Well, it's not an Earthship....

So, I told you I would tell you about this picture. I had a few interesting guesses when I posted the photo on Facebook. But, in this case, fact is so much more amusing than fiction.

We spent this weekend with my in-laws in Bastrop, Louisiana. We drove an hour and a half on a little state highway, through small town southern Arkansas, where outbuildings are better tended than the mobile homes and yards that line the roads. There were stray dogs, old campers in yards, and several residences that left one to wonder if people lived there or it was, in fact, a salvage yard, before finally crossing Bayou Bartholomew into Louisiana and hitting that little gravel road. (for those of you unfamiliar with the rules of grammar, I'm pretty sure that was what you call a "run on sentence")

On day two of our trip Don and I made our way back out to the bayou to see his cousin, Alan. As we approached Alan’s driveway, we notice his neighbor’s home. My husband, the eternal optimist, begins to dance in his seat, convinced that these incredibly cool people are not just redneck Cajuns, but rather redneck Cajuns who have seen the light of the earthship movement and are building a self sustainable home. (feel free to click the linky dink to read about earthships. cool stuff!)

Surrounding this home is a beautiful piece of property. It is well maintained with a garden spot, a field with cows, a very clean chicken yard, rain cisterns and stocked fishing ponds.

It is also a fortress for a family of conspiracy theorists who believe that the US economy will collapse soon and we will find ourselves in the midst of a civil war with every man for himself.

They are also gun dealers who travel the weekly circuit across the country from gun show to gun show.

The little openings along the bottom of the sandbags are so they can lie on the ground and shoot at you as you approach their property. There are even some of those at eye level along the front of the trailer.

It’s really quite creepy if you ask me.

And funny in its own southern way.

And creepy….

And did I mention creepy?

A Girl With Public Restroom Issues...

They did it! They finally installed those fancy toilet seat cover dispenser things at work.

Yeah, laugh if you want. You’ve obviously never seen me stress over how to get in and out of a public restroom without touching anything. It’s an absolutely ridiculous process. I know this.  Problem is, I just can’t stop myself from going through all the silly machinations I’ve created to get in and out of a public restroom without picking up any more foreign bacteria than absolutely necessary.

It would probably help if I didn’t read every single “dirtiest parts of public restrooms” article I come across. You know what I’ve learned from reading those articles in addition to all my self- acquired knowledge? Well, I’m gonna tell ya…

1.       Lady’s restrooms are much dirtier than men’s restrooms. It still baffles me that an adult female can find a way to pee on the BACK of a toilet seat and on the FLOOR! Seriously? How hard is it to aim for the center as you hover over the seat? It’s not like you’re trying to pee through a straw. It’s a big frickin’ hole!

2.       Those air dryer things are NOT more sanitary than good ole’ fashioned paper towels. The air dryer things simply re-circulate bacteria laden air, heat it, and then blow it back onto your hands and in your face.

3.       If you choose to touch the paper towel lever, the counter, the doorknob, or anything else after applying soap to your hands…you’ve completely negated the fact that you just washed your hands. Do you have any idea how many people use a public restroom and then leave without washing their hands at all? I hope you like having germs from their nether regions on your hands. Additionally, I hope you’re not a nail biter, or a thumb sucker, or….Yeah, ick…huh?

4.       For a public restroom with no trashcan by the door, and likewise a door that opens in instead of out – you can expect one of two things from me. I am either going to a) carry the paper towel out of the restroom and try to find another trash can to put it in.  Or, I will b) open the door using my paper towel and attempt to throw said paper towel into the trash can on the other side of the room. If I miss that’s too bad. This is one of my very rare “trashy” behaviors but I will not sacrifice my need for sanitation for your lack of it and it is, generally, something I only do in a restaurant. There’s something disgusting about taking a dirty paper towel back to a table where I’m eating. Agreed?

Flash forward....

I actually started this post on Friday of last week. I didn’t have time to finish it at lunch and just figured it would have to wait until I came back on Tuesday. Well, it’s Friday again and I’m just now finishing it.

Why? Well, because my very worst public restroom nightmare came true on Tuesday. I was sitting at my desk Tuesday morning and was suddenly overwhelmed by nausea. The knot in my belly, the room spinning, and the lump in my throat, all were screaming that the plumbing between my stomach and my esophagus were about to start running in reverse. I tried closing my eyes and breathing deep, all the while reciting to myself that it would go away. I simply was not going to get sick at work.

Suddenly, the amount of saliva I was producing multiplied ten-fold. The metallic taste that always forewarns the calling of Ralph reared its ugly head. I could almost hear the maniacal laughter mocking me from within my little brain.

Oh no! I simply cannot do this! I can’t even pee in a public restroom without a panic attack. How am I going to hover my face over a public toilet to vomit?

 I panicked. I nearly cried. I debated how fast I could get from the fourth floor to the first floor and into the back alley without leaving my breakfast on the floor somewhere in between. I wondered at the probability that I could puke in the trashcan at my desk, in an office cubicle environment, without anyone knowing what I was doing. Then, I ran. I nearly took out a woman coming the opposite way around the corner as I made a mad dash for the women’s restroom while muttering out loud, “Don’t touch anything, don’t touch anything, don’t touch anything.”

I barely had time to close the stall door before losing everything and, when I finally regained my composure, I had no recollection of whether or not I did, indeed, touch anything. As a precautionary measure, I made my way to the sink, took note of the lovely shade of green tint my face had taken on, and proceeded to wash both face and hands. Then, I realized I didn’t even bother to use one of the new fancy toilet seat cover thingies.

I made it home, thanks to my mother, and slept the rest of the day and on to the next morning.

Wednesday morning, I got up, forced myself into clothes, went to work and repeated the entire series of events from Tuesday morning. This time, I drove myself home and stopped once on the side of the interstate. Again, I went home and slept.

By yesterday morning, Thursday, I was so traumatized from the two preceding day’s events, that I just rolled over and went back to sleep after the alarm went off. I was NOT going to put myself through that again.

I guess the bonus is that, twice, I hovered my face over a public toilet to vomit without the benefit of fancy toilet seat cover thingies, and I’m not dead and the world hasn’t ended.

However, that may have something to do with the fact that I choose to remain in complete denial regarding those events.

Please don’t tell me any different.

Woot!

Oh, Lord have mercy! I am happy dancin’ all over the dang place. I know ya’ll remember that Why I Don’t Sleep At Night post I did a while back.

After tomorrow, no more elbows in my back, no more husband who creates his own heat wave in his sleep heating up my space.

No more!

No more!

No more!

Now wait a minute! Don’t jump the gun.

I ain’t gettin’ a divorce. That’s what Tammy Wynette does….

What am I getting?

I’m getting a KING SIZED BED!!! Thank you, thank you, thank you to my awesomest BFF, Sheryl.

Ok. Sorry. I’m a little excited.

I’ll go take a valium and sleep it off.

IN MY FRICKIN’ KING SIZED BED BABY!

Um…yeah….still too excited….valium…right.  I’m on it….

I'm afraid to ask.....

So, what do the things in this picture have in common?



They all came out of J's pockets in the laundry.

Usually, I just get rocks left in the washer from J's pockets. But this, I find disturbing.

Someone please explain the significance of a frog, an exam glove, a ribbon, a cupcake pick, and two small pieces of what I believe to be laffy taffy.

What can a nine year old do with all of these items together?

Why does a nine year old need an exam glove?

Where does a nine year old get an exam glove?

Do I really want the answers to these questions?

A guest post by Princess Lola McFluffy

My name is Princess Lola McFluffy. But, you can call me “Her most amazing, cute, and smart Highness, Princess Lola McFluffy”.

You WISH you were as cute as I am. But, you’re not, and you can’t be. Please don’t hurt yourself trying.

Honestly, my name should be Queen Lola McFluffy, but I let Mommy have the Queen moniker. It makes her feel better about herself. When Mommy feels good about herself it makes her pamper me a little extra. But, (whispers) don’t tell her that. We don’t want to hurt her feelings.

There’s another dog that lives in our house. She’s Daddy’s dog. No one calls her “queen” or “princess” of anything though. In fact, Mommy and I call Sky an old hag. This is Sky.

She’s alright, I guess. She’s old and grumpy though, and not NEAR as cute as I am. And, since I don’t roll on dead animals, Mommy lets me on the bed and tells Sky to go away because she stinks.

REALLY Sky should try a little harder to impress Mommy. She isn’t really that bright, so it’s not much trouble to impress her.

For instance, when Mommy wasn’t looking, I decided to play in some of her extra special and extra expensive yarn. I picked a really good one so she would be extra impressed. I knit myself a sweater, see?

At first, I wasn’t sure Mommy WAS impressed. She made a REALLY scary face and she screamed. But then, she decided it was so funny that she had to show the neighbors how amazing I am.

Really, how many princess dogs do YOU know that can knit a sweater?

Hmph, that’s what I thought.

After that, Mommy put me down in the neighbor’s yard so I could play with their Great Pyrenees puppy. Her name is Yaffa. Mommy doesn’t have a picture of her though. I REALLY should teach Yaffa how to pose for the camera.

Have you ever SEEN a Great Pyrenees puppy? This crazy dog is only 3 months old and she’s already the size of a beagle. Without a second thought to how gorgeous my silky white fur is, or the fact that I only weigh 2 ½ pounds, do you know what that crazy dog did? She pushed me down in the mud!

And Mommy, well, she had the nerve to laugh. I thought, “Well, I’ll show her not to laugh at me.” Then, I rolled, and rolled, and rolled in the mud.  

Just between you and me, it was SO much fun! I think though, if Mommy knew I thought that she would never let me down in the yard again. So, let’s just keep that one quiet so I can store it in my arsenal for later use.

But, I’m so cute that even covered in mud I was STILL the cutest dog ever! See? This is right before Mommy gave me a bath.

It’s all in the eyes you know. See how I did that? Those sad little black orbs – hold them just right, give a little quiver and a whine, and you’ll have Mommy in the palm of your paw.

Hmm, I see it’s almost time for my pedicure. I believe I heard Mommy say she was going to use pink polish to match my bow. I’ve almost got her talked into buying me this gorgeous sundress I spotted at the doggie boutique. But every time we mention it Daddy rolls his eyes and says it’s ridiculous to spend $9.99 on a dress for a dog.

I’ll have to groom his beard again tonight and remind him of how cute and deserving The Princess is.

Toodles….

My Obvious vs. His Oblivious/I’m a Brat

I really didn’t want to go fishing.

Don’t get me wrong. I like to fish. I just didn’t want to go yesterday. Which is why I also suggested a walk or going to the park, all while secretly hoping he’d ignore the fact that I said fishing. But, he’s oblivious to what I think should be obvious.

Besides, I was moody.

And irritable.

And tired.

But, I wanted to get out of the house, and I wanted to get out of the house with my husband. How do you do that? You say the magic word.

Fishing

For once, in all the time I’ve known this man, he was the first one ready to walk out the door. Probably because he didn’t have to fix his hair.

And me? Well, I was still moody. And irritable. And tired.

On the way to the truck one of those annoying child people that live in my house informed me that I would have to use the crappie pole – the fourteen foot long monstrosity with the reel that won’t lock.

So, I pouted.

“Why are you such a grumpy pants?” he said.

“You’re clueless,” I said.

“I’m doing what you wanted me to do. I’m out of the house.”

“Can we just go, please?”

He rolled his eyes at me. I folded my arms and stared out the window. I sighed…. Loudly.

Fishing spot number one was too crowded.

Fishing spot number two was too windy. Never mind the freak show out on the dock. Some twenty something couple who were half making out, half doing some weird sensual couple yoga in front of my nine year old.

 Weirdos.

Fishing spot number three was deserted, shady, and totally non windy. I had nothing to complain about. So, I kept my mouth shut and let him fish.

That’s when I saw this:

Isn’t that awesome? Unfortunately, all I had was my camera phone. I sooo wanted a quality picture of this little guy.

Suddenly, because I could chase dragonflies, fishing wasn’t such a bad idea. So, I took the crappy crappie pole back to the truck.

Then, he assumed I was done and he packed up and came back to the truck while I was posting my dragonfly find to my facebook page.

Then he just drove around. Going nowhere. You know, one of those let’s see where this road ends up kind of things?

And, I was happy.

And not tired.

Or moody.

Or even irritable.

It was a good day.

Mind Your Own Business/It's Mine, Not Yours

Someone please help me understand how it is that people who have never dealt with a specific ailment suddenly feel as though they are experts on what is ailing you?

I encounter this so often with my diabetes. If it were being done out of concern for my well being, that might be one thing. But, these people just want to comment so they look like they might know something important, or might know more than I do about diabetes.

Well, on behalf of diabetics everywhere, here’s an update for you people…. Pay close attention.

1.       Diabetes does not mean that you cannot have carbohydrates. Eliminating carbs from my diet is equally disastrous to eating too many carbs. Maybe sometime I’ll go without and let you figure out how to get me out of a coma since you seem to know so much.

2.       Diabetes does not mean that I can’t have a piece of that birthday cake. It means I can’t have a big piece and that I’ll probably have to skip the ice cream.

3.       My diabetes is closely controlled. By my physician. When you have an MD behind your name, then you can tell me what you think about my diabetes.

4.       I am in the VERY small percentage of diabetics who is considered compliant with their diabetes management plan. Compliant – that means I do what my doc says and let her know when it’s not working.

5.       I really can eat whatever I want. The difference is, I have to plan for it and practice portion control. It’s more like what I want but not necessarily when I want.

6.       Speaking of portion control – looks like you could use a little of that yourself there, Tubby. How many pieces of cake did YOU have to eat to get that gut? Has your doc told you lately you’re next in line to hop on the diabetes band wagon?

7.       Most importantly, MY diabetes is none of YOUR business. You are not my family, my friend, or my healthcare provider. Your unsolicited advice is not helpful. It only makes me want to punch you in the face. Besides, you’re wearing out my list of handy one liners that make my point without being offensive. We all know what happens when I move on to offensive.

So, stop asking me if I’m supposed to eat this or that, or telling me that I’m not supposed to eat this or that, or even noticing that I’m eating this or that. Your false concern is not wanted, needed, or even accurate for that matter.

And finally….Listen to old Hank for a minute…

It's a conspiracy I tell ya'....

I’ve not really enjoyed this week. I almost feel as if there’s some cosmic alliance that has developed a nefarious plot to take over my life.

Does that make me paranoid? Am I now one of those depraved people always shouting about conspiracy theories?

Nah, not me.

Except, well, there was that little thing yesterday when I found myself stuck on an elevator at work. There are trolls that live in the elevator shafts, you know.

They heard me talking to that guy about accidentally pushing the call button when you’re going for the door open button. They decided to give me a reason to hit the call button. I heard them laughing at me as I sat in the floor and shouted at Jerry, my favorite maintenance man and now hero, to get me the hell off of that elevator.

I contemplated crying, but didn’t want to give them the satisfaction.

However, I did allow Jerry to scrape me off the ceiling of the elevator once he got the door open.

“You gonna be alright?” he said.

“Yeah, um I’m uh, yeah. Umm…I’m gonna go take the stairs now. Thanks.”

Then he laughed at me. Funny thing how he sounded just like those little trolls that live in the elevator shafts.

I better keep my eye on him. He might be up to something….