's nice."

This was my last weekend as a 36-year old. I am pensive. I'm freaking out a bit, even. I mean, I didn't mind 30 at all. Most people do, but I didn't. I was excited to turn 30, as if it would instantly give me both professional and personal credibility as a REAL adult. 31 was a little bit weird, but for the most part, I was still a spring chicken in my own right. 32 through 36 just flew by, largely in part to changing residences, men, jobs, and ways of my life. Fun years, but damn, they were slightly a blur of falling in love mixed with bloody heartache mixed with vodka mixed with friends, fun, U-Hauls, and the constant changes galore that my life seemed to bring me...just a huge tornado that seemed to land me in an Indiana cornfield with three dogs, two grown kids, and a husband.

37 does not excite me. I'm saying this out loud, as if to let everyone know that yes, it'll be grand if you wish me a happy birthday, we can eat some wings and drink some beer at my favorite south side white trash place, but then let's drop it, OK? This is a first, as I've always been a welcoming fan of birthdays. It's perplexing, as I can't seem to pinpoint the reason why.

I spoke to my best friend in Atlanta yesterday. "T" is my hippie-Democrat-tell-it-like-it-is, happy-go-lucky-but-don't-you-dare-fu*k-with-her friend. She's working on her doctorate in Psychology and has been doing private practice on the side for years now. I've been to several therapists. Most of my 4 readers know my stance on therapists (women only need two doctors: a good gynecologist and a good therapist). I truly believe in them. I'm hyperanalytical, so it appeals to that side of me and the fact that I just like to talk. I have no problem paying someone to listen to me gab. And, after seeing a big handful in my lifetime, T. is still the best damn therapist on the planet. She's brilliant and beautifully blunt with me, which I love. I've heard "Get your head out of your ass!" a few times, followed by, "So, yeah, that's your fault..." Equally, though, she's pointed out that I'm a classic codependent pleaser, even though I have this independent exterior about me. She has this amazing way of pointing out my flaws while simultaneously making me feel like I'm the hottest, most intelligent, fabulously stylish bitch in my age bracket. A true gift.

She was telling me how she got this gorgeous new convertible and a new motorcyle and took lessons and got this black and pink leather jacket and gloves and has a kickass helmet on order now. A adorable doctoral candidate that chooses to work in the school system full-time, counsels underprivileged children, does private practice part-time and has a hot convertible, a smokin' motorcycle, and about three men trying to date her simultaneously. My friends are cool.

She snapped me out of my "37" funk a bit, as her material goodies made me think that she's a year older than me and getting younger-in-spirit every year. She almost made me conjure up my Daisywriter standard, "what I want to do with my life this year" list. But, tonight, I'm going to think about it. Just ponder a bit on the precipice that is 37. That downhill slope to 40. I shall do what many do - turn to religion - as a comfort. For this particular milestone, I'll turn to my bible - the September Vogue. Just me and Ms. Larue on the couch for the night.

Countdown to the downhill slope. Someone please pass the vodka. :-)

The best damn blog EVER.

I started a new job this week. I know you're shocked, as I do this about every six months. I'll write more about my fabulous new office with a door and a plaque with my name on it in another entry. But for now, the most fun discovery I've had in the past week is that my HR Director (hysterically funny) has a blog that simply mocks. It just mocks everything, but mostly celebrities, which I find pee-your-pants funny at times. I have already started commenting - which will take even more time away from my own yawnfest of a blog (that I will continue to write, so get over it) - and I can't seem to stop mocking.

For example, Gwen and Gavin have named their new baby girl Zuma Nesta Rossdale. All my loyal readers know how much I adore Gwen. She's flawless. But the name Zuma? WTF? Seriously.



For my three readers, you have now been informed and are instructed to share the mockery:

http://www.themockdock.com/

Dedication for a Freshman Female

I sent this video to my stepdaughter the other day and thought I'd post. As she goes off to college in a mere three days, I thought it was apropos...plus, I love Ms. India...

Postcards revisited...

I posted this site as one of my first entries for this blog about three years ago...

It's still pretty cool today. Poignant stuff.

http://postsecret.blogspot.com/

Three-year-old wisdom...

When in doubt, just kick the monster's ass. Really.

Indiana State Fair

This past weekend was the Indiana State Fair with my BFF and goddaughters coming in from Nashvegas. It was a full house...a good time was had by all. There's nothing more soothing for the soul than Fried Pepsi and corndogs. Oh yes.

Facebook and Flying Forward...

I just joined Facebook. I know, I'm about 12 years old. Quit making fun of me. I joined it a few weeks ago, actually, as it's the place where my 20th high school reunion is being planned. Will I go to that reunion? Well, that's still up in the air. I could think of about 20 other things just off the top of my head that I'd rather spend money on than a plane ticket to and hotel stay in Atlanta. I'd probably end up skipping it and shopping anyway. But, it's unbelievable to see the people come out of the woodwork on this thing. It's pretty sterotypical, actually. The ones who were kind of nerdy, quiet, and not entirely "cool" in 1989 are doing these amazing things. And the party crew who thought they were the shizzat - they're all bloated and still living in the same place, doing the same things, hanging out with the same people.

They say that people between the age of 35-55 are the fastest growing demographic for Facebook. It's a networking tool, and it's how I secured my new job, actually. Facebook itself is perplexing...so many little gadgets. People are throwing sheep at me and asking me to take this quiz and do that survey. It's quite addictive, though, so I've had to really watch myself and keep my time on it to a non-problematic minimum. So far, I'm not yet at the intervention stage. I believe my sister may be, though. I fear for her adulthood as she slings polar bears and virtual booze at me.

I'm breathing a sigh of relief today. It's my first real "day off" since I quit my job last week. The job that sucked more than any job I've ever had...the job that had me so stressed, I thought I was going a bit, well, cuckoo. For six months, I had a disease and no company seemed to want to bite at my resume. I thought I was washed up...done....kaput. But, I persevered, and right at month six, I got an offer and took it without much thought at all. Beggars can't be choosers, and I knew that my existing job would be the end of my sanity. Three days before my start date for said new job, I got another offer (because of that Facebook thing...go figure). It was better than the first. So, I told number one buh-bye with my sincerest of regrets. Within the same HOUR of doing that, I got another call about a possible THIRD opportunity. That one is still looming, but it may very well be the Holy Grail, as far as I'm concerned. We shall see.

It's weird. Job number two really wanted me. For the first time in my professional life, I was being offered a career - not just a job. They actually looked at my resume and instead of saying, "Holy shit, you have 14 years of contracting on here....this thing is HUGE," they instead loved the fact that I was entrepreneurial. Adaptable. Experienced. SEASONED, I think is how they put it. I remember thinking to myself..."seasoned...OK...you mean OLD."

Job number three - the one still looming as I start job number two and see how it goes - it was a result of good karma. Nothing more, nothing less. Many people don't believe in good karma, but I do. Last year, in a miniscule freelance gig, I helped a company win a really big contract worth millions - I wrote the proposal for them. And, who would've thought that the good fortune of the CEO would come back to call me on the phone and say, "our success is partly due to your expertise...we'd like you to think about coming on board full time." When you do good things, they sometimes come back to you ten-fold. Huh.

So, just when I thought things couldn't get worse for me professionally - just when the clouds seemed SO incredibly dark - the sky opened up. The big man upstairs really does listen...sometimes he just takes his sweet damn time. And, I suppose he wanted to toughen me up a bit more. Job done. Check.

Just as I venture into a new professional chapter, my stepson starts high school TODAY and my stepdaughter leaves for college this week. They're both scared of the new, and rightly so. My stepson would never lead on to the fact that he has trepidation. He's way too cool for that. My stepdaughter, however, is frightened. I can see it when we talk about orientation activities and moving her in and the absolute newness of it all. It's as if she's been a caterpillar her whole life, and she's about to get her wings, but there's a huge part of her that doesn't want to fly. I think she'd rather stay in the cocoon. I look back on my college experience, and I tell her to really soak it all in...do as much as she can...enjoy every single minute. Four years flies by. I'm only a stepmom, but there's that small shred of maternal instinct that wants to tell her all the mistakes I made and have her not make them herself. But I know I can't do that. I know we all must live, let live, and realize that by protecting someone from the world, you stunt them. It's the sheer crap in life - the heartache, the pain, the people who have trampled on my heart - that's made me resilient. It's definitely not the good stuff.

Speaking of flying forward, my birthday is coming up. 37. On that downhill slope to the big 4-0. What do I want? A kelly green Prada purse and a beautiful new deck that my husband has so lovingly offered to build me so I can relax and look at the back five. That's the material portion of the wants. The other wants I'm keeping close to my heart, but I can see them within reach now. Just like my stepson, my stepdaughter, and that butterfly.