Putting the "MO" in MOFO since 2004

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Wednesday, November 29, 2006

 

A letter to women who hover and run

Dear public toilet seat peer-uponer,

I presume that the true reason you hover and spray your urine all over God’s Green earth is that you are afraid you will get some kind of butt disease if the skin on your arse touches the toilet seat. I can see your point of view. And I’m cool with it. Even though I have read a plethora of evidence to the contrary. I have zero problem with you hovering your heine a good few inches above the toilet seat and pissing all over tarnation, or at least all over everything within a 12 inch radius. If nothing else, it’s a good thigh workout right?

Here is what I have a problem with: You have such a delicate constitution that you can’t bear the thought of your clean pure flesh coming in contact with a public toilet seat. I get it. YET YOU LEAVE YOUR PISS ALL OVER SAID SEAT FOR THE NEXT, PERHAPS LESS NEUROTIC PATRON TO SIT IN.

In other words, clean up your pee, you self absorbed twit. There is special place in Hell for you. Think Dante’s Inferno with an entire level of Greyhound bus station feces-covered restroom, and your face duct-taped to the toilet seat.

Sincerely,

Public toilet seat sitter-onner-who inadvertently sat in your pee because you are a selfish, disgusting person.
 

Holy Schleich Batman!


Is there a 12 step program for small plastic animal addiction? Because I think it’s time to contact friends and family for a sit-down intervention with the tall Dutchman. During this interventionI know I deserve to be called out onto the carpet for my enabling of this addiction. My husband can’t stop. Plus he thinks my ability to google anthing known to man borders on genius. So the cycle of abuse contiues.

You know that company that made those little soft plastic Smurfs? Well they also make cool little hand-painted plastic animal figures. Schleich figurines. Some of these cost as much as $15.00 a piece. Which would be fine, if we purchased them one at a time. But we don’t. We order 30 at a time. I should have NEVER introduced him to online purchasing. Or e-bay for that matter. At this stage, it’s like trying to fix the titanic with duct tape and paperclips. I am just screwed.

We now own several horses, two stingrays, giraffes, whales, Sharks, an entire primate family, every farmyard animal imaginable, every forest creature known to man, amphibians, and several extinct prehistoric saber-toothed creatures.

And it doesn’t look like we are stopping any time soon.

We may squander so much money on little plastic animals that Madge will have no college fund, or home, or clothes. But the child will be a venerable walking encyclopedia of animal taxonomy. Maybe she can get a job at the zoo. Or maybe she can pawn off her priceless collection of plastic Schleich figurines at Sotheby’s.

I have always secretly mocked people who collect things. I think I harbor deep rooted resentment over my sister Julie’s horse and dog collections. She had dibs on all the cool things. In my near obsessive preoccupation with doing the opposite of what she did, I started the shittiest most half-assed shell collection known to man. I displayed about a dozen broken shells on a shelf in our bedroom for several years until my mother finally threw them out. At least I think she did, but I don’t really remember because I had long since stopped caring about my sub-par shell collection.

At least we haven’t sunken to the level of “precious moments” figurines. Yet.

Tuesday, November 21, 2006

 

Thank you. Thank you thank you thank you.

For the following things, I am thankful:

For Maggie, who, on Friday night, looked up at me and said “Hi Mommy. What’s up? You’re my best friend.”

For Jim, with whom I sat up in bed last night reading self-help books. And who follows me around the house with a broom and a dustpan cleaning up my messes. Even though it annoys me. I am still glad that the house is clean.

For cute shoes in size 11.

For being ready to work on my own happiness. And for actually thinking that I deserve to be happy. And also that it’s worth working for.

A good haircut.

My parents, sisters, and nieces.

My mother and father in law and wonderful extended family. Yes. I actually love my in-laws. It would be hard not to.

All my phenomenally irreverent women relatives and friends. I forget sometimes how great it is to know you. But it is truly great to know you. I am a lucky lady.

My in-the-oven digital roasting thermometer.

My stinky dogs. Not feet, but actual canines.

My funny talented internet friends. Who I never talk to, but always keep up with via their websites. I heart you. And if you are wondering if I am referring to you, then I am.

Puppies. In particular, Rhea, Finn, and Teddy. This seems to be the season of the puppy.

Patty Griffin. I am hoping she comes to my next birthday party and invites me to join her in a sing along. Just like Davey Jones showed up for Marcia Brady’s that one time. Except I don’t love Patty the way that Marcia loved Davey, if you know what I mean. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

The American voting public, who voiced their opinions very clearly this November. Good Lord am I thankful for you. Except those of you in Minnesota’s 6th district, because you elected a batshit crazy person.

My daughter’s face, when she saw the cupcake I brought home for her on Saturday. It had a giant pile of blue frosting on top, which was soon transferred to her face.

Coffee on a Saturday Morning.

Saturday Mornings.

Gravy. I love me some Gravy.

The way my little amazon daughter looks when she sleeps.

Tuesday, November 14, 2006

 

Pining for The U.P.

I just got pictures from our fourth of July family weekend in the Upper Penisula of Michigan. What we lack in timeliness, we make up for in craziness. Here is a photgraphic summary:

The Dog went missing and was presumed dead and eaten by wolves. ON MY BIRTHDAY. We found him the next day. He survived the wolves, but then I had to brain him. For ruining my birthday.














Just kidding. He's really only sleeping. Running away from throngs of people fruitlessly calling your name in the dark, to be presumed dead by all, only to return the following noon full of burrs, fleas and ticks is very, very tiring.
Over the fourth of July weekend this year, we set up a top-secret North Woods think-tank to find answers to the complex mysteries of the universe:
Does Jesus REALLY like America best?
Does spending time with my relatives drive a person to drink?
How do you fit 12 women, two men, and two toddlers and two dogs into a three room cabin in the North woods?
I can't remember exactly, the answers to these burning questions, due to the exhaustion of trailing Madge from danger (HOT- woodburning stove) to danger (HOT- Open Fireplace) to danger (open water) to danger (three seater outhouse) to danger (two lane highway). I was too tired to speak, but she came back in one piece, so I must have done a good job.
Four months later, these pictures triggered some repressed memories. Based on photographic evidence, I think I had fun!
Relatives do drive us to drink. Because of this, there were push-ups and booze for everyone:

Beer




is







Good!



















We had an ugly patriotic Tshirt contest and learned that Jesus DOES like America best. At least that's what Tiffany says.




















There is nothing more patriotic that kittens in hammocks (this was my creation).










And also puppies.


And also the American flag in beer bottles, and also Neil Diamond.






























The world's most beautiful child in the world's most beautiful place.




















Thursday, November 09, 2006

 

Life on the Cube-Farm

Today while attempting to look up the website of a client, I entered .com instead of the accurate .net, and up popped an entire screen of enormous neon-colored dildos.

Fortunately it was a rare moment when no one was hovering in the door of my cubicle peering over my shoulder (why do I always feel like cubicle is a bad word???? Because it has the same ending as matching orbitous male anatomical components? ), so no one was there to witness my choice of internet-surfing and assume I was doing some early Christmas shopping for myself.

Did you know that Bob Propst, inventor of the cubicle, originally called them “Action Offices”? The original concept was a good one (as were his intentions) that was eventually blasphemized by office real-estate economics, and turned into the dilbert habitats we know today. They were later coined “cubicles” (not testicles) and even later, they were referred to as “bright satanic offices”.

Personally, I like to call them “I AM MAKING AN APPOINTMENT WITH THE CROTCH DOCTOR! DID MY ALL- MALE COWORKERS HEAR THAT? CROTCH-DOCTOR!!! NEXT I’LL CALL MY THERAPIST, AND THEN I WAS THINKING ABOUT FIGHTING WITH MY HUSBAND ABOUT WHEN TO PAY THE CABLE BILL!!!! Workspaces”.

Based on a decade of cube-dwelling, that seems to be the most apt description.

Tuesday, November 07, 2006

 

Voting Day Survey

Does everyone get those red "I Voted" stickers, or is that just a Minnesota thing?

As I waited in line, I couldn't help but look around, and sing "these are the people in my neighborhood" to myself... Did THAT happen to anyone else?

Am I the only one who tried to size up the other people in line to guess which party they belong to? Shoes and use of hairspray say a lot about political affiliations in my neck of the woods.

Did anyone vote on a 3rd Party candidate out of disgust over the campaign ads of the two main candidates?

Personally, I wanted to vote for the 3rd party candidate in one race, but refrained because polls show the election is very very close, and I dislike the one guy enough to vote for the other guy who I might not want to admit 2 years from now I voted for. If he wins. Which he might.

Did anyone else cross party lines? I crossed party lines in my vote today for a pretty good moderate type-candidate. Partially because I don't mind them so much, and partially because I want to tell people I didn't vote 100% across party lines.

Is anyone else glad all the hulaballoo is over? Every poitical ad I have been repeatedly subjected to in the last 2 months has been so bad, I initially suspected they were satirical Saturday Night Live ads. They were THAT bad.

Now, all you smart people who have not yet performed your civic duty, get out there and vote! Go on now! Git!

Monday, November 06, 2006

 

Old habits die hard.

This morning, as I lay in bed, contemplating getting up to make coffee and greet the day with my Madge, I tried something new. I gave myself a little affirmation. A Stewart Smalley type Mantra. I saw something on Larry King Live recently about the power of thought.

Actually the people DID seem a little odd and cult-ish. Really, they seemed just pain weird. But they were discussing theories of quantum physics and the power of thought and the push and pull of the universe and how our thoughts and emotions are a part of that much larger push and pull – the idea of it fascinates me. How changing one's thoughts might change their life. I also recently read a quote from Arianna Huffington about self-dialogue and how we are so much nastier to ourselves than we would be to other people. That idea is not new to me, as I have often considered that I would never in a million years say the kind of cruel things I say to myself to another human being. I like to think I am not a cruel person. But in a way I am, because of the things I say to myself. I am MEAN sometimes. And a nag. And broken freaking record. I am working to change that.

The affirmation worked for a while. Then I got caught up in the trap if measuring myself by someone else’s standards. I was reminded of my own shortcomings, and that little external jostle put the needle right back on the old record. So I am working to set it straight again, and change the tune. I suspect this takes a great deal of practice, which takes a great deal of perseverance, both of which I know I am capable of.

Also, Monday mornings are just kind of hard.

So here we go again.

Friday, November 03, 2006

 

Tom Waits sings the itsy bitsy spider.

This morning I awoke at 6:50 a.m. to a gravelly, soulful version of “The Itsy Bitsy Spider”. The lyrics were broadcast from the baby monitor, sung in a growling, Tom Waits Monster voice. It was so low and gravelly that I could not even do an imitation of a high enough caliber do it justice. Jim is the only one whose voice can go that low. Jim, and our toddler that is.

Needless to say we both woke up laughing today.

Jim’s comment “She’s her mother’s daughter”.

I would not in a million years ever enter that child in a beauty pageant, however I am toying with the idea of a Tom Waits cover band. She can already play the kazoo and the drum.

She makes me proud, that one.