piecrust promises

So I was thinking...

...I wonder if there is a hand-size limit for dentists.  I mean, think about it...you can't have giant man-hands and still be able to get inside of someone's mouth...there's only so much room in there.

I wonder if the application for dental school goes something like, name, address, why do you want to be a dentist, are you aware of the high suicide rate, and then finally, in the space below please trace your hands.

And then the poor kid with monstrous hands receives the rejection letter back..."We are sorry to say that you have not been accepted to Drill U. due to your abnormally large hands...however we have recommended you to our sister school, Beefy State, where you can begin your career as a lumberjack."

Best Prank Ever...

So someone out there is getting me good...real good. I'm embarrassed, puzzled, surprised, curious, and downright beside myself with how damn clever this prank is.  

Someone signed me up for a year of Woman's Day Magazine.

Woman's Day Magazine.  WOMAN'S DAY!!!

Like suddenly I'm some menopausal, divorced, then remarried, mindless/dead end career woman in her mid-forties with a couple of elementary school kids from my second marriage and a kid in college from my first and I must have a lot of credit card debt and just no clue as to how to lose that 25 pounds of fat baby weight that I've been carrying around for the last ten two years or what to make for dinner tonight. WOMEN'S DAY!

Woman's Day...of all the magazines that you could send someone as a prank...not exactly the first thing you would think of, huh?  I would say the obvious would be gay porn...but that's just me (TAKE THAT GOOGLE...I SAID GAY PORN.)

So why do I think this is a prank?  Well...one day a couple of months ago, I strolled over to my work mailbox and there it was...glossy and bright in the fluorescent lights with promises smeared all over it...lose 10 pounds in one week! Get organized today! Spicy up your marriage! It was disgustingly pathetic sitting there in my mail slot...just wrong and embarrassing...it's like that girl at the bar who already had too much makeup on and got way too drunk way too early in the evening...and now that she's already made out with a couple of guys...she's just too sloppy and depressing to be able to take seriously...especially with her lipstick smeared all over her teeth and her mascara running down her cheek. (Ok...maybe that analogy went wrong and off the deep end...I just mean that Woman's Day is generally for the ladies who have been around the block a couple of times.  Just go with me here...I could have said, "Woman's Day is for women who have been rode hard for a couple of years and put away wet." But I didn't. I'm trying to class it up around here.)

I snatched it, rolled it, and stuck it under my arm...I made a beeline back to my desk and avoided eye contact at all costs.  Partially hiding under my desk, I examined it carefully, perhaps it was supposed to go to someone else and it got put in my mailbox by mistake...but no...there it was...my name and my work address.

MY WORK ADDRESS...now that's just low...it's one thing to send me old lady magazines to my house...but to my work where everyone can see...that's bordering on cruel.

So that first month I chalked up to a fluke...but four issues later...I'm starting to think this person is just diabolical.  I even called Woman's Day magazine and asked how and why did I keep getting these things every month. Apparently someone signed me up...paid for a full year...no...they couldn't tell me who this person was, so that I could "thank" them.  The lady on the other end of the phone made the comment of, "Well someone must really like you out there...sending you a whole year's worth of the kind of advice today's woman needs!"

More like someone out there really knows how to fuck with me.

And yes...she actually said, "the kind of advice today's woman needs" it took everything I had in me not to vomit.

So kudos to whoever the mastermind is...you got me flummoxed good and proper...just hope that I don't find out who you are...otherwise prepare for an influx of gay porn, sucker.

It's Official: I'm My Mother.

So my mother and I have, what you might like to call, a so so relationship.  We've mostly gotten over that span of about six years when I did a lot of drugs that she didn't know about my rebellious teenage years. She hasn't accepted my lack of the Catholic religion...but she's dealing with it. (Or at least she's stopped openly talking about the baby spending eternity in purgatory and me burning in hell.) (I once had a nun explain purgatory to me like this....it's like having all the pancakes you could ever want, but with no syrup. The pancakes are still good...but not quite what you wanted.) (This is why I am so fucked up...my formative years were spent with a bunch of loonies comparing eternity to breakfast foods.) (Side note...Hey JD! Sister Myra told me that...remember her?) (Moving on.)

My mother and I have a once-a-week, 15 minute max, standing phone call.  It's like taking off a bandaid...you don't want to make the call but you know you have to...and then you do it as fast as possible with the biggest grimace on your face...but you keep saying out loud that it's no big deal.  So these phone calls generally consist of filler...like what she watched on TV that week, which one of my wonderful full members of the Catholic church elementary school classmates she saw in the Safeway, what the baby has been doing (with mumblings suggesting that maybe the kid wouldn't climb the bookshelves or keep stealing the remote if she had a bit more of the Lord in her), etc.  This past week she was talking about something that she heard on the radio...something that she heard on MIX 107.3 to be exact.  This is a station that I know well...non-offensive Top 40's with a little bit of cleaned up pop from the 70's, 80's, 90's, and today!  It was all I was ever allowed to listen to when I was a kid.  It's the quintessential Mom station.  And it's the type of station that I've been avoiding for years...heaven forbid my dial land on that sort of station!  Oh the embarrassment!  Or so I thought...

So I'm driving in the car this morning...and I'm listening to the morning show that is a blend of some music, some talk, some news, some contests...and then I hear it.  "You're listening to MIX 105.1!"  I'm listening to a mix station.  I'M LISTENING TO THE FLORIDA EQUIVALENT OF MY MOTHER'S RADIO STATION...FOR WEEKS! And I never noticed.  There I was every morning...laughing along with freaking Scott and Erica!  Playing along to the $25 Pyramid!  Yelling about how Florida is full of idiots...obviously the category is "Alternative Names for Wombat Dung!"  Singing along to Leona Lewis (KEEP BLEEDING! KEEP KEEP BLEEDING!) and fucking Daughtry.  DAUGHTRY...as in AN AMERICAN IDOL WINNER! WHY DO I EVEN KNOW THAT!? And the entire time...my sweet, innocent, naive child sitting in the backseat...dancing and clapping when they play the pick-me-up song of the morning...laughing at mama yelling at the voices.

When did I become a pre-menopausal woman?  I don't even consider myself to be a woman yet...I refer to myself as being a girl...not a woman.  Women are old and wrinkly and serious and listen to mix stations.

Now I've been struggling with this whole age thing for a while...but this seems like the beginning of the end.

And then this lead me to another line of thought...everyone has a musical expiration date...a time when you stop keeping up with current music and you just stop liking anything new.  New music sounds like noise..."those damn kids don't know what good music!" is you say...and you mean it.

I think I've hit this time period.  I used to listen to all sorts of music...now I just want to hear things from 1994. I've been trying to pinpoint when my musical preferences stopped evolving...luckily iTunes is good at helping out with this sort of thing. 2002. 2002 was the end for me. I pretty much stopped adding in anything new in 2002. I was only 21. I peaked musically at 21.

How soon before I peak at everything else?

So tell me...have you reached your musical peak?

Best thing I said all day...

"She's either stalking me or she's on the same pee schedule...either way...I'm weirded out."

Modern Technology and All...

You'd think with the advances in modern technology and all that there would be a better way to buy toilet paper...because nothing says, "I shit a lot" better than that giant SUV sized pack of ninety-six rolls of toilet paper.

I mean, seriously, I have to get an extra cart just to be able to lug my newly acquired floatation device up to the register...and then you have to guess at where the conveyor belt is because it's not like you can see around that tidy package...knocking small children off their feet and capsizing the display of high fructose covered processed peanuts on the way.

Post that will only make sense to 2...possibly 3...people.

RACHEL!

It's June 12th!

AAAAAAHHHHH.

That is all.

Most insightful thing I said all weekend...

"Whoever invented marriage was an idiot."

This just popped in...

So I'm driving home from work and daycare...and it's one of those rare drives home when everything is nice and quiet (as opposed to the general shrieking that is usually coming from the devil precious angel in the backseat...punctuated by flying sippy cups and eerily realistic doll babies.) (I mean seriously...couldn't they make those things a little more cartoony?  I'm afraid someone is going to spot one in my backseat in some parking lot at the damn Target and call the cops because they think I've got a premie locked up in my Florida Easy Bake Oven (AKA "the car" for you Northerners...and for everyone else too...because I totally just thought of Florida Easy Bake Oven as a clever name for a car down here.  Get it?  Because it gets so hot?  Yeah...I'm good at this stuff)...and then the cops are going to come and break one of my windows and BIG GIANT MESS and TV NEWS CHANNEL and LIVE ON THE SCENE and who do you think will have to replace the damn window and get embarrassed to all hell when I hear them announce that there is a VW Rabbit with a fake melted baby in the backseat?  Yeah...me.)

(And that last set of parenthesis is a fairly accurate portrayal of the slippery slope known as my thought process.)

So anyways...driving + quiet + overly active brain having time to come up with little bits of delight instead of ideas on what to throw at soothe the baby with = wonderful pop in thoughts from no where.

If I could sing...and I definitely can't...who would I sound like?  Not who I would like to sound like...but who would I actually sound like.

And let me tell you...I've got an hour long drive home...so I had a lot of time to think about this.  And after weighing out all of my options...I came to this conclusion:

If I could sing, I think I'd sound like Bif Naked.  And damnit...I don't think that's such a bad thing...granted...no one has any clue who the hell Bif Naked is anymore...I'm still OK with that.

BUT THEN...I got home and had to listen to messages on my voicemail...and the baby got a hold of the phone and pushed the "completely fuck up phone" button...and I ended up having to hear my outgoing message.

SERIOUSLY?  I sound like a freaking preschool teacher!  A SOUTHERN preschool teacher!  

Ugh.

There goes my Bif Naked dreams.

So who would you sound like if you could sing?

WTF GOOGLE!

JOHN MCCAIN ADS?  Are you serious? 

Google! First it was all the Asian "dating" sites...now this. 

Do you even read this blog?  Maybe just a casual glance over here to the the left every now and then? No?  Well maybe you should start...what in the world would make you run ads for JOHN FREAKING MCCAIN?!?

Couldn't we get a little Obama action over here?  Hell...I'll even take some Hillary...just NO MORE MCCAIN.

Conversations with inanimate objects

So I step on the scale this morning...plus one pound from where it was last week...I look down at the scale with a look of disgust and say with completely bitter sincerity, "Why do I even talk to you?"