A Room of One's Own

I am BEYOND terrified

I was hit by sheer horror that lasted several days and then just popped back up a minute ago. On Sunday morning, my daughter was happily watching her Noggin when this new show, Yo Gabba Gabba came on. Oh. My. God. I had seen previews and each time I saw them I just stopped dead in my tracks. What in the name of all things holy is going on here?

Not since I begged the question of "What the hell IS Uniqua" have I been more puzzled. In case you don't have a small child living in your home, please go sample this oddity here. I cannot wrap my brain around this but I will tell you that if it comes on my TV it's impossible for me to turn away. It's not that it's enjoyable because, really, I would rather shove knitting needles in my eyes. It's just that I can't imagine people smoking that much crack. I mean, look at these things! LOOK!

What fresh hell is this? The guy in the middle is DJ Lance Rock. He rules over this freakish world. I am disturbed by how short his sleeves are. They fall a good two or three inches from his wrists. There's no need for that. Why are they trying to make him look like Urkel and, moreover, why is he letting them?  I can't even muster up words to discuss the rest of the outfit. Are they paying him well? I hope so because this guy ain't gettin' NO play ever again after this. I'm just trying to ask the big questions, people.

Also, the cyclops bothers me. He just weirds me out. Big time. I find it hard to look at it and not think that the people creating this show aren't laughing somewhere about how they made a character look like some odd, giant sex toy. I know I am not the only person in America that has made that association. It's disturbing when it dances to the lyrics, "I tried it and I liked it!"

I am pretty sure, when I was in grade school, that my neighbor's dad made that exact robot costume for Halloween one year using dryer hoses and empty Kleenex boxes. Do they not have a budget for costumes? Apparently not, since DC Lance Rock is without a necessary three inches of sleeves. I think I know why that is. Crack ain't cheap, my friends. Crack ain't cheap. 

Holy Gregor Samsa, Batman!

My house is like some weird Kafka nightmare. There is a fly in my house that that is probably here in hiding because the folks at Sky Harbor were getting pissed about it interferring with flight patterns. The thing is huge and certainly flying below the hard deck. Ghostrider is ignoring that the flight pattern is all full. This is bad enough, but Chicken Wing, the Siamese Cat of Doom, is trying to catch the fucker. Unfortunately, my bed seems to be the hub of all this activity. I'm being trampled by an 8 lb. animal. She thinks it's cute. Me, not so much.

The 108 lb. animal in the house, my exceptionally wide yellow lab created the problem by ripping the dog door off the wall trying to get through after a hearty Kibbles and Bits dinner. Sealing the house up has not been easy. The door has been replaced but I'm still trying to kill all kinds of bugs. It's been a problem, as you may remember my incident with SPIDER EYE, an occurrence almost as annoying as a CORNEAL ABRASION.

The pest control guy comes tomorrow to finish ridding my house of unwanted guests. Thank God. And, if I ever see the morons who installed the first dog door, they will get a stern talking to. What? I'm a lover, not a fighter... They did the world's worst job on installing a dog door. I managed to get in a weather proof, double door flabbed, energy efficient turbo dog door. I went all out on this thing guided by Handy Manny, my favorite Home Depot employee from Brooklyn. Mind you, I have no idea how many other employees at Home Depot are from Brooklyn, but if there are more than one, Manny is my favorite. Previous homeowners used two by fours and a couple of screws and a flap. Nice.

As hermetically sealed as my house may now be, I'm still tackling the current invaders. Basically, I can't sleep as every three seconds I am sure I am being landed on, dive bombed, crawled on, bitten or stung by something with many more legs than I have. I've seen the Wrath of Khan and I'm scared. I have just been laying here slapping myself. Laugh all you want. I'm not going to bed until that big ass fly is dead. DEAD, I tell you!

Hell isn't this hot

In case you've ever wanted to know why we Phoenicians drive with oven mitts, I'll show you.

Equipped with my latest gadget, the Mastercool (ha!) 52224-SP Infrared Thermometer with Laser, I set out this afternoon to perform a battery of tests. According to AZ Central, the outdoor temp at the time I performed such tests was 105 degrees. That's hot. As Eugene Jerome would say, it's "African hot. Tarzan couldn't take this kinda hot. Brooklyn never got this hot." That ain't nothin'.

According to my scientific equipment, the following temperatures were registered in my car, a 2004 Charcoal Gray Chevy Trailblazer EXT:

The dashboard of my car is the hottest place in the vehicle registering a smoldering 187.9 degress as shown below:

The actual steering wheel was slightly cooler 173.4 degrees:

The armrest of my car was, by far, the coolest place I tested as a downright chilly 143 degrees on the nose:

 

Just out of curiosity (oh why no, eh?) the handle of my car was a little on the toasty side:

By the way, I take no blame for the randomness of these tests or the fact that I own an infrared thermometer. It's not my fault. It's ALton Brown's fault. He had to go flaunting one of these bad boys on Good Eats. Thanks Alton. And, no, you have certainly not seen the last of the infrared thermometer! More to come...

What I'd like right now

and not in this order.

• a bowl of mint chip ice cream
• the pile of clothes on my dryer to be folded by the laundry folding elves by morning
• my bedroom to be as cold as my daughter's room
• a drop in temps by 30 degrees so I can wake up Sunday morning, turn on the fireplace and Mahalia Jackson, make an apple crumb coffee cake, a peppermint mocha cappuccino (with sprinkles because I like them) and stay in my pajamas all day long while watching football, then make a huge pot of soup
• a new dog door that doesn't let in an army of mosquitos
• my hair appointment to be tomorrow
• a good solid day where I have nothing to do and no one bothering me and no obligations to meet so I can actually get this house in order
• to be kissed goodnight and then spooned
• a really great new pair of shoes
• a massage
• a potato ricer, a gnocchi board, a blender, a toaster and a pizza stone

Almost everything

I got a receipt in the mail today for the stuff I donated for our Junior League rummage sale. I ended up with $212.50 in quota this means that they are estimating that it will bring in $425. At rummage sale prices, that's a lot of stuff. It was mostly my daughter's clothes and a bunch of baby blankets.

I had to go through the boxes and I was glad I did as I found some blankets and such I would NOT want to give away. I tucked those back away and put everything else out. I kept everything my mother made. She made a few of the sweetest little baby sweaters and two little tiny hats. My intention, I guess, is to give them to my daughter so she can have them for her kid.

I keep looking around at a bunch of her stuff and get mixed feeling as to what to do. I had no problem getting rid of the baby stuff like high chairs and strollers and baby bouncey things. That's all disposable and if there ever was another kid in my life, fully replaceable. Better, though, not to have a garage full of stuff for the possibility of a someday. But, I sat on her bed tonight and watched her ride her too small rocking horse. I thought to move it outside and add it to the charity pile. I don't think it will get out there. I just can't put everything out there.

One of the hardest parts of getting divorced with a small child is that you still have all their stuff arond because you kept it thinking there would be a little brother or sister. That thought gets quite damaged. I just can't bring myself to keep everything under the assumption of that someday. I'm on the fence about wanting to have another child because, frankly, I'm not sure I can entertain the idea. It sounds nice but if I kept the stuff around it would lean much more toward it being a concrete possibility. I can't put money that horse. But, the rocking horse I am keeping. 

Another Open Letter

To whom it may concern:

It is the 22nd of the month. I am fresh out of give a shit. I have none left for you until the 1st of September when my supply is replenished. Until that time, I'd like to offer the following statements/warnings:

If you have signed up to do something, DO IT! Do not decide that it would look really good for you to volunteer for something and then expect other people to pull your weight because of your busy schedule. With my busy schedule, I can't do YOUR shit too. Suck it up.

If you need or want something from me, please tell me in plain English. I am not Miss Cleo. The same thing works for if you have a problem with me or any of my actions. I am not Dionne Warwick either. We are not psychic friends.

If you are spending money on stupid shit, do not complain about not having money. Actually, unless you have enough money to not have to worry about NOT having money, don't buy stupid shit. Yes, I reserve the right to pass judgement on what stupid shit it. Why? Because.

Unless you are actually willing to do something to improve the quality of your life, don't come bitching to me about it. I don't speak Whinese. Get off your ass and make something happen, would you?

Signed,

Anxiously waiting for the 1st...

Why did I go there?

I entered into the same stupid discussion I have entered at least five times beofre and it has always ended the same way. My ass just gets chapped. What discussion? The stay at home mom vs. the working mom. Yes. THAT one.

You may recall me getting very pissy at a woman while playing Bunco (people tell me this game is fun but I think I need to NOT be around bitches to enjoy it) who asked my I didn't want to raise my child. If you recall, my answer was, "Because then what would I have the dog do?" That's all I'm going to say about that. I just realized I am kind of done with it.

My kid can spell her name. I mean, she can write it on a piece of paper. She's three. I don't know what that's indicative of other than she kicks ass.

If only I could remember

I don't intentionally forget everything. I'm pretty certain I haven't done any really serious killing of brain cells that would warrant or deserve such lack of short term memory. But, it's bad. I am going to be one of those ladies that carries around a pad so she can remember even the tiniest thing. I'd stick this in my purse that seems to grow exponentially each year as if I'm planning on having everything I own in a shopping cart. Not because I'm homeless, but rather because I have that much shit I need to carry with me.

My point is that I thought of something really good that I wanted to blog about tonight and it's gone. Poof. It went all Keyser Soze on me. Damn it. My God, I'm turning in to Dory! So, instead of what I was going to blog about, which I am certain would have been riveting, I'll share with you why  I am a jackass.

Last Saturday, my little girl and I went to the house of recently oft mentioned sweet man I am dating. He has a big pool with a deep end and a diving board. I am old school fascinated with the diving board. It is so exciting I can hardly contain myself. I try to maintain a cool reserved exterior around it but I just can't. It's that much fun.

Of course, he's a jackass too. This is why I'm dating him. I need company in my jackassedness. We are doing down right stupid things off this board. I have not jump off one of these in about 10 years so I'm rusty but, by God, I feel like Greg Louganis. So Dave asks me if I can do some sort of level 8 technical difficulty dive that involves a twist. I am now looking at him and trying to give a look of, "You really don't like me at all. You want me dead." Mind you, the baord is not huge. There's not a lot of distance to the water. Kinda looks like this:

Regardless of my lack of ability to do a half twist double decaf front flip into a dive with a twist of lemon, I convince myself I could do a backflip. And, of course, I am trying to impress this new guy. Off I go and just about get there but land in the water SMACK on my shins. It stings. Freakin' bad. But, I can say I did it and he seems mildly impressed. Mission accomplished.

All is fine and dandy until earlier this week when I start to notice strange discoloration occurring in my shin/calf area. Yep, bruising. I bruise very easily and these babies are big and identical to each other on both legs. They're healing now so they've turned that pretty green shade. I look like Courtney Love. I am a fool.