Scarred! Scarred For Life!

Oh those crazy Canadians, eh?
I miss those Kids in the Hall.

Snow Day

There's no better reason to do only the bare minimum than a snowy day.
The horses certainly enjoyed the fresh snow.

The leaning tower of morgan.

Meanwhile, Morgan spent a good part of the day practicing to be the next Duff Goldman.

A little Cake Boss on the TV for proper motivation.

People You Meet in Hell

OK, not really in Hell, but people you come across that make you feel like you're in Hell.

I'm currently at my son's gymnastics. He's off flipping and bouncing while I try to ignore the world around me and enjoy the pure bliss of not having the shit bugged out of me watch him proudly. Unfortunately, there's a group of parents standing 10 feet from me who are droning on and on about how their parenting skills are far superior than everyone else. Since I rather perform my own dental work than join in their hen house banter, the sound of their self-righteous voices tests my control to not yell out "shut the hell up, you windbag dolts!".
Right now, they're discussing how one of their fellow chatty-cathys, who happens to be absent today, allows their kids to watch too much TV, too much violence, too much sweets...blah, blah, blah. They've collectively decided they must all limit their children's contact with this parent's children. I hope they're also making mental note to never miss a class and therefore leaving themselves open to be the recipient of the others' disapproval and gossip.

Oh good, they've moved on to their incredibly high home values. Fabulous. Bunch of a-holes.

I don't know if I'm just pms'ing there's a cosmic malfunction, but I seem to be encountering all sorts of jerks/weirdos/annoying people lately.

The gym seems to be a mecca for dimwits. And I'm not even talking about the blockheads that spend their entire workout grunting and sweating on stuff. No, there's a woman there that bugs the hell out of me to the point that I sorta feel guilty about it. She's not disruptive in any way, but nonetheless makes me want to put a stick through the spokes of her exercise bike. She's there every.single.time I'm at the gym. She's there before I arrive, she's still there when I leave 10 minutes later. She rides the bike or the elliptical like Tiger after a slutty cocktail waitress. I mean, sparks flying off the thing... for hours on end. But the thing is, she's a skeleton. Seriously, I always shield the kids eyes while walking past her in fear that they'll have nightmares of skeletor on the treadmill. I know I do.

I guess I should feel sorry for her or something, but I don't. Seriously, stop already. Go eat a Big Mac, and supersize it! I actually have things I need to get done daily and therefore can't literally run my ass off at the gym six hours a day. I know I'm going straight to hell probably wrong for saying this, but beyond it probably being unhealthy, her efforts are wasted; she'd riding the hein-train... toot! toot! You just can't outrun ugly.

Oh, I am evil. Still love me?

And then there's the guy at the pool. Again, I swear he lives there. No matter what time we go to the pool - mornings, evenings, weekends - he's there. We call him Milton. And yes, he looks like this:

Now picture him in a bathing suit.

And stop gagging.

Milton is always by himself, spending his pool time blatantly staring at all the bathers through his 1 1/2 inch thick glasses. After watching a couple endure a good twenty minutes of his company in the hot tub, where he sat uncomfortably within their personal space, staring without a word, I've made it policy to skip all hot tub time in the presence of Milton. One of these days I'm going to risk certain death to my camera phone and try to bring it into the pool and sneak a picture of him. The things I'd do for you, my peeps.

So how you doin'?

I'm Taking It Personally, Steven!

I've been a long time fan of Aerosmith. What can I say, I dig 'em.
Growing up just two towns from their Sunapee homes, you'd think I would have eventually run into them. Nope.
In middle school, one of my classmates was BFF with Mia Tyler and she'd often spend time at the Tyler's lakeside home. So I lived vicariously through her tales of romping around the rocker's compound, which included an incident of spotting a naked Steven coming out of the shower while playing in the master bedroom. Yeah, I made her tell me that story over and over again. What?
Fast forward a few years when I was living in Florida, working as a pro-audio rep. We got an emergency call that Aerosmith was playing in the central Florida and needed an amp pronto! I was more than eager to volunteer to make the delivery (and I'd bring the amp! OH!). Calls were made, arrangements arranged and I cleverly hid finished the rest of my work so I could race off to be the Bad Boys from Boston's knight in shining vinyl make my employer proud and deliver to one of our clients in a professional manner. Unfortunately, just before I peeled out of the parking lot like a fugitive departed for the 3 hour drive, word came that one of our dealers, local to the venue, had delivered the amp. Bastards!
A few weeks later I had wasted an entire day shopping at the local mega mall. On the drive home the DJ announced the Steven Tyler had just been spotted shopping for shoes at the very same mall. FAIL AGAIN! WTH!

Now you may be wondering why I don't just buy a ticket to a show. Oh, but I have. At least 4 times, and each the show has been CANCELLED! One of my friend's scoffed at the thought that the band has cancelled every show I've had tickets for, "they've never cancelled any show I've gone to". So together we bought tickets... and they cancelled. Hate to tell you I told you so, but...
She insisted it was a fluke. So a year later we bought tickets...again. And then Steven got laryngitis. Cancelled AGAIN! My friend then vowed she would never let me know when they toured again in fear that my very knowledge of Aerosmith performing would cause Steven to, oh I don't know, take a header off the stage. Oh.

But then a few months ago I found out Steven was coming to town to do a small, intimate benefit show at a local theater. He'd play a few songs, tell a few stories, share some video clips of the band over the years and field some Q&As. I wasted no time telling my friend, who was psyched that I was willing to get up early and beat down the theater door to get tickets. and I wasn't totally offended when she asked me to consider camping out for the tickets but refrain from actually planning on attending the show.
So I got to the theater 2 hours before the doors opened and tickets went on sale. Once at the ticket window I slipped the teller an extra $50 and landed us third row seats! Sweet! $650 later I had hopes that this time I'd actually see Steven Tyler. After all, I'd been trying for over 20 years and it would be nice to see him live before he turns to dust, which, by looking at some pictures, won't be too long.

By now, you know where this is going.

Yup. It was announced the other day that the show has been cancelled. This is my shocked face. Something about rehab, blah, blah, blah. Seriously, does he need to be sober for this gig? I don't think so!

I'm officially never ever buying tickets to anything Areosmith ever, ever again.

Guess it's back to Lake Sunapee if I want a chance to catch a glimpse of Steven Tyler.


or maybe not.

Ma Vie En Jam-Jams

Happy 2010!

I officially dub this year, "The Year of the Slack" and thus far, I have been ROCKING it!

Yeah, yeah, I know we're only on day 3 or 4 ( <---- see! SLACKER! Sure, I could hunt down a calendar, but that would require getting up. Pshhhhh!), but so far I've spent most of it cozy and warm in my PJs! But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Let me rewind, back to a time in which I was showered AND dressed.

The good times started a day or so (it's a blur now) before New Years when I took Morgan to go get her hair did for the big night. She decided to have her hair dyed hot pink. And since we have no dance recitals, weddings, graduations or funerals planned in the next few months I figured 'what the heck'. She's totally rocking the pink! And if I hadn't taken a vow of slackerhood, I'd have a picture of the finished product. So you'll have to take my word that it's super cute.

Next, it was my turn in the stylist's chair. But by then, sadly, my attention span had split with my motivation and I gave the new hair dresser carte blanc to do whatever she wanted. Yeah, you know that was a mistake. The good news is she didn't go hot pink, the bad news is I should have said something like, "give me a soccer mom haircut and I'll cut a bitch."
Lesson learned.

The following day, Morgan and I met the Bev for lunch and a visit to the nail salon. How embarrassed was Bev when she didn't get my text that it was "National Dress Like a Terrorist Day"?! Unfortunately it was so cold in the nail salon that I couldn't bare to take off my jacket and show off the package of brats I had strapped to my chest to complete the look. Shame.

Sadly, the only one who took notice of all the electric wires attached to me we're the poor abused gold(???) fish. One of them played dead (French Gold Fish?) while the other seemed elated that his life in the nasty algae-ridden tank would soon come to an end.

Bev came up with the brilliant idea to make her annual New Year's soiree a pajama party. Genius! Bev and I have partied in the new year every year together for at least a decade. And as always, good times were plentiful. Here's a few pictures I may or may not remember taking.

Then we went home and remained in our PJs for the next 2 days.
And it was awesome.

Overdue TMI

I promised a tale of TMI if my peeps donated to my Pie in the Face efforts to give the orphans in Kyrgyzstan a Christmas to remember. Actually I promised a little TMI if ya'll got me to the $300 mark. But you guys rock and put me to my goal of $500! For all you wonderful, big-hearted and sexy mofo's, this one's for you!

But in particular, this post is dedicated to Frank, not just because I'm sure he'll enjoy the confession-ridden, fleshy goodness of this post, but because he's awesome... and about 41 kids on the other side of the planet would certainly agree.

I've been really trying to search the archives in the ol' noggin for a good TMI story and it was much harder than I anticipated. Our dear friend Jenksy wows us with incredible adventures of TMI every Thursday (and oh how I count down the week days). He makes it look so easy and yet I was coming up empty handed. I was quite disappointed with myself, and at the same time a bit proud that I had no tales of vomiting on a date or peeing myself at a gas station (NTTAWWT). I started to think, "hey, maybe I'm far more classy than I give myself credit for! Why, I'm downright lady-like!".

And then I came across an old picture.

While in college in Fort Lauderdale, I worked and lived at a riding stable. It was awesome; 20 acres, 51 horses and a 2 1/2 bedroom house to myself. Granted, the house was kinda a piece of crap and I had to kick my former roommates out and living where you work really means you never get a day off (never mind ever calling in sick), but apart from that it was great. And I also got to move my horse down with me. Awesome.

Rent on the old crap shack was $400 a month, board for my horse was $100 a month and grain, vet and blacksmith was extra... and of course there was the expensive of college and books too. Oh yeah, and food, electricity, phone... blah, blah, blah.

Unfortunately my job at the riding stables paid $201 a week. Actually, it paid $250 a week but my boss took out $49 a week for taxes. Sadly, for two years he must have forgotten to pass along those with holdings to Uncle Sam because I have a big ol' blank spot in my work history with Social Security and by the end of my service at the farm, the IRS was all over my boss, who decided to solve his financial woes by hanging himself... but I digress.

So $201 a week. I worked 6 days a week, weekends were 12 hour work days, but they gave me the flexibility I needed for school. And I really did love the job and my co-workers.

But you don't have to be a mathematician to know I was po! Happy... but really, really po.

And then I learned about a little thing at a local bar called "Dressed To Kill" Fridays. It was simple, woman came dressed to kill, and lady with the most killer outfit, or whatever, went home with $500.

Lucky for me, my best friend in college always dressed like a hooker. Her daily outfits consisted of skin-tight pleather with no lack of skin exposed. But it worked for her as she started dating our Audio Engineering professor... and had a 4.0 GPA. But again, I digress.
So she took me shopping at a stripper clothing store (and in Ft. Lauderdale, there's plenty of both!). She helped me select an outfit fashioned primarily of vinyl, with matching boots, and I was in business. Oh wait, that sounds wrong. No, not that business.

So Friday came around and we melted into our plastic-y outfits (hey, it's Florida! Vinyl doesn't *breathe* well) and headed over to the local dive. We didn't really know what to expect. Would we be required to do a cat walk? Perform a talent (shut up!)? Or answer questions like 'how would we bring about world peace?'?
Nope. In fact we ordered a drink (the first and last drink I ever paid for at the dive) and played Buzztime interactive bar trivia for a few hours until the owner announced that the lady in the red vinyl shorts had won! CHA-CHING!!!!!! Easiest freakin' money EVER! two weeks worth of pay for hangin' with my homegirl and enjoy all the free drinks the bartender offered us. I collected my envelope of cash and went right home to peel off my sticky outfit to sleep.

And every Friday night I'd show up again, play trivia, a game or two of darts (after a few weeks I earned the name 'dart girl' - damn those guys would always be dropping their darts. I was always nice enough to pick them up) and enjoy free drinks. Around 11pm I'd go home with my $500 cash.

Easy money, baby!

What? You expected (more) sex? scandal?

Would you settle for a picture then?