Daisywriter

RIP, You 80s Dancing Cheesearific Dude...

2009-09-15T07:53:00.006-05:00

Patrick Swayze died today. So sad. I mean, it's not many men who can dance all cheesy-like and be totally masculine and completely 80s hot at the same time. He was somewhat of an anomaly, really.

I've seen Dirty Dancing about 18 times. Seriously. My friend Jeanne and I saw it at least 7 times, in the theatre, when it came out my Junior year of high school.

And you know what I learned in all those viewings? One very important thing:

No one puts Baby in a corner.

Words to live by....oh yes...

Holy CRAP, she's good.

2009-08-26T07:42:00.002-05:00

I love Rihanna's music, and I'm a piano player since the age of four. I hardly play at all these days, but daaaaamn, this girl makes me want to start playing again.

So ridiculously good.

And, by comparison, here's "Please Don't Stop The Music" by Rihanna.

Go ahead. Shake what your mama gave you. I dare you.

The Pregnant Post

2009-08-11T13:33:00.003-05:00

I never thought this day would come, but here it is. I'm writing my official "I'm Pregnant" post. It's a monumental day, full of streamers and parades and - O.K., I'm kidding. I actually have a head cold, I can't take any good drugs for it, and I'm working like a banshee, so no parades. But I am pregnant. Pregtastic. Pregalicious. Preggaleggadingdong. With child. Expectant. Knocked the heck UP.

I'm almost 4 months along now, and I haven't written a lot over the past few months, mainly because I've been preoccupied with the notion of being someone's mother and trying to get through the first trimester successfully, without any issues. I'm also what the medical industry refers to as a "woman of advanced maternal age," so I'm all old and senile and forgetful, apparently, and this obviously affected my writing ability as well. The major plus with being an almost 38-year old hag and pregnant? They dote on you. I've already had four ultrasounds, for chrissake. It's kind of awesome. They make you do genetic counseling and you get to find out how old your uterus really is. Mine turned out to be between 19 and 20, so I was thrilled. I asked the genetic counselor lady if she could also make my body and skin go back to being 19. I didn't have crow's feet then. And my butt was way perkier. But I digress.

So, am I going to be one of those chicks who blogs entirely about her pregnancy and becomes all Kathy Lee Gifford-esque and annoying as hell? No, probably not. But I will talk about it. I figure it's my one and only shot at doing it - this will be my first and last kid, I venture to say - so now that I'm past the first trimester hurdle, I'm just going to enjoy every last weird thing my body is undergoing. But I'm going to be honest about it. That's just my way. My friends tell me that it's a beautiful thing - it's magical and miraculous. I agree on part of that so far. It is incredibly miraculous, and I can't believe I'm actually growing a human right this second and still able to walk and stuff. That sort of blows my mind. As for the beautiful thing? Well, I feel like a bloated cow with borderline narcolepsy. So, if that's beautiful to some people, cool. I mean, whatever floats your boat. I, however, wouldn't necessarily call it beautiful. Miraculous and amazing, yes. Beautiful? Not so much, but I'm not giving up hope.

So there's my pregnant post. Daisywriter - the chick that was nomadic in the city a mere 4 years ago - thrust into marriage with the greatest dude and stepmotherhood with absolutely no training or skill whatsoever - is now going to be someone's Mom.

Holy crap.

Talk about the absolute pinnacle of delicious ambiguity....I just can't wait to meet the little Peanut.

Polish Prince Fabulosity

2009-07-29T20:32:00.002-05:00

So yeah. It's been a month since I posted here. And, I'll get to the reason for that soon. But not today. Today, it's all about Prince. My friend Mock pointed out the other day on her site that Purple Rain is 25 years old. So, I'm officially ready for my AARP card.

And, then, my friend Scott sent this video of a Polish jazz group doing Prince's Diamonds and Pearls. Of course, I had to share it with you, my two readers:

I know. It's great. But the best part of his email - and really, the reason behind why we are friends - was when he said:

"If I find out that they produced a jazz cover of P***y Control, I'll let you know."

I really do love my friends.

And they happen in threes....

2009-06-26T08:49:00.003-05:00

My partner in crime, Mock, celebrated her 40th birthday yesterday. And you know what that means? Well, besides creating a huge fuss over her (and rightfully so, as you only turn 40 once), it made me realize that holy CRAP, I'm on the slope to 40. Now granted, I'll be 38 in August, but I'm on the slope and gaining speed. It's official.

In addition to the Mock hoopla, Farrah Fawcett died yesterday, which totally sucks. I know she had her "I'm going to do abstract painting with my naked body" phase and appeared to be all druggified in her later years on Letterman and stuff, but I liked Farrah. I liked her because I LOVE Charlie's Angels, as I've always secretly wanted to BE a Charlie's Angel. In fact, I was walking on the treadmill the other night, watching the second Charlie's Angels movie (the Drew Barrymore/Cameron Diaz/Lucy Liu version), and I was asking myself: "Self....I wonder when they're going to come out with another Charlie's Angels movie. It's about time."

And my Self agreed with myself. It is time, indeed.

To top it all off, I get home after an exhausting day of work and birthday fuss to hear from Mr. Daisy that Michael Jackson had died. I was pretty shocked, as were a lot of people. Now, I'll freely admit that I think the dude was a complete vampire-like freak. I know it's not politically correct to say such a thing, as you're supposed to have respect and reverence for the dead. But he named his kid Blanket, and he was weird. You know you're thinking it, too...so don't even try to tell me I'm being snarky here.

I will give the guy credit where credit is due, and that credit for me lies with his music, of course, and the memories his music created for me. Thriller was one of my favorite albums of all time. I wore it out. And, my childhood and teenage years were just FILLED with Michael Jackson music. He personified the 80s. Hands down.

After hearing the news about his death, I called my sister and made the obvious next comment of, "well, you know this stuff happens in threes....so who's the third?"

To which she responded, "Duh...Ed McMahon."

And there's the triumverate. Three very 70s and 80s popular icons. On the day that my best pal turned 40. And the day that I realized that I'm really, REALLY not getting any younger.

With all that said, I look forward to my 40s. They say 40 is the new 30, and I even spewed that to Mock and meant it. I think my 40s will be the best decade yet...

Off to work now, listening to the radio playing softly in the background. Of course, programming has been set to Michael Jackson - all day long.

With that, I leave you my absolute favorite song of his of all time. On that downhill slope to 40, I'd like to at least pretend that I'm still a Pretty Young Thing.

I defy you not to shake it (you know you want to just a little bit):

Funniest Movie of All Time and Space

2009-06-12T09:04:00.002-05:00

Husband-man and I went to see "The Hangover" for his birthday last weekend. And, I know I'm not in the business of reviewing movies here on my blog, but I feel compelled to tell everyone how freakin' hilarious this movie was. It was one of those flicks where you are laughing so hard - just in the first 20 minutes - that you're actually sore from laughing when you walk out of the theatre.

It's cinematic perfection. A complete laughing, feel-good, happy, friendfest, what-happens-in-Vegas-stays-in-Vegas good time.

Please rush out immediately and see it before I call you an old sourpuss.

P.S. - Bradley Cooper is yummy.

HOLY CRAP, It's been forever since I've written here....

2009-06-05T13:58:00.004-05:00

Yeah. I always have excuses. I have none today, other than the fact that I lunched with the Governor yesterday and managed to kiss him on his actual face (pictured above....I'm on the left, FYI). But other than that, I haven't been doing much of anything lately besides pondering having a personal assistant someday to fetch me lattes while I twirl my imaginary mustache and plan world domination.

So, I'll update you on life and love and dogs and weather and jobs and all that stuff, dear readers. Pack your bags. We're going to spew-town...

First off, my job. I still love my job, love my boss, and love everyone I work with (well, almost everyone), but I'm loving the prospect of Chicks on the Right going places, and the thought of how far we've come in a mere 4 months makes me smile with absolute glee. I usually steer clear of glee, as it seems very clown-like, but this time, it's glee. There's no other way to describe my love for the site, what we're doing, the response we're getting (good and ugly), and the potential for it. Who knows. Life is spectacular in all its delicious ambiguity, after all.

Secondly, my husband turns 46 today. I, on the other hand, am still on the downward slope to 40 - my 38th will be fast approaching here, and that freaks me out a bit. Mainly because I'm faced with shrinking ovaries. But that's neither here nor there. I keep telling Husband-man that 46 is the new 36, and he must remember that both Brad Pitt and Johnny Depp are his exact age. And while they may have more hair, they don't have me as a wife. So he has that, at least.

Third, my puppy Jeb is so brilliant and painfully cute in his floppiness. His feet are as big, if not bigger, than his big, full-grown Great Dane brother's. He is enormous, and he still hasn't achieved the motor skills necessary to use his back two legs individually when he runs, so he instead uses them simultaneously and hops like a huge bunny. He's more than precious, and unlike Zeke as a puppy (he was a raging terror who I couldn't WAIT to see grow up into the wonderful dog he is now), I don't want Jeb to get any bigger. Now I know how Moms of toddlers feel...if you could just stall time and keep them that size for just a little....while....longer...

I went to the Indy 500 with my pal, Miriam, on Memorial Day while Husband-Man was in Singapore on business. It was fun as hell - not what I expected really - even though the gin and tonics really helped with the fun factor and all. Tube tops were a'plenty, and Jim Nabors singing My Indiana Home made me cry. Everything a girl could ask for from her first Indy 500...

Since I've written last, I've also met, and subsequently kissed, the Governor. I've been invited to my reunion (again) and have still not RSVP'd, hoping that I can respond with, "No, I'm sorry, I'll be on Hannity that night in syndication."

A girl can dream, after all.

So, let's recap. The Indy 500 was awesome, my ovaries are shrinking, my husband is getting older, but better, I have assaulted the Governor, my puppy may have rabbit genetics hidden somewhere in the proverbial woodpile, and it's Friday.

It just doesn't get any better than it is right...this...second.

Best Site Ever.

2009-05-19T07:13:00.005-05:00

(look at the baby's finger)
A buddy of mine at work sent me this site this morning. If you've seen it, then good for you. I haven't yet, so I almost peed my pants laughing at some of the pictures.

Behold: Awkward Family Photos

God, it's like comic platinum.

Britney, Students, Newt, Bunnies, Reminders, and That Damn Maternal Instinct

2009-05-06T09:28:00.004-05:00

This may be one of my longest posts EVER. Way too much to cover, really.

It’s been CRAZY these past few weeks. Between working my day job, going on a girl's trip, wrangling up college kids for finals, grading for another professor who’s sick, putting a lot of energy into COTR, gearing up for spring, and dealing with a new pup, life has been on fast-forward, to say the least.

First off, the Chicago-mid-week-Britney-shopping-eating girl's trip. I and my friends, Mock and Leroy, went to Chicago mid-week last week to catch the Britney Spears concert. Now, I'm not a "real" Britney fan, but I did wear a pink wig (see above) and worked it like going to the concert was my job. I was pleasantly surprised. She doesn't sing, of course, but the choreography and showmanship were plain awesome. It was fun as hell, and despite Leroy being sick, we all managed to have a spectacular time. We even got into the VIP room at the concert, where drinks were 4 bucks instead of 8. Oh yeah...

Jeb, the new pup, started out as a quiet little fuzzy man, and while still brilliant, he’s become a terror just like his brother was two years ago. He especially likes to gnaw on his sister, Tess’, nubbin tail. That goes over well with her. We fully expect him to be doing algebra sometime here soon, as he already knows how to open doors at 11 weeks. Mensa may want to consider its first canine. I’m just sayin.

Last week, I was offered a full-time job at the university. It pained me to have to turn it down – I love that job so much - it’s really the longest I’ve ever held a job. As a contractor/consultant by nature, I’ve always been sort of non-committal with jobs, changing every 6-12 months. But, my teaching gig has surpassed the four-year mark, and it freaks me out a little that I continue to love it more each day. If I was independently wealthy, there’s no question that I would’ve snatched the job up without as much as a blink of an eye. All I can say is that I don’t know how teachers eat. Or buy shoes, for that matter. Money is a necessary evil, and so my part-time-best-job-ever continues…

On the same day I had to regretfully and painfully decline the full-time professorial gig, I had two students tell me how much they loved my class this semester. Not one, but two. In college-age years, this type of feedback is like gold. I told them that I was so happy that they enjoyed my class, but asked in response, did you LEARN something? They assured me that they learned a lot and actually don’t mind writing now (a major feat for engineering students). They enjoyed coming to class and doing the work they thought they’d despise. This mended my broken heart in about 2.5 seconds. It’s the reason I teach, and no money in the world could ever buy the feeling that kind of feedback gives me. If I get one sliver of it a semester, than I know I’m not doing my job in vain.

My new site with buddy Mock, www.chicksontheright.com, is starting to gain momentum. We had lunch yesterday with some of the Governor’s staffers and got a bit of a tip that Newt Gingrich would be at the Capitol yesterday. So, of course we had to stalk him accordingly. We ended up meeting Mr. Gingrich, introducing ourselves, and saying hello to his secret-service-looking posse while handing out cards for our site. It was so political and pomp and circumstance and cool. Absolute cherry-on-top type of day.

When I got home, Mr. Daisy was working, of course. There’s never a dull moment or real down-time at our house – especially now with him singlehandedly finishing our basement, on top of us trying to keep up with 7+ acres of land that needs mowing, planting, etc. I planted my veggie garden last week, and it’s already better than last year’s. I fully expect to be a master planter within the next three years of gardening practice. I may have even missed my calling as a farmer, although I would totally miss stilettos. This year, I’m growing four different types of tomatoes, green peppers, potatoes, onions, and zucchini will be planted this weekend. I used to be addicted to Whole Foods in downtown Chicago. Now I’m becoming Whole Foods. I still can’t keep a houseplant alive, but my garden? It kicks ass.

Mr. Daisy usually mows the back acreage, and I try to do the front when I can. The Dixie Chopper is like riding on a race-car in the world of mowers. It’s actually fun to drive, and so I like taking my iPod out there and mowing like a good country gal. It’s instant gratification. Who would’ve thought?

In the first few minutes of Mr. Daisy mowing last night, he stopped and came inside to let me know that he hit a baby bunny. Our eldest Dane, Brina, “discovered” four abandoned baby bunnies this week, and while we assume that Mama Bunny didn’t just leave for a life of alcohol and prostitution and instead was eaten by a hawk or coyote, the bunnies are motherless now, nonetheless. We made them a shelter out of an old bucket and some dish towels, trying to give them at least some opportunity to fend for themselves, knowing that it’s going to be so difficult for them to survive without their mom. They’re docile and allow us to pick them up. They don’t even scream...it’s as if they like the attention. They are that young. They’re just plain tiny, and it kills me to see them vulnerable to the elements. But I think it kills Mr. Daisy even more.

When people come to our home, they assume that it’s me who’s the big animal-lover. And, I am - without a doubt. Anyone who knows me knows how much I adore animals. When I was a kid, I wanted to be the animal chick on Johnny Carson, for chrissake. But, the funny thing is that Mr. Daisy – tough, Carharrts-wearing, manly-man guy Mr. Daisy – is a bigger softie than me when it comes to animals. He’s the reason we have four dogs – I’m not complaining, believe me, but he would probably have 10 if we had just a bit more acreage.

So, when he came in, somewhat distraught over the bunny, I just felt for him...then for the bunny. The bunny didn’t have any visible cuts, but he was bleeding out of his ears and mouth – which I assume was a sign of a head injury. Obvious internal injuries. Neither one of us could do the “farmer” thing and put the baby out of its misery. It was just too small. I mean, I’m from the city. I couldn’t do it if someone told me how to. And, Mr. Daisy just didn’t have the heart. I asked him, do you break its little neck? How in the hell does someone DO that? Do you smother him? I can't do any of those things! Neither one of us could bring ourselves to do anything, so while I cried like a little girl, Mr. Daisy made him a makeshift bed, covered him with a warm towel, and made him as comfortable as possible. Mr. Daisy would say sweet things to him as we checked on him and periodically pet him. The little guy passed away this morning.

I’m sad about it. I realize it’s a bunny and I get the whole circle-of-life nature crap, but it upset me – more so because it upset Mr. Daisy, I think. I mean, I know I’m the same chick who would shoot a skunk. I would shoot Mr. Rabid "I'm-taunting-you-at-4-pm" skunk man. Without question. But a baby bunny – there’s nothing ominous about this creature at all. Just sheer vulnerability and weakness. Something I hate to see in an animal or a person. And, Mr. Daisy had an even harder time with it, reaffirming once again why I love him and married him. It’s the little things. Diamonds, shmiamonds. The stuff you see in movies? I’ve never been overly impressed by all the "normal couple" stuff. The impress-everyone-else stuff. In this case, it was a little bunny that made me remember why I married my husband. Go figure.

Mother’s Day is this weekend, and while my stepdaughter will be home from her first year of college, both my stepkids will be at their Mom’s to celebrate the holiday. Understandably so. I shall pamper my Mom and Mother-in-law with love and attention (while my sister and husband cook, as I’m a known domestic retard) this Sunday. In addition, I will dote on those three remaining little bunnies and see if I can’t help them in their survival in the wild. There’s that damn maternal instinct again. Life is so awesome that way...one day you’re living in the middle of downtown Chicago, all single and self-sufficient and sans anyone to answer to or take care of in any way. Then, the next day you’re playing Mom to two stepkids, four dogs, and now three homeless and motherless bunnies.

Delicious ambiguity. So delicious, indeed.

My 20-Year Reunion Plot.

2009-04-26T17:23:00.002-05:00

Well, I COULD do this. My 20-year high school reunion is this summer. July, I believe. And, I'm on the fence as to whether or not I will attend. I'm not sure if I want to. I'd rather be a fly on the wall. Or, I can do what the chick in this video did. She used a stripper stand in.

The jury's still out, but I do think this is absolutely brilliant.

It's Official. My Puppy is Brilliant.

2009-04-25T11:59:00.001-05:00

I know - enough with the puppy stuff already, huh?

I can't help it. My puppy is brilliant. Let me explain. Jeb is only 10 weeks old, and he's only had about two accidents in the house in 7 days. This may not seem like a big deal to the non-puppy-raising person, but it's monumental to an old dog-raising veteran like myself.

Now, if I could just get him to sleep, all would be well.

Regardless, he's brilliant, and his blatant intelligence makes me think that I should've named him Brian:

Speaking of Dogs....

2009-04-23T09:27:00.001-05:00

My Dad sent this clip to me today. Love it. Had to share.

The Sun is Shining - and Jeb Lives

2009-04-23T09:19:00.003-05:00

Today is a good day. It's Thursday, which means there's only one day to get through until the weekend. It's supposed to be 80 degrees this weekend, which has not happened in Indiana for, um, about 7 or 8 months, I think. I shall use a tiller to prep my garden, plant that said garden, and try as hard as I can to get sunburned and soak up as much Vitamin D as my pale and sun-starved body can possibly handle.

And, all the while I'm doing this and other various errands this weekend, I will be loving on my new pup, Jeb. Yes, I got a new puppy. He was a first-wedding-anniversary/it's-just-time-for-a-new-dog thing. Jeb makes our canine brood's number go up to four. I now have four dogs. I think I wished for this once...in fact, I recall actually saying out loud to someone, "You know, someday, I just want to have a lot of land and about 4 or 5 dogs."

See, kids? Wishes do come true.

As for Jeb, he's a now 10-week old, fawn Great Dane. His paws are huge, he'll surely surpass Zeke (our almost 2-year old Dane) in both height and weight, and I can already see that he's going to always believe he's the size of a Yorkie. Total lap dog.

Enjoy the mooshy squooshiness that is Jeb. You're welcome.

Music for a Rainy Tuesday...

2009-04-14T14:30:00.003-05:00

I know this isn't a music blog, nor am I trying to make it that. But, I just can't help it these past few weeks - I've been very music-centric. There are three main reasons I'm posting the following Led Zeppelin song for your listening enjoyment:

1. I'm going to see Britney Spears in Chicago with my two gal pals in a few weeks, and I need to redeem myself with some "real" music. If not, I fear I may become just another chick who wears braided pigtails and Catholic school girl outfits at too old an age.

2. It's raining today, and so this song is apropos.

3. It's a gorgeous song. If you can't feel the pure emotion in it, then you're officially a music tard with no soul.

Ten seconds of fame, and my idea of fun

2009-04-13T15:10:00.004-05:00

You know what I think is totally fun? Going through the local, small-town Dairy Queen drive-thru and ordering a butterscotch-dipped cone in a British accent. That is a self-imposed gigglefest, people.

Speaking of funny voices, the powers-that-be at my company asked if I'd be the "voice" of my company and do the voicemail message on my corporate main line. I know this isn't a big deal at all, but I am looking at it as my 10 seconds of fame, especially since I've always considered my voice to be about as professional as a 15-year old boy going through puberty. Now, everyone who calls my company will hear my scratchy voice in its full glory. I didn't get any sort of promotion or extra pay for this monumental task, but I am expecting Husband-Man to start stocking Perrier in the fridge, as I can now refuse well water, since I am a celebrity and all.

You know what else is awesome? Neil Diamond concerts. Since we're on the subject of doing very weird things like ordering Dairy Queen in a hill-jack town in a British accent, Neil Diamond concerts are about as cool. But I've been to three or four now, and they've always been great fun. I grew up on the music. My sister and I were subjected to it at a young age, as my Mother has always believed that Neil was her long-lost soulmate. Neil Diamond is fabulously sparkly, and I love that a good Jewish boy has put out a really great Christmas album. Love.

I was reminded of Mr. Diamond and his cheese-arific concerts when I watched Saving Silverman on satellite the other night. So, now you'll be subjected to the last few minutes of the movie's credits, where Neil Diamond sings Holly Holy with the cast.

You can thank me later. Again.

An 80s Flashback, Rip-off Music, and One Exception, Of Course...

2009-04-10T11:45:00.006-05:00

The other night, Husband-Man and I were watching VH1's One Hit Wonders of the 80s. The only thing better than the "countdown" shows on VH1 is the show Tough Love (which has quickly become one of my Sunday night guilty pleasures).

I think I watched numbers 100 through 1, really, and it was truly a divine way to spend a few mindless hours. I love 80s music in all of its bubble-gum happiness. It's a representation of how much that decade totally rocked. You simply cannot deny its sheer awesomeness - especially if you lived through it as a teenager yourself. We had neon, legwarmers, and huge hair. We had Ronald Reagan, which meant that people were living pretty damn well and actually able to enjoy the fruits of their labor. I think I may miss Reagan more than the music, but that just shows my age, so I digress.

Now, I've always been a music person. I keep up with what's going on in the music industry, I know who people are, etc. I'm obsessed with my satellite radio and can't be in a car that doesn't have it for more than five minutes. On top of all of that, I have a 15-year old in the house part-time that keeps me on my toes when it comes to music, whether I like it or not. (I swear to God, I've heard Lady Gaga sing Poker Face against my will about 48,296 times - that is a man in drag, right?).

You know what I've noticed? So many of the popular songs these days are blatant rip-offs of songs in my past. Fergalicious (by Fergie, of course) was a total rip-off of Supersonic by JJ Fad (those girls just faded into obscurity, by the way). Dead or Alive sang "Spin Me Round," only to be completely ripped off by a heavy metal group (OK, I sort of like that one a little on accident) and now butchered by Flo Rida.

There's "sampling" everywhere you turn, and my stepson and his friends have absolutely no idea that a lot of what they're listening to is just recycled music wrapped up in their millenial packaging.

With all of this to slightly irritate me, there's only ONE exception of the remake gone good. And, of course, that's No Doubt in their remix of "It's My Life," which just happens to be one of my favorite songs of all time - then and now.

Lucky for me, the old version was in the VH1 countdown, and lucky for you, I'm posting a merging of the two versions. Kind of weird, but kind of cool. Happy Good Friday. Time to tease my hair now.

Crazy Days Call For Some Juno

2009-04-04T18:10:00.003-05:00

Today was crazy and jam-packed full of too much crap. So when 7 pm rolled around and I saw that Juno was playing again on Cinemax, I of course had to plop my butt down and partake in the cinematic genius.

I'm a sucker for a cute ending.

Tomato Juice, Harassment, and Confirmation That I'm An American Patriot

2009-04-01T07:40:00.013-05:00

This morning, I woke up in a Toronto hotel. And, my journey here was a long, weird, and very uncomfortable one, to say the least. In fact, I can't wait to get the hell HOME. God, I love America.

I'm on business again, and while I always hate traveling for business, this trip has already given new emotional, amplified meaning to the word "hate."

It all started when I got on the Air Canada flight to get here. First of all, the plane was no bigger than my Mazda, I don't think. It was tiny. In fact, my laptop bag couldn't even roll down the aisle, as it was too skinny to barely accomodate humans walking down it. I was wearing a white sweater - a beautiful, oversized, cable-knit white hoodie that I just love. Well, DID love, anyway. On every single flight I take, I always order tomato juice. (I'm sure you can see where this is going.) This flight was no exception, and the stewardess (I know I'm supposed to say flight attendant, but this one was a stewardess, believe me) brought me my tomato juice. Only, she didn't just bring it to me. She poured it all over me. Tomato juice - meet my white sweater. White sweater - meet tomato juice. Lovely.

So, I remain cool and smiling. I figured this was an accident, so there's no reason to become a raging bitch. However, she didn't even apologize to me. Not an, "Oh my goodness, I'm so sorry...let me get you some towels." I was sitting there, in my pool of tomato juice, trying to get it off my sweater with a beverage napkin that had about as much absorbency as a piece of baby hair.

Thanks for flying Air Canada!!

I get off the plane, looking like I murdered a small animal with my bare hands. I'm OK with this, beyond being self-conscious at this point, and I go through the cattle lines of customs. After waiting for about 20-30 minutes with people staring at my red-stained white sweater, I get up to the customs counter and the customs Nazi beyotch starts asking me all sorts of questions. I answer happily, politely, and she continues to be a an obvious "I-hate-my-job-so-I'll-be-horrific-to-you" kind of gal. "What are you doing here? Why are you doing it? You're a consultant? What exactly are you teaching while you're here? Have you ever been here before?" You know the drill. And, I respect that she doesn't want idiots in her country, so I obliged with my detailed answers - all done with a smile.

I figured all was well when she marked my customs paperwork and sent me on to the next step. As I was cluelessly walking towards the final customs Nazi to let me through to baggage, she flagged me and motioned me to go to Immigration. This is where the real fun began.

So, I walk over to immigration like a hardened criminal that had just murdered a small animal with her bare hands, of course. They push me on through to this other room with about 12 immigration officials. This really fat dude motions me to come up to his window, I do, and then he starts with the most inappropriate line of questioning I've ever encountered in my 37 years.

First, he made fun of my name. Now, I know I've never divulged my real name out here, but I happen to go by two names and they resemble a name you'd see on the show "Petticoat Junction." I'm O.K. with this. I kind of like my little country-like name. And, it really wasn't this fat bastard's place to make fun of it, but I let him, because he was the only thing standing between me and my hotel room.

His first question, "So, (insert my Petticoat Junction Name here), I bet you're a Daddy's girl just hearing THAT name."

I wasn't quite sure how to respond to that. Strike one.

Just some of the other wonderful tidbits in my conversation with him (and this is just the tip of the iceberg):

Him: "If you just agree with everything I say, then you can get out of here easier."
Me: "Um, alright."

Him: "Is that last name of yours a married name? You don't look like you've popped out a bunch of kids yet."
Me: (biting lip...fake smiling)

Him: "You have some pretty white teeth - your Daddy pay for those?"
Me: (more fake smiling, and 100% sure I could deck him and outrun the fat bastard)

Him: "So, you're a Consultant? We have about as much regard for those as we do attorneys around here....yeah, you're at the bottom of the barrel."
Me: (still fake smiling and seething with anger)

Him: "You realize why you're in immigration right now, huh? We don't take too kindly to anyone who may be wanting to take one of our jobs here in Canada, just like you guys in America probably don't want people taking your jobs - especially in your economy right now."
Me: "Yes, sir." (thinking: why in the SAM HELL would I want to come LIVE HERE AND WORK HERE, you bloated, ignorant moron?)

Him: "So, you've NEVER been to Toronto? How OLD are you? 37? And, you've NEVER BEEN HERE? Have you been living under a ROCK?"
Me: "No, sir." (Thinking: Yes, because you've been such a wonderful representation of this country and I'm just SHOCKED that I never, ever want to come back to this hell hole of a Nazi regime....but you're right, I'm sheltered. Now go home to your two cats and eat a dozen donuts while you wallow in your loneliness, you prick.)

And, this was just part of it. There were also comments about my hair, my American-jet-setting appearance (which I find hilarious, seeing as how I looked like a tomato-juice-covered hobo by this point), questions about whether or not I was married, had kids, had animals, other jobs I had, what I taught, where I live, etc. etc. etc.

I'm sure there are some really nice people in Toronto. I'm sure it's a beautiful place, even though I'll only get to see the inside of a hotel today. And, you know what? I don't give a crap...because I want to go home. To America. Today. I'm an official, American-loving, capitalist pig of a chick. A dirty American consultant.

My husband says I should file a complaint. I think I'll do that, but only when I'm safely the hell out of here.

I'm counting the hours.

GOD. BLESS. AMERICA.

Yet Another Reason Why Florida Sucks Monkey Poo

2009-03-28T12:38:00.001-05:00

We still have a good 5+ months to go before SEC football starts, but I thought I'd go ahead and just remind everyone that Florida sucks.

Um, yeah.

BEST Movie of All Time

2009-03-19T09:27:00.003-05:00

Because I recently posted a one-minute version of Forrest Gump - the second best movie of all time, I figured that the BEST movie of all time also deserved a nod. This version is what the last 20 minutes of Shawshank Redemption would be, had it been made in 1983. Totally AWESOME (I think that may be Frank Stallone singing...).

Awesome 80's Montage: Shawshank - watch more funny videos

You Keep That Change. I Just Bought A Gun.

2009-03-18T15:00:00.003-05:00

In my 37 years on the planet, I've probably not really liked guns for about 34 of those years. I mean, they kill things, and I've never really been a huge fan of killing. That is, until I met with my arch nemesis, Mr. Skunk, about a year and a half ago on my new property. For those of you who don't know the story, here's the Reader's Digest version: When we first moved into our country home, my sweet boxer, Tess Larue, went outside at 5 am to do her morning business. My dog is enough reason to believe in God. She's a ball of unconditional, sweet love, uber-friendly to all creatures. She probably saw a shadow lurking on the side of the house and thought, "hey, that could be a friend...I should greet that new friend in the U-formation (this is when she is so happy that she greets you with both her ass and her face simultaneously)." I can see her doing this exact thing, and then Mr. Skunk looks at her and immediately sprays her with his skunkified butt juice in hasty retort. Regardless of what actually transpired that day, Tess was not only physically harmed, but I believe she was emotionally scarred. She was just trying to be a neighborly little gal, and Mr. Skunk went all prick-face on her. Not cool, Mr. Skunk. Not cool at all.

Is this a reason to kill him? Perhaps it's not quite enough, but when I saw him on the back two acres at 4 pm on a sunny September afternoon, I knew that he was up to no good. They're nocturnal, and he was taunting me. Just staring at me with his little skunk eyes, as if to say, "the sweet little Dane puppy is next, beyotch." Since that day, I've vowed to shoot him. I actually looked at him and said, "I will kill you, you little sh*t."

The timing is right, I guess. Since Obama's been in office, gun sales have gone up in a crazy way - mainly because there's been talk of his administration trying to outlaw certain types. Even if I didn't always aspire to having a gun, the notion of the RIGHT to have one being taken away was enough to make me want to buy one. Yesterday. First, it was that dirty little skunk. Then, it was our current President who pushed me over the edge to finally get one.

So, I am now the proud owner of a brand-spanking new, beautiful rifle with a kick-butt digital scope. I plan to go to my local military base and take a class on proper care, firing, and respect of my firearm. And then I shall show Mr. Skunk that I mean business.

Next on the list? The Chanel gun-shoe, of course.

Second Best Movie of All Time

2009-03-10T15:25:00.000-05:00

If you've read my blog, you know my obsession with the two best movies of all time: Shawshank Redemption and Forrest Gump. Of course, my third favorite is probably Almost Famous, but that's a whole other genre in itself.

I've been so busy these past few weeks that I've not been able to sit down and watch Forrest Gump on AMC or TBS (because it's on just about every other weekend, as you know). As a result, I've resorted to this version - the minute long one.

Go ahead. Enjoy it with me.

Forrest Gump in One Minute, in One Take - watch more funny videos

The Shamwow Song

2009-03-08T15:39:00.004-05:00

Husband man and I went to the Indy Home Show several weeks ago. The only thing I cared about and/or wanted to buy was ShamWows. I'm completely obsessed with them, and they're everything they have been advertised to be.

So, you can only imagine the sheer joy I experienced when Husband man pointed out to me today that there's a new video to further elevate the ShamWow status.

Behold - the ShamWow song. Again, you can thank me later.

One week down, and having No Doubt....

2009-03-06T07:05:00.002-06:00

It's been a week since I started www.chicksontheright.com with my pal, Mock. So far, so good. We've even sent an email to Jeb Bush, and he ANSWERED us. I believe he may be reading the site right this second. In fact, he may be reading THIS site right this second, which means he's going to be able to jam out to one of my favorite songs.

In honor of our first week of trying to re-brand the conservative party, I am going to buy tickets to see No Doubt this summer. I'm giddy. While at the Gwen concert almost 2 years ago, my buddy Leroy and I proclaimed that we'd absolutely see No Doubt when they reunited. Now we have our chance.

It's a good Friday. Enjoy some Gwen. You can thank me later.

MAJOR, Life-Altering Announcement.

2009-02-28T22:22:00.004-06:00

And let me just start with NO, I'm not pregnant and announcing it through the blogosphere before alerting my husband.

And, OK, so it's not THAT life altering....but still kinda neat.

I've started a new website - a very cool little blog that I'm quite proud of so far. Now I know you're asking yourself, "Why, Daisy? I mean, you're already working a full-time job, a part time job, and you have taken on the grading for a whole other class, making that a grand total of 2.5 jobs. Plus, you have a little bit of a life outside of all those jobs and commitments and need to pee every so often. So, WHY on earth would you take on something as major as this fabulous new website?"

Because, quite frankly, I'm nuts. And more so because SOMEONE had to do it. In this case, two people are - me and my fabulous friend, Mockarena, who I've plugged shamelessly (www.mockdock.com) numerous times in the past 6 months.

The site is www.chicksontheright.com.And, there's the first plug of many for it. It's the result of several lunch conversations between Mock and I - ones about the demise of foundational values in this country – values such as hard work, self-responsibility, and the capitalist notion of less government interference. We both realized, after several run-ins on The Mock Dock, that people tend to get their proverbial panties in a wad when you criticize liberalism these days. And we also realize that conservatives currently have a really bad rap.

So we have decided to do our part to help re-brand the conservative party by starting www.chicksontheright.com, a political blog that freely pokes fun at the political process and all of its related people and parts. We don’t profess to be political experts or economists or anything other than two hot chicks who like to tell people what we think about stuff.

So, if you read my blog - all three of you - and you haven't heard about the new site from me spewing about it verbally, check it out immediately and visit often. I shall always remain loyal to my own little personal ranting blog, but I'm looking forward to making www.chicksontheright.com an underground voice for conservatives in exile. After all, NO one puts baby in a corner (there's the picture reference, in case you were wondering why Dirty Dancing is there).

Last shameless plug (today). I promise. www.chicksontheright.com

Supergroup or Springfield and Skinny Tie Revival? You decide.

2009-02-27T07:33:00.006-06:00

I stumbled across a video of a new band, Tinted Windows. All the members are from older groups - James Iha from the Smashing Pumpkins, the drummer from Cheap Trick, and of course, Taylor Hanson. I mean, it's not a band until you have a Hanson, people. Honestly.

I'm not going to be terribly Judy Judgmental, but the host dude (Godwin Alexander) is slightly creepy. And, James Iha is looking too much like Yoko Ono's elder sister. He needs a haircut. Pronto.

However, little Taylor Hanson is sort of John Taylor'esque, reminiscent of Duran Duran back in the skinny tie and Dep hair gel days. I can't deny his cuteness, but it's the kind of cuteness that only an 11-year old boy should have.

The music...I'm not sure. You can decide for yourself, but I'm in complete denial of the fact that one writer compared this "supergroup" to the likes of Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young. I'm just going to block that out. PUHLEASE.

Behold the cheese and Rick-Springfield-like feel. A swell "group of terrific guys," indeed....

Random Acts of Karma

2009-02-16T07:18:00.000-06:00

Last week, Husband Man was at a retail store and found a wallet in the parking lot on the way back to his car. He picked it up, looked in it, and noticed that there was around 400 bucks in it. So, like any normal person, he strolled back into the store and turned the wallet in. When he got home, he told me about finding the wallet, and I said, “well, honey…..that’s good karma; it’ll come back to you.”

Fast forward to this weekend. We were supposed to go to the Japanese place, and we had even agreed to use that nice, crisp $100 bill that his mother slipped into our Valentine’s card. We were set to watch an onion fireball and everything when Husband Man threw a curveball at me.

“Hey babe, why don’t we just take 100 bucks and go blow it at the casino?”

To start, Husband Man and I are NOT gamblers. In fact, I’ve only been in a casino one time, and that was to basically hold my mother-in-law’s purse while she gambled and I watched in horror at how much a person can lose in the matter of minutes. Husband Man has been to Vegas, but he said when he went with his once-high-rolling mother back in the 80s, she gave him money to gamble and have fun. And, he pocketed it. So, yeah…Husband Man and I aren’t exactly the gambling types.

I thought it’d be fun to be a bit spontaneous, so I got on board with the “let’s blow 100 bucks” idea. We chucked the Japanese restaurant and made our way to the smoky, blue-hair-infested casino in Shelbyville, Indiana. This place was huge. And, people were EVERYWHERE. I saw my share of rednecks and old women. And they had a cover band with a big blond woman singing Guns -N-Roses. One lovely fashion plate of a diva had a shirt on that said, “101% Redneck.” And, Husband Man and I saw one of the biggest mullets we’ve seen in at least five years. Oh yes…we were among the beautiful people, indeed.

After walking around for about an hour, we decided that I should sit down at a 2-cent slot machine, which I did. I barely knew how to use the thing. I figured it out, though, put our $100 bill in it, and off I went. I got down to about 20 bucks at least two times, played for an hour and a half, and I almost quit. Husband Man stood behind me the whole time and said, “screw it, babe…just play it…we agreed to consider the money lost anyway, so just play it all out.”

I’m glad I did, because I hit the jackpot. Of course, it wasn’t a huge jackpot, but I won $420 total. And, being the non-gambler I am, I cashed out.

As we were walking out, Husband Man said to me, “You know, that wallet had 400 bucks in it….and we just won 420.”

Go figure. Karma rocks.

And it begins....I'm just sayin.....

2009-02-13T15:00:00.003-06:00

Um, NO one has read it. And, a promise for transparency and I don't know - for people to be able to actually READ it - has already been broken.

GGRR. Socialism sucks monkey poo.

Bogus Politics, Burning Onions, and a Birthday Boy

2009-02-13T14:09:00.005-06:00

I’ve been back from Atlanta for over a week now, and I really don’t have anything earth-shattering to tell my readers about the trip. Other than the fact that I was one of about five women in a hotel full of 1500 male tractor dealers, and that I feel as though I was visually groped about 1476 times while staying at the Hyatt Regency, there’s not much else exciting that happened that week. I did get to see my friend, T, and enjoy some sushi and sake with her my last night in town. I don’t get to eat a lot of that here, as it’s considered “bait” where I live. And, I was sure to do a short, yet obligatory nostalgia drive through my old digs. I went past the perfect, Colonial house I grew up in, the old apartments I lived in after my divorce, the Big Chicken in Marietta, of course, and my last place of employment before bolting out of the land of debutantes and dogwoods several years ago.

I love my friend T. She’s my favorite bleeding heart liberal on the planet, after all. If you’re reading this, T, I adore you and promise not to make fun of any more of Obama’s lame and non-tax-paying appointments to his cabinet. Or his ridiculous “economic stimulus package” that may as well be a box of vibrators, as they are about as relevant to economic stimulation as his so-called stimulus package is. Socialist healthcare reform in an economic stimulus plan? Really? Nice that the Dems are cramming in all of those little projects they never quite got on the docket into a package that’s labeled “economic stimulus.” Transparency? Um, no. It’s called socialism, people. Open your eyes and take a big bite of the Karl Marx rotten apple. Tastes kinda funny.

Phew. Sorry. Got a little sidetracked there.

So, T. My brilliant, yet liberal friend. I promise not to make fun of these things in front of you, anyway. But I still love you, nonetheless. Just don’t ask me to come along with you to get that eventual group lobotomy that’ll be served up with that rotten apple.

Upon my return from Atlanta, I was hit with work, work, and more work. No big shocker there, as it’s usually the status quo for me. But this time, I’m doing my day job, my night job, and then taking on the grading for another professor. One of my professorial colleagues has pancreatic cancer, and I was asked to do all of her grading for the semester. How could I say no to that? And, how on earth does that type of news not change one’s perspective on the work at hand? I haven’t complained about a single weekend I’ve had to work through since, nor will I. Instead, I’m thanking my lucky stars that I’m alive, healthy, and kicking. Perspective, indeed. If you pray to God, Allah, Buddha, Obama, or whomever, say a little prayer for Daisywriter's professorial colleague. And then go kiss and bear-hug the people you live with immediately after reading this entry.

Speaking of kisses, this weekend marks the holiday we all wait patiently for every year! And, if you didn't sense that dripping bucket of sarcasm in the previous sentence, then you weren’t reading hard enough. In honor of this Hallmark holiday, Husband Man and I are doing the great American dinner of Japanese food, cooked table-side by a genuine Japanese chef with big, sharp Ginsu knives and a miraculous flaming volcano formed by a simple onion. Pure magnificence. Our sweet little Indiana town just got this restaurant (which is conveniently placed right next to a John Wayne’s American Grill restaurant, I might add), and I’m very pleased to be able to have our inaugural dinner there on Valentine’s Day and spend it with my loving spouse - even though we would’ve just eaten there on Saturday night anyway.

Coincidentally, Valentine’s Day is also my father’s birthday, so I’ve always honored it more as the day my father was brought into this world instead of the alternative chocolate-and-roses capitalist plot (which, is indeed brilliant, I might add, but still bullshit, nonetheless). So, happy birthday, Dad. I hope you have a wonderful day. You taught me to be independent and self-sufficient and to not trust boys that don’t have their own toolboxes and can’t fix flat tires. You taught me that cold beer and good company can cure any trace of the blues. You taught me that with 50 bucks and a lawn chair, pretty much anyone can do anything in life. You taught me to be a fiscal conservative capitalist, but a social moderate who believes in love (but not necessarily Valentine’s Day, because you should always continue to question, question, question). And because your Mom wasn’t around after my 9th birthday, you taught me a little of what she taught you – that women in 4-inch high heels and matching accessories can be smart, graceful, and devastatingly down-to-earth funny.

And for that, I salute you on the Hallmark holiday and shall raise a glass of Japanese sake (or Asahi) in your honor while I clap like a monkey to the onion volcano. And get tipsy just enough to forget that the economic stimulus plan is a complete JOKE. Oh yeah - you taught me to recognize that if it walks like a duck and talks like a duck, it's probably a damn duck.

So thanks again, Dad.

A Must See? Or is it just because Brad Pitt is hot?

2009-02-12T11:51:00.003-06:00

Or it could just be his ridiculously exaggerated, fake southern accent. I'm not sure, but I'll see this movie, nonetheless.

So THIS is where Quentin Tarantino's been for the past few years....huh.

I love this SO much.

2009-02-07T13:18:00.003-06:00

I don't know if I'm just overly hormonal, but dogs and babies make me smile. It's the little things.

And, this dog reminds me so much of my Tess Larue, it's scary.

Enjoy.

Planes, Journeys, and Juno

2009-02-03T12:50:00.005-06:00

Well, I'm here in that charming little city known as Hotlanta. Yesterday started off as a normal day, it seemed, then my AirTran flight from Indy got delayed by about two hours (which didn't even seem that abnormal on the AirTran scale, as I don't remember ever having a flight with them that was ON time, really). When I finally made it, I fetched my luggage and went to the Dollar counter to get my awesome rental car. The dude behind the counter acted as though he was giving me a brand new Porsche when he said, "Well, for special customers like YOU, I will give an upgrade to something cool. Something NEW."

I felt special for about 30 seconds. Like I may have won the rental car lottery. And, yes, the Dollar man - the dude who was speaking some sort of broken Swahili/English - I believe he was flirting with me. Normally, I'd be flattered at my age, but I wasn't so much this particular time, as I could smell him from approximately 30 feet away. So went my potential ego boost...

Wow, I thought. I mean, maybe I'd get to drive a brand new Honda Accord or something neato like that. Something kind of normal, I thought. No such luck. I grabbed my keys to space number 4, and came upon what appeared to be the offspring of a Dodge Caliber and the bus that Mrs. Partridge drove. Lo and behold, it was a Dodge Journey. Now, I apologize to anyone out there that has a Journey or that's getting ready to buy a Journey in the near future, but this car is slightly sucktastic. The outside of it appeared to be pretty nice, and I thought, "oooh..an SUV!." I tried to like it - I really did. But, I felt awkward in it. The kind of "doesn't suit me" type of awkward that can't be remedied by the seat adjuster thingies - no matter how hard I tried to adjust, readjust, and adjust again. And keep in mind that this is a brand new car - with maybe 100 miles on it total - and I was having to adjust my seat manually. I'm just sayin. I would venture to say that I didn't look like a complete dork in my Pearl Blue bus, but I felt like I was driving an ice cream truck. Again, my sincere apologies to those who love all things Dodge, but now I know first-hand why American car companies needed to be bailed out.

After my 8-hour quest from Indy to Atlanta, I wanted to just crawl into bed and order room service, but my client had other plans. So I was up until midnight doing Powerpoint edits for my client like a gerbil on crack. During my mad editing, though, I managed to simultaneously watch the movie Juno on HBO. I can NOT believe that I've never seen this movie. I always wanted to, but I just never got around to it - what, with all the jetsetting and Powerpoint editing and Dodge test driving that's consumed my life. This movie was great, and Ellen Page really did deserve some type of award for her portrayal of the main character. Jason Bateman was in it, too, so I think that helped to up its awesome factor, as I love that guy so much (see "Pepper Brooks in Dodgeball: A True Underdog Story" and the brother in "The Sweetest Thing," and of course - as Derek Taylor in the hit 80s TV show, "Silver Spoons"....GOD, I loved that show).

Tonight, I may take the Journey out for a quick bite on the town, but it will mostly be consumed by work stuff. Tomorrow night, however, I plan on breaking free and seeing my friend "T" for some dinner. They call it "bait" in my new home base of Franklin, Indiana, but as I recall, they call it sushi here. With some sake to wash it down, of course. :-)

So, what have we learned from today's entry? Always add 2 hours to every AirTran reservation you make, go rent Juno if you haven't seen it, and the next time you see a Dodge Journey, tip your hat to those American car executives that are currently playing 18 holes of golf with your tax dollars.

The Only Superbowl there is, really.

2009-02-02T07:36:00.004-06:00

I'm not an NFL fan. I mean, I'll go to a Colts game and drink beer and hang out like a fan, but I'm not really a fan. Case in point: I was at my hair salon on Saturday, and my hairdresser asked, "So, what are you guys doing tomorrow?"

I answered with, "what's tomorrow?"

Nope, not a huge fan.

So, when the SuperBowl came on last night, Husband Man and I were watching other things - bits and pieces of other movies, Ghost Hunters, you know. And, of course, we watched parts of the Puppy Bowl, which is something that Husband Man had never seen. Despite the horrific parrot-delivered National Anthem (Jennifer Hudson definitely wins the battle of the National Anthems last night), the puppy bowl was a nice deviation between bad TV. Here's a slice, just in case you missed it.

Pure GENIUS.

Hotlanta and My Delusions of Grandeur

2009-02-01T14:31:00.005-06:00

I leave tomorrow for a business trip to Atlanta. Let me first preamble with the fact that I love to travel, but I don't like traveling for business. It seems all glamorous and stuff, and one would think that I could use the company resources to see old friends and take time to enjoy a bit of my surroundings, but inevitably, I know I'll be working non-stop. For three nights and four days. I like my house, my bed, and my family. So, I guess I'm becoming an old, set-in-my-ways kind of gal, but yeah, I'm not a fan of the business travel.

I'm leaving for the place in which I grew up...the quaint little southern city that I spent my fun/formative years, as well as my divorce/pain years, giving me a nice dichotomy of love it/hate it feelings. Atlanta is WAY different now than it was when I was an 8-year old kid. I lived there before the superhighways and the traffic that rivals L.A. I lived there when people seemed to be a bit more laid back and the smog wasn't quite as prevalent. People still had lovely southern accents and the Yanks hadn't yet taken over. But by the time I left, it was just another pretentious city full of too many people living way beyond their means, an overabundance of mini-malls, and poor air quality, really. Still a great place to visit to shop, eat, and bar-hop of course, but I knew I'd probably never live there again by choice when I made my life-changing trek north a little less than 5 years ago.

I'm trying to be positive about my trip, even though I'm gripping myself for a week of being a pee-on at the hands of a very needy client. The client's always right...the client's always right. I'll keep telling myself that and pretending that I'll look like Victoria Beckham when I get off the plane. Ridiculously flawless.

Today's Snow Hell and Female Humans with Litters

2009-01-30T08:30:00.006-06:00

This morning has been a doozy. I've already had my car towed out of the snow and I'm shelling out more money in the next hour to get my driveway plowed. Oh yeah, and snow tires, too. You'd think that after living in the Midwest for the past four years, I would've obtained a clue by now. Snow happens. Do not have sport tires on a tiny Mazda3 if you plan on getting anywhere. These are some of life's pesky little lessons learned the hard way, apparently.

Right after I shelled out about 300 bucks before 10 am for today's random snow "events," I see this article on Yahoo about a woman having a litter of kids. So, of course, this irritates me due to my already elevated cortisol levels.

You've been warned.

This woman having octuplets the other day has had a lot of press. Most of it is all over the place as a "miracle." People are actually calling this MIRACULOUS. Not to sound like a raging lunatic or anything, but it wasn't a miracle at all. In fact, God or Buddha or Allah or Big Bird or whoever you so deem as the Almighty Producer of Miracles had only a teeny-tiny portion to do with the birth of these kids. While I will admit to all children being miracles as individual human beings (so careful before you comment, pro-lifers, as I do agree with you there), she was taking fertility drugs. Presumably, she would be taking these fertility drugs because she so desperately needed to intervene with nature and try to take charge of her weak and withered fertility. Oh yes. This is what one would assume.

But wait - there's more.

I ride the fence on this fertility drug issue a bit, because well, I can. I think it's perfectly acceptable for a woman to go on fertility treatments if it's her first child and the process of getting pregnant has become a tedious, emotional nightmare of self-loathing because she can't seem to get a little sperm to stick to one of her eggs. I get that. I really do. I even understand the notion of getting some fertility "help" if it's a second child, and a hopeful set of parents just don't want to see their first born grow up without a sibling. I can get on board with that, too. But when you already have SIX KIDS running around your house, what on God's green earth possesses you to want to have more? Six healthy kids just isn't enough for you when your doctor tells you that yeah, you're going to have to go on fertility drugs to get your body to actually conceive again? Really? I don't get that at all. Could you not just count your blessings and use your vagina for something else? This woman had EIGHT more. Eight. I was an English major, but I believe that amounts to 14 kids total if I use both my hands and a foot to count them all.

I'm sure they'll get a TV show which will pay for all of them. That's what Jon and Kate did, much to the eventual stunted and screwed up early childhood healthy development of their children. I mean, it's normal to have a camera shoved in your face 24/7 when you fly out of your Mom's uterus and are learning how to use your motor skills, let alone understand why all of America is watching your every move, right? How is THAT not child exploitation? People will fight me on this, but these people don't work. Their work is the show, and that means that yeah...they're pimping their kids out for lots of money. Very nice.

So, the litter thing. I don't understand why this has become such a trend in our country. Especially when every other person is struggling to figure out a way to pay their increasing property taxes and power bills in this economy. I'm not one of those "green" types of people, even though I do have my own organic vegetable garden on the back two acres of our property. But I will say that anyone who wants to be "green" should start by not having kids like a Golden Retriever. This is just a thought, though, and can be ignored (just as my comments will be ignored by the next Angelina Jolie babymaking wannabe). God bless democracy.

When the show crumbles on TLC, I just can't wait to see how these kids turn out - and who will volunteer to pay for them at that point...I'm thinking it may be the couple who cloned their dog for the bargain price of $155,000. Holy INSANITY. There's a smart move. I wonder if they'll adopt me and pay for my next snow removal fee.

I warned you...

Blizzards and Snow Drifts and Low Temps, Oh MY!

2009-01-28T07:30:00.008-06:00

Holy shizzat on a stick, it's cold.

This morning, I woke up at my usual 5 am, and I corralled the dogs to take them outside. When I turned on the back porch light, I realized that it had been snowing most of the night, and everything was covered in a very, very thick blanket of it. It’s beautiful, I’ll fully admit, but it’s the kind of beautiful that I like to look at from afar. Today, I don’t necessarily want to be in it. Well, unless Mr. Husband decides he wants to strap a sled on the back of the 4-wheeler and pull me in it. Which could happen, so stay tuned – especially you readers that live in warm climates (jerks).

Zeke, my big baby Dane, is the ultimate depth test for the snow. His giraffe-like legs are so long that I can gauge how deep the snow is just by watching him hop around in it. If he starts to look like a miniature dachshund, then I know it’s probably not terrain that my little Mazda 3 with sport tires can get through easily. He jumped out there like a champ this morning, and quickly resembled something about as big and long-legged as a Yorkie, so we got about a foot of the white stuff. More than a foot in some places, as our house seems to attract snow drifts like a bum on a ham sandwich. So, yeah. We have more than a foot. This is from my very calculated and scientific estimation, of course.

So, here I am...another day of brutal Indiana winter, snowed in out in the country. Fighting off the Seasonal Affective Disorder with a few work deadlines and an occasional daydream about Mexico. I could allow myself to feel somewhat trapped, but have Internet, satellite, coffee, and alcohol, so really, what more do people need? The glass is half full still, but today marks the exact day of ’09 that I’m officially ready for spring, short sleeves, and sunshine. I have a long way to go until late March.

The picture above is an aerial view from our radio tower this morning. The other two cameras up there are completely covered in snow, and our house looks like a tiny little speck wrapped up in that overbearing white blanket.

Viva la Mexico. Someone pass the cocktails.

Go See This Movie, Please.

2009-01-25T16:04:00.002-06:00

Husband Man, Stepson and I went to see this movie yesterday. I have to say, I don't usually gush over movies, but I just LOVED this one so much. It had that quality that every good piece of Daisywriter cinema has: the "underdog" coming out on top. It's the reason Shawshank Redemption is my favorite movie of all time. They both have those "common man" beating the system, fighting back in the face of inequality, corrupt power themes....you know. A good ol' kick the system's ass kind of movie. This movie, however, was a true story, which made it even cooler. Set during WWII with the backdrop of genocide, it was about three real brothers who ultimately ended up saving tens of thousands of Jews. Amazing and very inspiring stuff. The kind of movie that makes you remember that love and loyalty can truly conquer all.

Now go see it. That's an order.

You Go, Vols...

2009-01-21T17:30:00.007-06:00

This crappy, tape-it-from-the-TV footage doesn't really do them justice, but this is the Pride of the Southland Band playing at the inauguration yesterday. They've played at the last ELEVEN of them. I'm biased, of course, but I think it's kind of nifty.

All I need is a bad 1990-ish haircut, a flask of Southern Comfort, a couple of blond sorority sisters, and some really drunk frat boys in my midst, and I'd feel like I was back in the old days, listening to them playing at halftime...

Oh, how I love tradition.

Oh, and because I've been tracking my readers and I have yet to get one in Korea, here's something for my eventual, beloved Korean readers. I love this so much and just want to eat all their little faces with a big spoon.

I Just Don't Know About This.

2009-01-20T11:15:00.002-06:00

I can't seem to get on board with this. I'm trying...I really am. Perhaps it will grow on me, but it reminds me too much of that Poppity Pop tour they did.

Is nothing sacred?

Change, Hope, and Cautious Optimism...

2009-01-20T08:49:00.005-06:00

"Each of us has the freedom to make of our own lives what we will, but... we also have the obligation to treat each other with dignity and respect."

Obama said that. I believe it's a very nice sentiment, indeed. We SHOULD be nice to each other. I try to do that every day. I appreciate you telling me, American government, how to uphold the golden rule that my parents taught me when I was 4.

Obama's also said that cynicism is one of the biggest obstacles he faces. After the previous paragraph, I guess I can't deny that I'm one of those kooky cynics who's waiting to see how everything he promised to everybody will be fulfilled in the next 4 years. I'm cynical of ALL politicians. I feel as though they all blow a bunch of sunshine up our collective asses while they're at the absolute mercy of the image-makers, given that image our media decides to bestow upon them. Obama has been given the image of deity, and while I feel as though it's nice for people to have something to believe in, I don't necessarily believe that Obama is the Messiah. I don’t think any politician is the Messiah. But then again, the Messiah I was raised to believe in was a carpenter who, in my mind, resembled Willem Dafoe in Scorcese's "The Last Temptation of Christ." So, I suppose I’m already jaded. And as I’ve grown up and read about other religions and their deified figures, I believe even the Dalai Lama can be seen as somewhat of a deity, but a lawyer-turned-politician? Yeah, no.

In my mind, Obama's rise to presidency and subsequent deified status is the result of people who want so badly for someone to swoop in and swaddle them in the blanket of change. His inaguration tonight is a testament to both the power of our media, the power of amazing branding, as well as underlying desperation and desire of people in this country to see some sort of change. The ones who are screaming "Change!" and "What about ME?" outnumber the ones who aren't, and as someone who really believes in democracy, this is a true testament that it's alive and well, after all. I have to be happy about that, and I am.

Obama also has been quoted as saying, "It's not that I want to punish your success. I just want to make sure that everybody who is behind you, that they've got a chance for success too. My attitude is that if the economy's good for folks from the bottom up, it's gonna be good for everybody ... I think when you spread the wealth around, it's good for everybody."

CHANGE is what people want. And, as a woman who's never been afraid of change herself, I suppose I should be hopeful about the possibility of it. Problem is, the changes that I personally wanted from my government didn't include someone taking care of me. I've always done an O.K. job of doing that myself. Regardless, I’m doing my civic duty of remaining a positive and patriotic American today, and I, too, shall be hopeful for change that his administration does many good things, while keeping people accountable for their own individual lives. I’ll have faith that Mr. Obama will do all of the things he promised to do. I respect his position, as starting tomorrow, he's got to roll up his sleeves and get to work. At the same time, I don’t see me spending hours in front of the TV today watching the coverage. For the record, though, I may have watched at least some of it had he chosen Mary J. Blige over Beyonce to sing for the President/First Lady first dance. Not sure what happened there...

Cheers to the next four years and my democratic right to be cautiously optimistic.

Paul Blart, Segways, and Chimps: The Final Frontier

2009-01-17T20:34:00.004-06:00

My friend Mockarena and I were at lunch yesterday, discussing important life things like we always do while lunching on arroz con pollo at El Meson. While expressing what we both wanted to accomplish in life, it boiled down to several important and very personal things, but one thing stood out for both of us as yet another weirdly common bond and presently unachieved shared goal: the one-on-one interaction with a chimpanzee. I know, to some people this may be weird, but I've always LOVED chimpanzees. When I was a little girl, I wanted desperately to be Joan Embery when I grew up. She was that cool zoo lady that used to be on Johnny Carson all the time, and she had chimps around her constantly. Hanging out with chimps isn't something that you can just decide you want to do on a Saturday morning, find a number, then just go mark it off your list. It takes research and perseverance. It's an elusive goal, I tell you. But I will not give up until I find a way to hold a little infant chimp with a diaper on or give a somewhat grown chimp with a hat on a high five all BJ-and-the-Bear-like. This I shall do before I breathe my last breath, so help me God.

Tonight, Husband Man, my sister, and I went to see Paul Blart: Mall Cop. It was a lovely little piece of comedy that I thoroughly enjoyed after a week of too much work drama. My favorite prop in the movie was the segway, of course, and I can think of no better way to end this entry than to combine both chimps and a segway. You can all thank me later.

The Ridiculousness of Posh and My Valentine's Wish

2009-01-16T07:33:00.005-06:00

Look at Victoria Beckham's shoes. I mean, just look at them. First and foremost, if you're reading this, dear sweet Husband-Man, I probably need these shoes for Valentine's Day (even though I think Valentine's Day is a Hallmark holiday invented for suckers). Because I'm sure they cost about as much as three car payments, I won't be completely crushed if you don't actually purchase them, but I thought I'd put it out there, just in case you were feeling kooky or something. And for me, it's kind of enough to just close my eyes and imagine myself in them. Walking through the streets of Italy with two gorgeous little kids that I happened to create with my tiny little uterus.

If I ever became a mom, I'd want to look just like her. I know that the smart-girl correct thing to say is that she's a vapid fashion caricature of a person, but I just can't do it, mainly because I think it's amazing how she can teeter on Christian Louboutins with two boys yanking her in different directions. I don't want to hear her opinions on national security or the economy or anything. I just want her shoes. It's Friday, people. And, after the week I've had, that's about all I can muster for a thought-provoking, intelligent entry today.

Seriously. Those shoes kick ass.

A New Semester and My Call of Duty

2009-01-14T19:37:00.004-06:00

Tomorrow, I start another semester at the university, teaching and molding young minds into great leaders of tomorrow. (It sounded nice. Leave me alone.) My teaching gig, albeit a $5/hour, tedious and mostly thankless job, is my absolute favorite job of all the jobs I've ever had to date. My students are both varied and interesting, and out of approximately 10 to 25 students (give or take) in a semester, I feel as though I actually reach 2 or 3 in the 16 weeks I have to try to teach them something useful. To me, these are great odds, and they make the crappy pay worthwhile.

I've referred to my writing classes as "teaching English as a second language" and "keeping monkeys from throwing their own poo at innocent bystanders." These are both appropriate analogies and explain pretty much what I do while trying to impart wisdom about active and passive voice and the difference between their, they're, and there. Writing is a lost art these days, it seems. I witness the constant slaughtering of the English language on a daily basis, and I'm just doing my duty to keep the dream of good grammar and the transition sentence alive and well.

At the same time, I teach what is now referred to as the Millenial. This is the kid who's raised by what sociologists now call "Helicopter Parents." These are the kids who can't take a crap without Mommy and Daddy orchestrating it. They're the entitled generation; the kids with the iPods implanted permanently in their heads and the attitude that hard work is for suckers. I truly believe that teaching this generation has taught me more patience than any other thing I've endured in life. And, I also believe that I may actually get into heaven one day as a direct result of not killing at least one a semester with a ballpoint pen.

Speaking of duties, today was spent putting out fires with my own spit. I was greeted in the morning by a pseudo-boss person who felt the need to scream at me, in front of everyone outside my office. That was lovely. Then, I was bombarded with client madness as if the whole world's gone mental and I'm the one who's taken away the meds. Everyone's just pissed OFF today, and I was apparently the perfect target. All. Day. Long.

So, I did what any normal, 37-year old woman would do. I came home after my obligatory 10 hours on the job, finally got home, changed into my comfortable black sweats and lounging leopard socks, ate some Lucky Charms for dinner, and then I sat my butt on the couch in front of the big screen TV to try to forget about my day. My stepson sat down with me, and before I knew it, he was teaching me to play Call of Duty. After a day of piss and vinegar, I shot Nazi zombies with a double-barreled shotgun in my living room, and I must say, it was KICK ASS. Even though my stepson had to intervene every so often to make sure I didn't get my head eaten by a rabid zombie, I started to hold my own, reload and everything, and shoot the crazed Nazis like it was my JOB. I'm not bad, people. Practice will make me a force to be reckoned with, I'm afraid to say.

My stepson agreed to leave the game with me this weekend so I could hone my Nazi-zombie-killing skills. I have taken on the challenge of learning what I can, as my stepson has given me a gift - much like the gift of wisdom I impart on those college students in my classes.

Now if I could only figure out how to upload my boss-person's head on the zombies. I would be a pro by Sunday. Seriously....where has this game been all my life?

Once again, I'd like to point out that I have no children.

2009-01-13T14:14:00.002-06:00

Seriously. Can we just spend 30 cents on a bullet and make this guy go away?

http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20090113/ap_on_fe_st/odd_sold_for_marriage;_ylt=AoNG6KGj7h5lSp0dAolQt9YDW7oF

Rock of Love - Cornfield Style

2009-01-11T18:52:00.004-06:00

When husband-man and I got hitched, we did so with the notion that we wouldn't do a fancy-shmancy wedding thing, but rather do something low-key, intimate, and much more meaningful to us, alongside our closest family members and friends. We did just that. We found a little church in Greenfield, Indiana that seemed perfect for us and the kind of "non-denominational, female-minister, 10-minute, no-tie-for-the-groom and a red-dress-and-leopard heels for the bride" ceremony we had in mind. It was small, cozy, historical, and a rent-by-the-hour place that coincided with our laid back, jeans-and-flip-flops post-wedding party. Just plain quaint. And perfect.

So, when we were sitting on our butts today, enjoying one of the guilty, mindless pleasures we have of watching the third season of "Rock of Love" (this time, it's on a tour bus), we were both doing double-takes at the setting of this week's episode. You see, Brett Michaels is taking all of these lovely working girls on tour with him this season, and they happened to be traveling through to one of his shows in Indianapolis. They stopped at a little chapel on the way to do an official skank challenge, where all the train-wreck, silicone-happy trampalicious chicks had to come up with their personal vows should they ever get the honor to marry Brett Michaels (I just threw up in my mouth a little).

Husband-man noticed it first. He looked at the TV and said, "Hey hon, that looks like the chapel we got married in."

I answered, "It does! It's cute just like ours, and has the same exact architecture. Huh."

And after enduring the lingerie and clear stripper heels in the church for a few more minutes, we saw the shot of them all walking out to a crowd full of people on the street...

Holy crap, that's OUR church.

Here I thought our little chapel was this revered place of history...built in the late 1800s, right in front of James Whitcomb Riley's childhood home. Quaint and small-town and very simple in its architectural beauty. But I guess it's just the Vegas chapel of Greenfield, Indiana. Well, according to VH1, anyway.

While one of the gals promises Brett to "never wear panties," I promised Husband-man to never, ever force him to eat anything that I cook. I suppose she and I are both givers, but there's the end of the similarity. After all, I think the panty thing would've put my God-fearing aunt and uncle over the edge.

Our chapel is famous - by way of mindless trash TV. If we ever renew our vows there, I still won't wear clear stripper heels. Well, maybe I will if Brett Michaels takes off that eye liner and ridiculous bandana (we know there's no hair left, dude...just embrace it already)...

VH1 TV Shows | Music Videos | Celebrity Photos | News & Gossip

2008 in Song Review...

2009-01-05T11:20:00.001-06:00

My Mom sent this to me this morning, and while I'm sure all of my readers have probably already seen this before me, I had to post. I liked it enough to do so.

A Song to Start the Week....

2009-01-05T07:12:00.003-06:00

Since XM and Sirius merged, I've been trying to get on board with some changes in the channel lineups on my car stereo. It used to be that Channel 54, Lucy (the XM channel), was my favorite, but the 54 now isn't quite as spectacular. So, I've been leaning towards channel 44, New Wave, as it features a lot of music that I used to listen to back in high school and the early college years. So many memories.

This morning, I heard one of my long-lost favorite songs. U2's Bad. I just love this song, and it fits this Monday morning like a glove, so I'm including the performance of it at Live Aid back in 1985. Today, it's back to a whole week of work after a 2-week stint of holiday hoopla - a somewhat grim reminder of being an adult and having real responsibility. Needless to say, I'm dragging my feet this morning. But, during my commute, for about 10 minutes, I was reminded of being that 14-year old, skinny little freshman in high school, wide-eyed and fresh faced. Leave it to a random piece of great music to make me remember the days of big hair and even bigger possibilities.

Enjoy.

Cheers to a Happy Ending.

2009-01-02T10:05:00.004-06:00

When I was living in Atlanta several years ago, I fostered an ex-fighting pitbull for a short period of time. Her name was Daisy, and while I was a little skittish inviting her into my home at first, I've always been a dog person; that is, I've always been a believer that dogs are inherently good. In my mind, there is no such thing as a bad dog. Only bad people who make bad dogs. I saw her picture on a local website for ex-fighters who were in the process of being rehabilitated, and I fell in love with her face. So, I went through the proper channels and ended up bringing her home and serving as a foster Mom until she found her "real" family.

Daisy would keep her distance from me at first, but it only took about 5 days for her to warm up to me, and within 7 days, she was sleeping on the other side of my bed. She was an excellent running partner, and she quickly went from very skeptical of my intentions to loving and loyal.

When I heard about Michael Vick, it just sickened me. And, lately, I came across a pictorial that showed a lot of his dogs and their new, proud owners. Additionally, I found a clip that showed their journey to their presumed happy endings. I thought I'd share, as it's a nice little "feel good" start to 2009. And, again, I'm a giver like that.

Michael Vick is a big ol' douchebag, and I will always love a story that goes from bad to wonderful. Love.

The Pictorial:
http://vault.sportsillustrated.cnn.com/vault/gallery/featured/GAL1150032/1/10/index.htm

Cheers to a new year and happy endings.

God, I love semantics.

2008-12-31T07:27:00.002-06:00

This link is to the annual Lake Superior State University's List of Words to Be Banished from the Queen's English for Mis-use, Over-use and General Uselessness. I love that "going green" is making more than just me nauseated, as well as the word "Maverick." I used to like that word. Such a shame.

It's kind of funny, though, that the list comes direct from the U.P. (this must be said with a very heavy Wisconsin accent for effect), as they say Yah instead of Yes. But whatever. The list is something I find interesting, and people in the U.P. are really pretty cool for the amount of cold they have to endure.

http://www.lssu.edu/banished/current.php

The Big Purge of Irritants and Looking Ahead to The Year of the Ox....

2008-12-30T09:51:00.005-06:00

Some believe that with a new year comes a new, clean slate. A shiny new look at life that allows us to chuck all the negativity from the past year and start anew. This week, I’ve been in somewhat of a funkified mood. I could blame my hormones, the stress involved with the holiday season, the overabundance of sugar and salt, or the fact that I’m facing another year, still have some unattained goals and therefore am feeling my mortality. But the reasons are neither here nor there. I’m a solutions kind of gal. And, the ultimate solution to this week’s funk is to look lovingly at the present, then forward to a bright and sparkly future, free from any negative vibes from the year past. Keeping with that notion, I’ve constructed a list of everything that’s annoyed the crap out of me this year. Yes, it SEEMS somewhat negative, but really, it’s a positive, cathartic way of gaining clarity and focus on the pending happiness in 2009 that I shall revel in like a giggly little girl. So, before I create my not-yet-thought-about, let alone written New Year’s Resolution list, here is the list to end all negative lists of 2008. Expelled like a good sneeze to make room for the positive of 2009 – the Chinese-calendar-proclaimed year of the Ox.

The List of Everything That’s Annoyed me This Year – 2008 Edition.

1. Kim Jong-Il. Might as well start with Lucifer himself, right? This guy’s a complete whack job psycho, and his beady little eyes and the way he looks like a horrible Korean Elvis impersonator irritates me. Al Qaeda Shmaeda. Jong-Il is Hitler reincarnate, and yet the guy still gets up every day, brushes his teeth, puts on his pants, and rules an entire country full of a gazillion people as a horrific dictator. The devil himself is living and breathing in North Korea, he’s got the stature of a newborn gopher, and yet we can’t off him with some cool technologically-advanced sniper or bomb or something? There’s no group of Navy Seals or special-force group of military excellence that can go over there and just eliminate this guy? Really? I don’t get it.

2. Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie just keep having babies and are actually starting to frighten me a bit. They’re overpopulating the world so much that I fear we may completely run out of natural resources due entirely to their offspring. I don’t understand when it became trendy to reproduce like the canine species, doing it so consecutively that you can’t even ENJOY the child that you delivered five minutes ago, because you’re too busy having a turkey baster shoved in you to conceive the quadruplets that you MUST HAVE within your belly before the previous baby can even focus on an inanimate object with its little newborn eyes.

3. Going Green. I married a guy that doesn’t even believe in Global Warming. Now, even though I do think it exists to some degree, I am pretty annoyed by all the hype and propaganda surrounding it. I bet all the hippies of the 60s are shaking their non-shampooed, patchouli-smelling heads and asking why all of a sudden it’s so celebrity-chic to be “green.” All those REAL environmentalist vegetarian/vegan hippie people are wondering how in the hell Paris Hilton can say she’s environmentally aware when she uses up more natural resources than most third world countries. It’s become trendy in a stupid, US magazine way, and smart retailers are capitalizing and charging more for all this crap that is labeled “green.” And people are buying it. I mean, wearing a t-shirt that says, “Go Green” sort of becomes null and void when you’re driving a Suburban, don’t you think? And, if I decide to buy a Prius to help the environment, why in the hell should I shell out 30K for it? It’s not worth 30K. If I’m spending 30K on a car, I’ll get a nice-looking BMW (a used one…how’s that for recycling?) – not an ugly Prius, thanks.

4. The Duggars. Kind of the same thing as Brangelina, but I believe their ultimate goal is way different. Even though they’ve inspired the taglines, “Uterus – it’s not a clown car” and “it’s like throwing a hot dog down a hallway,” I feel as though they are good, God-fearing people that actually do cherish their kids. But I also think they’re certifiably nuts and that their child-stockpiling may be a plot to ensure that their family survives beyond the Armageddon. The sheer number of children will put them at a clear advantage for familial and genetic survival. And this sort of annoys me perhaps for the same reasons I get annoyed by packrat people who save everything and have too much clutter in their homes. I’m just sayin.

5. The Republican Party's Withered Image. If I thought being an Independent Libertarian would actually make a difference in this country, I may have voted as one in the last election. However, I usually vote Republican in most elections I participate in, because of two very specific reasons. One, I loved Ronald Reagan and wished he was my grandfather, and two, I’m vehemently opposed to anything resembling socialism in any way, shape, or form. With that being said, I attended a Sarah Palin rally back during the 2008 Presidential campaign and I was so taken aback by the amount of rednecks and old people that call themselves Republicans. First of all, the Republicans need a way overdue, complete face lift. They are in desperate need of a marketing and branding overhaul. I think they need me and a team of people much like the guys on “Queer Eye” to completely re-brand them from the ground up. They need to ditch the country music, learn to embrace new technology, and become just a bit more “hip.” Otherwise, they will perish. I saw it first hand at that rally a few months ago. People like me don’t particularly want to be associated with anything resembling white trash, rebel flags, or country music. I find all three offensive, really. I’m not saying that everyone who’s a Republican is a redneck, but I saw firsthand what the major demographic is, and it’s not educated, working white females in their 30s, that’s for sure. Nor do they have even a small chunk of the younger demographic, who will eventually take over this country (yeah…it frightens me, too). When the “what will my country do for me because the world owes me something” mentality finally takes over for good, we will all be equal and drone-like, whining and pathetic and waiting in line for bread. I don’t want to see that happen in my lifetime. Rebranding is necessary…..it’s as simple as that. Wake up, Republican Party. Get your heads out of your asses and do it for the Gipper.

6. Heidi Montag and Spencer Pratt. I don’t know what she is or does, but I want her to go away. And that thing called Spencer has pubic hair on his facial area. They’re not actors or entertainers, nor do they work, I don’t think, yet they’re slathered all over magazines in the checkout line at Target. I don’t get it. Someone please make them go far, far away.

7. Michael Vick and everyone else who abuses animals. If you can treat an animal like crap, you can treat people like crap, and you, therefore, are a piece of crap. Case in point: Jeffery Dahmer tortured animals. In fact, all serial killers have three attributes in common: arson or a fascination with setting fires, bedwetting, and abuse or torture of animals. Anyone who mistreats an animal should be looked at closely and monitored from that point forward. Period.

8. MTV - Making your young, impressionable daughter a raging slut since 1989. I think 1989 was around the time they quit playing music and began to teach our young women how to be promiscuous and vapid little tramps. MTV blows. I miss the days of fun A-Ha videos and Martha Quinn.

9. Scientology. A religion? Really? Come ON. It’s a cult based on a science fiction writer dude who had a fake degree. You might as well praise a box of tampons. But, people are stupid enough to buy into this crap. The celebrities, then the wannabe non-celebrities who join this freak show brigade make me shake my head at the human condition as a whole. Do you remember when Katie Holmes wasn’t in a Scientology prison, spoke actual words from her mouth, and was really quite cute? I know it’s hard to remember, but she was a pretty young woman once. So sad.

10. Pretty much all 18-24-year olds. OK, that's a bit rough. I fully admit that there is a big handful of this demographic that I do love, like, and can tolerate, but I can honestly say that most of them annoy me. This is because I am in contact with them on a very regular basis, and I feel as though I’ve earned the right to say that. This generation is one of false, yet almost overpowering entitlement. They’re completely out of touch with reality, spoiled-rotten, and the people my age who’ve raised them perpetuate this new cycle of greed, materialism, and a lack of self and civil responsibility. Time Out is the dumbest thing I've ever heard of, and half these kids would've been well-served to have a good paddling. I suppose I should list 35-50-year olds on here, too. OK, I will. See number 11.

11. 35-50-year olds that have raised all the bratty, self-absorbed, materialistic little 18-24-year olds mentioned in number 10.

12. Pageants. I was horrified to learn that these still exist in 2008. And, although I was in one once –I was a freshman in high school – I even found it creepy on the other side, experiencing it. They’re antiquated, and the ones with the little itty-bitty girls are total freakshow advertisements for pedophiles. Pageants blow. They should be made illegal.

13. All those American car company bailout jerks. I have to bail them out WHY? Because their cars suck and people preferred more reliable, ahead-of-the-curve foreign cars that actually did good R&D, and now I’m forced to pay more taxes to make sure all those American-car executives get to keep their cushy jobs and golf memberships? That is a pile of crap. Do your job well, hire good people, and make a good product, American car companies. Then you wouldn’t have to ask Jane Q. Taxpayer to bail you out. This is a capitalist nation, last time I checked. If your business fails, no one should have to bail you out. That’s life. Get over it. Get up. Move on. Start another business or go work at McDonalds if you have to. That’s why America rocks. All those slimy little executives screaming, “HELP!” should send me some sort of fruit basket to thank me for the fact that I’m paying for them to be playing 18 holes of golf right now. Jerks.

14. The Kennedys. Maybe it’s because they’re all a bunch of posers who do bad stuff and then repent and give a lot of money to the Catholic Church expecting to go to heaven, of course, as a result of their insanely huge bribe abilities. Right now, it happens to be the fact that Caroline Kennedy thinks she can slip into a senate seat because she’s, well, a Kennedy. And what’s really scary is that she probably will. No matter that she has no political experience whatsoever...she’s a Kennedy. And a lawyer to boot. So very irritating.

15. And, last but definitely not least, the Florida Gators. Because it’s so much FUN to hate them. All the chomping hand gestures and stuff...my own father, who lives in Jacksonville, has been taken in and fed the proverbial Florida Kool-Aid. They've gotten to him, obviously sucked the loyalty out of him, and made him believe that they're worthy of being in the same category as the Vols. Yeah, right. It's called senility, Dad. Gators SUCK.

It's official. I feel cleansed and purified to now start working on my 2009 New Year's Resolution list. Funk GONE. Kaput. Goodbye.

Christmas is over? Really?

2008-12-27T09:42:00.003-06:00

It was one of those holidays that I shall always remember as, well, crappy. It just wasn't a good one, people. I was sick with one of my world-famous migraines stapled on top. I can't sugar coat it any more than to say that I love my new, long, pink snuggly robe and my makeup toolbox from Sephora and my new, bright orangey-red purse that is both obnoxious and fabulous. I love my new pajamas and the scarves and gloves and the new bottle of my signature scent. I love my little Buddha charm and handmade earrings from Breckenridge direct from my sister and the pink John Deere mug and teapot from my stepson. I do love the material things I received, only I don't really remember getting them at all. I don't remember actually opening them, truth be told, because I was in a complete sickness fog through Christmas Eve day and Christmas day. Complete. And. Total. Blur. 2008 is almost gone, and I've slept-walked, all ill-like, through the latter part of it. Chalk one year's festivities up to hydrocodone and phenegren. It's official. I'm just now, on December 27th, able to actually revel in the fact that it occurred.

I did manage to eat a juicy filet, my weight in pigs in a blanket, I believe, and several Christmas cookies. And, in keeping with the rest of the world's New Year's resolutions, I shall ditch the narcotics, the sugar, the fat, and get back on track tomorrow with working out.

Happy almost 2009, loyal readers. My Christmas gift to you is this old school workout for you to enjoy at your leisure today. I'm a giver like that.

Only one more day of work....

2008-12-19T10:20:00.002-06:00

Well, here I am. At the end of my Friday. I have a half day, and it's going to be glorious, despite the cold rain and sleet. I think I may start it by mailing packages for family (yes, I'm just a tad late in doing so), and then I'll go home and start cleaning a bit for the mad rush of visitors we'll have starting this weekend, then I'll nap like a kept woman with a sugar daddy. I pretend to do this about once a year.

In the meantime, I'm done from work for the week, and Christmas is almost here.

A Really Cool Website...

2008-12-19T06:47:00.003-06:00

I'm usually not one to share the websites Husband-man points out to me, because they're mostly techie or somehow aeronautical or contain some sort of engineering jargon, and therefore are a bit over my head. I admit this. I mean, a Shakespeare site would be over his head, so I'm not really saying that he's smarter than me. He's just more sponge-like than me and understands the intricate workings of things that I'd rather not try to understand, as I have other things to do. Like buy shoes. Because I feel this way about many of his choices in website reading, I naturally assume they are over my readers' heads, as this blog isn't exactly a stop for Mensa members. No offense, readers. I mean, I've done the mock Mensa tests in Sky Mall magazine on a couple domestic flights in the past years, and I've done pretty damn well on them, I must say, but yeah...I've never really aspired to be Mensa's poster girl. I am, however, a closet dork.

So, after that ridiculously long preamble (it's Friday, I only have one more day until I'm off for Christmas, and I'm a little chatty this morning....WOO HOO), this is a site Husband-man showed me last night. I felt the need to share, as it is really kinda cool. It's basically a site that shows all of the abandoned places around the world. Places like little towns near Chernobyl, whose residents literally had to pack up and leave in like 36 hours with what they could grab. Remnants of living, breathing societies just frozen completely in time. It's truly fascinating. And it makes you think, "what in the hell would I do if I had to pick up and move my entire life in 36 hours?"

I'd take my photo albums, my dogs, several of my cherished books, and my shoes. There you go.

http://www.artificialowl.net/

God help me. I'm stuck in the Illinois suburbs.

2008-12-16T20:24:00.002-06:00

I'm stuck in a hotel room in Chicago. OK, it's not really like cool, downtown Chicago, but rather a northern suburb with a snazzy new Springhill Suites by Marriott that happens to have both a Wal-Mart and a Chili's across the street. Oh yes. I'm living large.

I've been here since Sunday, and I was supposed to be home by now, but there's one hell of a storm outside. It's snowing and icy and crazy cold. It took me an hour to go two miles back to my hotel tonight, and it was during that time that I realized that returning home to Indiana was futile.

So, here I am. Sitting here with I Am Legend on in the background. I hate that part where he has to kill his dog. It makes me want to go beat the crap out of some rabid people. Speaking of dogs, this is how bored and completely shut off from the world I am. I just watched this video - yet another in the Oscar the Boxer series. And now I miss more than just my husband and his ability to make my icy feet warm in mere seconds while also pretending to enjoy my endless conversation, but I miss my dogs a ton, too. I've also vowed to start my own video library of my canine children, as they're WAY more interesting and adorable than even Oscar is. Sorry, Oscar. You're damn cute and I love your videos, but my youngest Dane can drink out of the kitchen sink without even standing on his hind legs. And, my girl Tess has a bigger vocabulary than most of my college students.

Well, if I'm stuck here for more than one more day, at least I can go hang out at the Wal-Mart. They sell vodka there, right?

Another great one says goodbye...

2008-12-15T18:29:00.004-06:00

I'm a big fan of Saturday Night Live. I used to watch it religiously, and even though I don't see it real-time as much as I'd like due to increasing inability to stay up past 11:30 on the weekends, I do try to keep up with who's on and what new skits they're brewing. The women on the show have always been my favorites. Hell, this blog and its tagline bloomed from one single quote by Gilda Radner. She personified everything I like in a person - down-to-earth, funny as hell, and the able to not take life so seriously. Delicious ambiguity is what it's all about, after all. Gilda was platinum.

Fast forward to the era of women ruling the roost at SNL. Tina Fey is one of my self-proclaimed personal heroes, and the fact that she is the first female head writer of the show is just plain cool. It's about time, really, and since she's been there, I think they've had some of the best writing they've had in decades. All the women on that show have been funny over the years, but she and Amy Poehler and the new cast of increasingly funny chicks has raised the bar, in my opinion.

Poehler's first was being promoted from featured cast member to full-fledged cast member in her inagural year - a distinction held only by two other cast members. Both men. So, when I found out that Amy Poehler was leaving SNL, it made me a little sad. My Dad likes to say that I look and act like Tina Fey (he contends that she'll play me in the cinematic biopic of my life, but the jury is still out on that), and while I'll take that as a compliment (nothing wrong with being compared to a smart, funny chick), I'd like to think that Amy and I have a few things in common as well. For starters, she was born exactly 20 days after me in 1971, and we're both Virgos...which really just means that we're both earthy, organized perfectionists who have a professional exterior but wild interior. Or something like that. She's married to a guy named Will. I, too, have a husband with a four-letter name.

We're practically twins, people.

I'll miss watching those two girls do their thing on the Weekend Update, but I'm sure she'll show up someplace else real soon. In the meantime, here are some of the SNL women acting like half the 19-year olds I teach at the university.

Long live the funny girl.

A Rite of Passage and My Regression into the Teenage Years....

2008-12-12T12:48:00.001-06:00

This week, my stepson was scheduled to get his permit. Husband-man fully intended to take him, but was hindered with a last-minute work meeting. So, I got the call and request to fill in for him. I gladly accepted, acted somewhat parent-like, and within a short half hour at the BMV, the little man walked away with a legal, picture-ID permit in his pocket - and even thanked his stepmom for doing so. What a kid. I even convinced him to become an organ donor, although he only committed to being a "partial donor," which we decided meant that he would end up merely having to give one eye and a foot when all was said and done.

In the same week, I secured a newer, shinier position at work - a better fit for me overall. I hopefully won't be working 60-hour weeks on a regular basis anymore, but have a more manageable, writing and editing position that has a bit of leadership thrown in on the side. Very responsible and mature, I might add.

To completely contradict all the grown-up stuff, I participated in the joint purchase of Britney Spears "Circus" tour tickets this week. Yes, you heard that right. The girl that loves the Foo Fighters and Led Zepplin is going to see a Britney Spears concert with her pals Leroy and Mockarena (and maybe Nashvegas) in the wonderful city of Chicago. While not until April, I have already been thinking about both my outfit choices (Catholic school girl or head-to-toe red leather?) and the fact that I shall dance like a 16-year old all night. Hell, all of us old married women will dance like we're idiot teenagers, and I can...not...wait. Britney's no Gwen Stefani, and I don't even think a real note will come out of her head, truth be told, but the fun and fluff factor will be high nonetheless.

They say that Christmastime brings out the childlike response in people. And let's face it - there's nothing like the thought of unadulterated, mindless fun with your girlfriends to get you in the party spirit. At my age, regression - or even the thought of it - is just plain grand. This is what it takes to get a 37-year old woman into the childlike (or teenage-like) Christmas spirit - a slutty blond bimbo from Louisiana that lip-synchs. Alrighty then.

Let's all ponder that thought with a Britney video.

(You didn't really think I'd post a real one? Please.)

Let's All Go Beat up an Animal-Abusing Woman in Wisconsin, Shall We?

2008-12-08T13:55:00.001-06:00

Today, my friend Scott sent me this article. It's a horrific article about a horrific woman in Wisconsin who chained her dog outside in the freezing temps and neglected to care that he was frozen to the sidewalk. Scott loves dogs like I do. He's particularly obsessed with killer schnauzers and has two trained killer schnauzers in his own home.

Amazingly enough, the neglected dog lived, and I imagine he's still wagging his tail and still loves people. Truly amazing.

Here is how Scott and my email conversation went this morning:

Scott: Please read: http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/28072038/?gt1=43001

Daisywriter: Oh yes, my friend sent this to me the other day, and I wanted to DRIVE TO WISCONSIN to find this woman and then NAIL her fat ass to the sidewalk to see if she, too, would survive the cold. I hate people. I really, really do.

Scott: I'm considering quitting my job, moving to Wisconsin, starting law school, becoming a prosecutor, and sentencing this woman to death by schnauzer bite.

Daisywriter: Oh my God. That's brilliant. I'm doing the same. Except the lawyer part - I hate lawyers. How about I just go with you and I beat her to death with my shoe?

And that is all I have to say about that.

I need to get one of these...

2008-12-06T19:23:00.002-06:00

I'd like to point out that it's Saturday night, and I'm working. I'd also like to point out that tonight is my company's Christmas party, and I'm working.

So I've made a monumental, executive-like decision. I'm going to purchase one of these. I believe it may very well be the best $19.99 I ever spend.

See more funny videos at Funny or Die

Canine gratitude and the fear of Old Yeller...

2008-12-06T06:33:00.003-06:00

My dog Zeke was a 36th birthday present from my husband over a year ago. I won't sugar-coat it - as a puppy, he was the biggest pain in my ass. Being a diehard dog lover, I often found myself wanting to drop him off at the pound - and I threatened it to his face several times. That's how sleep-depriving and rotten of a puppy Zeke was.

So, it makes me smile these days to see that Zeke has grown out of most of his bad habits. My boxer, Tess, has always been my favorite (I've always said you can pick favorites with dogs while you can't outwardly pick a favorite kid), but Zeke's now joined the high-ranked status of Tess, the obvious angel in a dog's body. He can still be a rotten prick, but I've found that I love all my pups like human children. Hell, my dogs ARE my kids.

Like most dogs, Zeke is ritualistic. Even though he was my birthday present, he's definitely Husband-man's biggest fan. Case in point: Every night before we go to sleep (both the Danes and the boxer sleep on their own separate beds on our bedroom floor), Zeke starts to get settled in his bed, then walks over to Husband-man's side of the bed and puts his head on his chest as if to hug him. Then he kisses Husband man direct on the mouth, walks back over to his bed, and completes his "say goodnight" ritual, before laying down and letting off a loud sigh that sounds much like a 65-year old man with sleep apnea.

In the morning, though, that's when he saves his rituals for me. I'm up at 5 every day, and like clockwork, Zeke is there to greet me. Or, his nose is, anyway. Even on the weekends, he puts his snout right in my face to remind me that dogs don't understand the difference between workdays and sleep-in weekend days. He's a giver like that.

Call me the crazy lady down the street with all the dog hair in her house, but I just love them. I'll never apologize for being grateful for those little furry masses of love. They've given me so much more than I could ever give them. And, I simply cannot imagine a full life without dogs.

Which is why I hesitate to go see the new movie, Marley and Me over the holidays, even though I want so badly to see it. Husband-Man has been vocally against going, as he believes it'll be another "fall in love with dog on screen, then get your heart ripped out as you watch the dog die like Old Yeller" movie. Think about it - K9 cop, Turner and Hooch, Old Yeller, I'm sure there are more that I've blocked out - they're all the sap-filled movie that makes you think about how much you love your own dogs, then BAM! Death. Merry Christmas.

So, our Christmas Day movie choice is still up in the air. I never got around to reading the book, so I could be wrong about this ending thing. We may see Marley as a geriatric old furball and then the credits roll. But in my heart, I know the formula too well. Regardless, I'm seeing this movie eventually. And, when I do, I'm going to be a complete friggin mess by the end of it.

Sweet, sweet karma....

2008-12-05T15:11:00.001-06:00

I've had a cold/flu thing all week, have managed to still work between 10 and 12 hours every day, and have to work all weekend. Daisywriter is not a happy girl today. But do you know what makes it better for at least a good 15 minutes?

O.J. is finally going to do some time. The self-righteous murdering prick is going to be someone's girlfriend in jail. And this alone makes me smile today.

And it begins.....with smugness and heart....

2008-12-02T05:18:00.005-06:00

Last Saturday night, I accompanied Husband-man and stepson to the Indiana High School State Football Championships - played at Lucas Oil Stadium (where the Colts play). The southside's Center Grove Trojans played the northside's Carmel Greyhounds. It was a rival match made in heaven - the stuff that good games are made of, really. The southside has always been perceived as the more "blue collar" part of town (even if we do have many million-dollar homes and ridiculous farmhouse spreads), while the northside is more mini-mall yuppified. We have farmers down south. They have a Saks up north. So, the match up was truly divine. It ended up being a pretty cool and historical night, as my stepson's high school team (the southside underdogs) came back from a horrible first half to win the title. They say it was the biggest comeback in Indiana high school football history.

While they were kicking the northsider boys' asses, I was watching Tennessee kick the crap out of Kentucky. We were in a friend's suite, so I had the luxury of watching both simultaneously (which, I might add, is not too shabby for a hick chick from the southside). I got a little teary-eyed when I watched Phil Fulmer coach his last game. Players hugged him like they would their own Dads, and you could see the emotion in Coach Fulmer, his family, and all of those who understand that he was born and bred to play and coach in Knoxville. In the city with the nicest, most genuine people who not only love the Vols so much, but truly have more heart than any other school in the SEC.

It's heart, I believe, that wins the best games. My stepson's high school had heart the other night. It was palpable. Center Grove's red colors took up 3/4 of the stadium, where Carmel only populated the other fourth, at best. There was a lot of heart in that place. So much so, that a Carmel High School father proclaimed it to Husband-man. "Well, you guys played with so much heart and you really deserve this." Something along those lines, anyway, as we all filed out of the stadium.

But, as we all know, every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end. And so it goes, right?

With Tennessee's Fulmer formally gone now, there's a new Sheriff in town. His name is Lane Kiffin. He's young. Very young. In fact, I couldn't believe how young this guy was when Husband-man pointed him out to me the other day. Impressive career for his age, but yeah....he's damn young.

Apparently, he's already started recruiting players. And, while I'm kind of excited of the prospect that he's actually doing some recruiting, he's doing it a few days earlier than he should. At least for people like Steve Spurrier - who obviously feels the need to watch him like a hawk. And let's face it - that may be the biggest testament to the potential Mr. Kiffin has.

I'm attaching the full article in its glory at the end of this entry, although as a writer and hack blogger myself, I wouldn't really call this a journalistic article. It's a blog. An opinion, and a smug-as-hell one, to boot:

Mr. Kiffin may have wanted to wait, sure, but I do love the fact that he's like a rabid, frothing-at-the-mouth dog, wanting to start his role immediately. Sure, he's young and has a lot to learn, but there's something to be said for ambition. Let's just hope he has that heart that I'm so used to. That all of us Vol fans are used to, really.

In the meantime, Mr. Hinton appears to be a little condescending, at best. He must've gone to Florida or something.

But what do I know? I mean, I'm just a southside redneck that likes corn from a jar. Yep...and I do so with all my heart. So eat that, Mr. Hinton. :-)

http://rivals.yahoo.com/ncaa/football/blog/dr_saturday/post/Welcome-to-the-SEC-cheater-Signed-Ol-Ball-Co?urn=ncaaf,125819

To get us all in the mood for Christmas....

2008-11-30T18:07:00.001-06:00

The Good, the Bad, and the Giving of Thanks

2008-11-30T17:36:00.005-06:00

I wrote the following entry on the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, but I never posted it. It’s been that weirdly busy with work, family, food, more family, and more food. So, in honor of Turkey Day passing, I thought I’d go ahead and post it anyway, even if it is like a really bad flashback. It’s my blog, after all, so whatever.

They say that you should start with a positive, give people the negative, then end with a positive. I don’t know who “they” is, exactly, but I’m going to try it to see if it helps buffer my complete lack of enthusiasm today – just a few days before a day of thanks and gratefulness for all that I love.

I had oatmeal for breakfast. In a mug. (That was the positive. Yep.)
I’ve been working for about 10 days straight now, with a day of tailgating thrown in that mix somewhere. It was the final, and coldest, tailgate of the year. I couldn’t even enjoy bloody marys...that’s precisely how cold it was. My once robust and caffeinated “I love my job so much” attitude has now been secretly replaced with the Negative Nancy Blend of Folgers’ “I am wondering why I took a salaried position to work 20 more hours a week and ultimately get half the money I made before I so stupidly listened to everyone telling me that salaried positions and 401Ks are for grown-ups and Daisywriter, you’re a grown up now” decaf thoughts. My mortgage payment went up without notice a few weeks ago. And, I can’t wait to see what Obama wants to take on top of that in 2009. I’m already stretching and limbering up to assume the position. I've always had a love/hate relationship with money, and for more than one reason this week, Mr. Money and I had some major tension going on behind the scenes.

So, this morning, I had my oatmeal. I did so in a very hurried, frantic manner, apparently, because it wasn’t until around noon today – a mere 5 hours later – that I realized that a huge hunk of dried up oatmeal was in my bangs. Just sitting there in all its glory, being thoroughly enjoyed by the three people I had meetings with, since it was lodged in the most conspicuous portion of my hair. It wasn't a little piece of oatmeal, mind you, but rather a nice chunk. And not one single person pointed this out to me. No one. Crickets chirping here. Oatmeal in my hair, people. I look like a homeless crack head alcoholic who just vomited in her own hair. Nice...really.

And, to top that all off (yes, there’s more), my Argentina trip was cancelled. That business class ticket (with the really big, comfortable, reclining seats) just flew right on out the window and my dream of a 2008 South American half-day adventure has been squelched. Because of safety issues. Safety shmafety. I mean, let’s get real - like someone would want to kidnap a homeless crack head alcoholic with dried-up puke in her bangs. As if.

So yeah. That was where I ended. Pathetic, huh? Which is why I shall do what I intended to do days ago and end on that positive note. Despite my bitchy attitude last week, I am still grateful for many, many things in my life, and I'm still the "glass half full" gal. As tradition calls, I shall provide my yearly notation of all the things I truly am grateful for, providing that uplifting exclamation point.

My Thanksgiving 2008, “I’m Thankful for” List
•My husband. I didn’t have one of those last year at this time. I like him.
•Dunkin Donuts’ coffee and flatbread sandwiches
•My backyard view
•My Jessica Simpson black stiletto boots
•Indiana sunsets
•Rock and roll – it’s not dead yet and still legal
•My stepson asking me for help with his English.
•My stepson actually listening to me when I help him with his English.
•Tailgating and bloody marys
•US magazine – fluffy, mindless, fabulous reading on a lazy Saturday afternoon
•My university teaching gig…the kids completely outweigh the fact that I’m sorely underpaid
•The MockDock
•A 5 am alarm clock in the shape of a brindle Great Dane nose
•An office with a door
•The stars at night (you can see more of them out in the country, you know)
•My new fashionably chocolate brown Carharrts (the one gift I know I’m getting for Christmas)
•Sephora. God bless Sephora.
•My new Venus, even if it does have a huge, gaping new scratch in it
•My stepdaughter’s friends telling me that I look 28, even though they have no idea what the difference is between 28 and 37 at their age. I take what I can get.
•The back two acres – cleared so I can see the new colt in the pasture.
•Michigan Avenue and the rest of that toddlin' town - only 3 short hours away
•The Bargersville flea market on a Sunday morning
•My fabulous Polish slippers
•Tito’s vodka
•Imitrex
•Time
•Target…I really could live there.
•Democracy
•Indiana sunsets
•Shamwows. I don’t even have these yet, but they’re friggin GENIUS.
•Old, snoring dogs
•My best Nashville bud's boyfriend....home from Iraq, safe and sound
•Online Christmas shopping
•Family Guy
•New friends, and old friends that have become new again
•My Kohler, extra-big soaking tub
•My books
•My intellect
•My memories
•My health
•My friends
•My family

And there you have it. Another year of stuffing myself full of too much food, fun, and festivities with family galore. I didn't drink ANY VODKA this year, so I consider myself both classy and certifiably insane.

Thank God there's plenty of time to make up for my lack of Thanksgiving sins at Christmas.

Hello Winter, Goodbye Tailgates...

2008-11-18T15:43:00.001-06:00

Winter is officially here - early, I believe. I think we completely bypassed Fall and went straight to the gray, nasty winter stuff, to be honest. But Mr. Old Man Winter doesn't care about our feelings or our lack of Fallness. Instead, he just pelts us with his painfully cold presence before turkey day. Thanks, you old fart.

Just as the weather's getting icy, this Saturday marks our last home tailgate at Purdue, my Husband-man’s alma mater. As an SEC girl by southern, formative-year molding, I am quite loyal to my Volunteers. However, I also have a motto of “when in Rome...” And, I am definitely in Rome now – the Midwest – a.k.a. Big Ten country. As someone who is used to a 102,000+-seat stadium (largest football stadium in the South, fourth largest in the U.S., and the seventh largest in the world, to be exact), my first Purdue game was a little like watching a really, really big high school team in the South. However, I’ve grown to love the Boilers, I now root for them at will, and I will faithfully defend their honor against the likes of those pesky Michigan and (ick) I.U. fans alike. Weirdly enough, West Lafayette reminds me a bit of Knoxville – the campus layout, architecture, and overall spirit. It reminds me of that place I used to call home.

When Husband-man and I attended our first game this year, I told him that if we were going to make a habit of this Big Ten football-thing, then I insisted on tailgating our asses off and bringing a bit of the SEC to the Big Ten. If you’re going to do it, do it all the way, I say. As a result, we have grown from going to the game in a car with nothing to packing our little truck until it’s on the verge of bursting - full of gear, food, drink, and tailgating paraphernalia - all in one short season. I believe our tailgate will become progressively more dedicated as the years go by. And, I'd venture to say that we’re the only Big Ten tailgate that has an SEC flag waving right below the Purdue one – the big orange and white checkerboard flag flew proudly this year, despite the Vols’ monkey-ball-sucking season.

I haven’t made it back to Neyland Stadium to see my boys play in several years, and this year was a pretty painful one to watch when I did for brief moments at a time. But, I still love that town, that school, and my team. And, I know we’re in a pile of ashes right now, just waiting to be that Phoenix who comes out flying high, kicking butt again. I've been irritated, of course, but my hope still remains intact.

Until I make it back to Knoxville, I’ll put my energy into rooting for the Boilers and bringing that SEC “thing” to the Big Ten. But I couldn’t let the season come to an almost close without raising a proverbial 16-oz. can of Coors Light in one hand, a glass full of moonshine in the other, toasting my boys and singing a chorus of Rocky Top with slurred speech and a face painted tangerine orange. So, to make me happy as well as any random, diehard, loyal UT fans....this one's also for you. Because you know what they say...you can take the girl out of Tennessee, but you can't take the Tennessee out of the girl...

Oh, wait. No. This one's even better.

2008-11-18T11:10:00.000-06:00

This one was especially funny to me today. OK. That is all. My work is done here.

Must....have....comic....relief...

2008-11-18T11:02:00.000-06:00

It's been a crazy couple of weeks. I've been asking people at work things like, "Hey...I've only been here like three months, so you tell me if this chaos is normal, or if it's just that time of year."

Apparently, the chaos, the working weekends, the juggling of 14 projects and hoping you are talking about the right one at any given time during conference calls - this is all the norm.

So, my norm today required a laugh. And what else do I turn to than a monkey for a bonafide giggle.

I'm sure I've posted him someplace before, but he's worth a second giggle.

All behold - Whiplash, the cowboy monkey.

A Hairless, Toothless Puppy: Um, Huh?

2008-11-12T07:51:00.001-06:00

So I read this on Yahoo this morning:

A four-month old puppy that goes by the name "Ears" is seen in Lima November 10, 2008. Peruvians crazy about their national dog the Peruvian Hairless Dog, a bald and often toothless breed popular among Incan kings, offered on Monday to send a hypoallergenic puppy to the Obama family.

Um, yeah. Toothless and hairless, I might add.

For those who know me at all, you know how maniacal I am about dogs. I have two Danes and a boxer, and there's always room for about 4 more in my house. Love dogs. LOVE.

But this dog? As the White House representative canine? For chrissake...if you want hypoallergenic, get a turtle. I'm sure he's lovable and all, but it's like picking Sandra Bernhard to be the next Miss America.

Wow.

Horoscopes, Stilettos, and Slippers

2008-11-11T16:10:00.001-06:00

I've always read my horoscope. I know some people think this is completely stupid and lame, but it's just a habit of mine that's stuck. Today, my little horoscope talked about how completely fierce I'd be, and then ended with this:

Wear the highest heels you can walk in without falling down, and loads of black. You're a killer. Grrr!

I really should've worn black and my highest stilettos today. After all, I booked my business-class ticket last night to Buenos Aires the first week of December. I'll be presenting a global branding strategy to a bunch of Latin American executives. And the ticket alone, I believe, cost more than my car is worth. It gave me a slight panic attack when I charged it to my corporate AMEX. Regardless, I feel as though I am entitled to act like an overbearing, ridiculously bratty rock star today.

It's funny, though...the whole "grrr" thing, seeing as how I worked at home today, in my pseudo-pajamas, didn't take a shower, shoved my hair into a ponytail, and I didn't change out of what could possibly be the most unassumingly fabulous footwear EVER. My friend Mockarena surprised me a few weeks ago with these homemade slippers - direct from her Polish grandmother. All the way from Poland, which is about as glamorous as Argentina. I mean, the woman knitted them with her bare hands in Poland, while speaking Polish (because she doesn't speak English). And as much of a heels-wearing girl that I am, I love these slippers as much as my red "power" stilettos. It's as if my own Polish grandmother (I may have had one of those in the woodpile somewhere) is hugging each one of my feet individually and serving them cocoa with those little marshmallows. They're like that unconditional, Grandmother love, wrapped in yarn, contoured to fit my size-9 feet. Absolute genius.

So, yes, I booked a ticket to a country a gazillion miles away. I'll be there, sans any counterparts, for approximately 18 hours without a plan other than to try to drink some of the city in. Do I feel fabulous? You bet I do. Am I a little nervous? Absolutely. That's good for me. And, I may never get to go to Argentina again, so I realize the enormity of the situation. Does it warrant my red stilettos? Quite possibly.

But for today, I shall wear slippers.

Lunch of Champions

2008-11-10T10:57:00.001-06:00

Once upon a time, I used to eat really, really healthy. I mean, I was over-the-top healthy, with my raw fruits and veggies and my lean meats. I would never be caught dead at a vending machine, except for the occasional Snickers once every six months or so.

You know what I had for lunch today? Bright orange crackers. I mean, those weirdly neon-orange ones that look straight out of Chernobyl and conveniently placed in my office vending machine. My life and work have become so overwhelmingly busy in the past few weeks, that I've now resorted to skipping lunch altogether and eating unnaturally orange crackers. This is my Monday. Welcome aboard. Tomorrow, I'm thinking I'll live on the edge and get some Combos or some of that pricey trail mix that was made and packaged circa 1987.

Happy Monday, faithful followers!

It's Official. I've Become a Grumpy Old Woman.

2008-11-09T10:15:00.004-06:00

Or, at least I sound like a grumpy old woman. But hear me out.

I have been feeling all week as though the Kool-Aid has literally been consumed by a little over half the American population, and I’m just sitting and watching it happen. I've come to terms with it, and will be nice and polite to the looming socialist party. I just don’t know what the people in this country are thinking. I didn’t, that is, until I heard a few comments last week that have shaken my sense of democratic, patriotic stability a bit. The kids in this country – those pesky 18 to 25-year olds – have pretty much called the shots on this one, folks. And, I’m going out on a slight limb here when I say that they’re all a bunch of spoiled, over privileged little brats. Visionaries? I think not. The visionaries I've always looked up to weren't living off their parent's dollars.

I taught class last Thursday night and heard one of my students blabbing about how excited he is that we finally will have socialized medicine and "rich people will finally have to ante up.” This kid said, and I quote, that “people who make more than 150,000 dollars a year have the responsibility to pay for people who don’t make as much money as they do.”

Huh. OK. (My lip was bleeding at this point. I'm a professional...I'm a professional...)

Now let’s preamble, as I always do. I did the calculations one time, a few years ago, about how much money I actually make teaching at the university. It’s job number two for me, mainly because I couldn’t afford to eat if I made it my sole source of income. When I did the calculations, it came out to around 5 bucks an hour – less than minimum wage – when you take into account the hours of lesson planning, grading, driving there and back, etc. It’s more than obvious that I’m nowhere near making 150K a year. I wish I could say that I was, and I wish I could say that I made a dollar to every MAN’S dollar, too, but I can’t. But do I go through life wishing that I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth? Do I feel as though rich people have the responsibility to take care of me? Do I feel as though a rich person OWES me money that he or she made?

Um, no. I do not.

I don’t particularly like most rich people. I mean, I was married to one for eight years, and for the most part, those people were not smarter than me in any way. They didn’t have more class. They weren’t wittier or superior. They were just luckier, really. It doesn’t take a brain surgeon to realize that some people are smarter than others, some are luckier than others, and God didn’t put us all on this planet to be exactly the same. That’s the joy of it. As much as I love having money in my pocket, it never made me happier when I had it. For the most part, I thought about 75% of the rich people I lived among were pretty much pricks BECAUSE of the money they seemed to hide behind. But, never did I EVER feel as though they were responsible for me. Or my lot in life, for that matter.

The kid went on to say that his “parents taught (him) to give to those who needed it – (He) was raised to take care of others and be charitable.”

My lip bleeding profusely from biting it at this point, I answered with, “Well, that’s interesting, because my parents raised me to take responsibility for myself, my actions, to be independent and self-sufficient, and never expect anyone else to take care of me.”

To top off that lovely sentiment, I mentor young writers at work. One of them, in her first year out of school, actually made the statement this week – “I didn’t sit in class for four years to NOT be respected.”

Thank God I heard about this second-hand from one of my colleagues. I may have been fired for a potential response had I actually been there.

What is it with this generation? I know I sound like an 80-year old woman, but have we raised a bunch of kids who feel they’re entitled to everything? I myself have never birthed my own offspring, but I'm surrounded by them. And the vast majority of the ones I see in my life day-to-day have this air about them like the world owes them something. They’re the “time-out” generation – the kids who were put in a corner in their room when they were bad, forced to have quiet time (quite possibly with their flat-screen TVS and their 150-gig IPods). They’re the generation who all got trophies when they made 7th place in the track meet. What the hell is THAT? If you’re 7th, you LOSE. You’re a big, fat loser. Suck it up, kid. In real life, there is no trophy for 7th place.

As much as I love my stepkids and their friends, I see glimpses of that entitlement in them, too. The color-coded Christmas lists, the “I want, I want, I want” statements. The expectation that parents are responsible for certain things, 40-hour workweeks are only for people in their 30s, and every kid should have a car with a bow on it for their 16th birthday - not to mention a wardrobe that would be worthy of Imelda Marcos. They’re loving and kind and compassionate kids, for the most part, so I hold that as saving grace for them. But I’m also the wicked stepmother who reminds them that color-coded Christmas lists and the notion of entitlement are ridiculous bullshit. I’m a giver like that.

I told Husband-man that if we ever had a kid (and that may not be possible with the powdered eggs that linger in my uterus), I would try to raise the little person like my parents raised me. If I could just figure out how they did it, though. The genius way they made me love them so much, but fear them at the same time. I keep trying to figure out how they managed to do that, but neither my Mom nor Dad can answer me succinctly when I ask, “how did you make me believe that disappointing you in any way, shape, or form was the absolute WORST thing I could do in the world?”

So, back to that kid in my class. Upon his statement proclaiming that it was everyone else’s responsibility to take care of HIM, I answered, “Mr. Obama promised me that he’d have the national debt balanced in 4 years. In fact, his Vice President – that wonderful Mr. Biden - said it directly to me on TV one night during the campaign, so it must be true. I’ll be very happy to see that they’ve accomplished exactly what they’ve promised at the end of their term. I’m hopeful they will come through with all those many, many promises.”

And then I handed the self-absorbed little socialist bastard his C+ paper.

I'm just not ready to talk about it yet.

2008-11-05T08:15:00.001-06:00

Yeah. Obama is President. I'm not stunned, per se...not really even fearful. Just disappointed in the direction of this country. I think I said it best in a comment I made to another site this morning, so I'll just post it here. And, yes, it's dripping in sarcasm:

The year was 2008, and everybody was finally equal. It’s going to be totally bitchin’ awesome to finally be lobotomized, chipped, and told where my hard-earned money is going to be spent. Phew. I mean, living in a democratic society where I had to actually use my feeble little capitalist brain and choose things on my own - such as my doctors and personal philanthropies - was so friggin EXHAUSTING. Thank you, Mr. Lawyer Congress man, for finally getting into power so I could quit thinking for myself!

God. Bless. America.

You know how I got through the elections last night? I watched Purple Rain. That's right. Purple Rain. Prince in all his purple, puffy-shirtified hotness. There's nothing like a little cheese, Appolonia, and Morris Day and the Time to get your mind off the upcoming demise of America.

http://video.aol.com/video/princepurple-rain/1799330

Michigan makes babies cry.

2008-10-30T13:30:00.001-05:00

This shirt would be really fun to wear this weekend, if I was not a responsible and completely politically correct, domestic stepmother (that was really hard to type, you know).

In honor of the Michigan/Purdue game this weekend, I also felt compelled to post this YouTube clip. Sorry, but embedding was disabled, so you'll have to make the jump. Michigan makes babies cry. It's documented here, sportsfans.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H-fc5os23mI

(Go Boilers)

Opie, God, Revelation chips, and a needed superhero...

2008-10-28T07:11:00.002-05:00

My friend in Nashville sent this to me this morning. It's a clip of Ron Howard, endorsing Obama in a way that is, well, creepy as hell. He's using the character of Opie to express his belief, after drinking the Kool-Aid (the celebrity batch was especially strong, I think), that we should all vote for CHANGE. Which is Obama, according to him and a gazillion other people in the country. And, to make things worse in this already creepy video, he pulls in Andy Griffith, who's more than likely 125 years old right now and half senile, to put that proverbial cherry on top of a shit pie.

So, to preamble (faithful readers know I like to do so), if I didn't like vodka, sex, and shoes so much, I'd probably be a Buddhist with Christian foundation. I appreciate all faiths (the Lama visit was a religious experience in itself), but I do believe there's some sort of a God. At least I have faith in a God that I believe in, and he may not look, sound, or act like anyone else's. Call it weakness or call it strength, but I just think it's narrow-minded to believe that we're on this earth to only become dust one day. I'd like to think there's much more to it. I suppose I'm one of those optimistic idealists with a realistic hard candy shell.

It's very interesting, because some of the notions in Revelations have been showing themselves. It doesn't scare me, per se...it just interests me. I do know that if we all spiral down this socialism path and become as equal as possible, "sharing the wealth" and enjoying a lobotomized life of Vonnegut novel-like mediocrity, there will more than likely be some centralized and dictated manner of buying goods and services once we get to that severe equalized state. And, if you've ever read the Bible, you know that a chip in our hands or whereever the government chooses to implant it would be that "mark." If you don't accept it, then you'll more than likely starve to death.

I didn't write it, folks. I'm just reminding people of a piece of literature here. One that is weirdly timely right now. That's all. It's still a democracy, last I checked, and I have at least until January to say that SOCIALISM IS A CROCK OF MONKEY CRAP. :-)

My friend, Mockarena, said it best this morning. "We need a superhero!"

We totally do. One that can undo the spell of the Kool-Aid. This, of course, makes me wonder what Linda Carter is doing and if they've gotten to her yet. If they've forced the Kool-Aid down her throat. I always LOVED Wonder Woman. In Obama's world, she'd have to cut her invisible plane up into small pieces and share it. Very useful, indeed.

So, yeah....that creepy little video from Ron Howard. Here it is in all its "take advantage of the 50s and all it stood for" glory:

http://www.funnyordie.com/videos/cc65ed650d

My new favorite lawyer

2008-10-27T14:17:00.000-05:00

First a journalist, then a lawyer. It's been an eventful day, thinking about how the demise of America could very well start taking place next week, in between working my butt off to pay my mortgage. Happily, I might add.

Mark Levin is kind of cool.

The Kool-Aid must be some good stuff. I've never been one to give into peer pressure, though...

http://marklevinfan.com/?p=3686

8 days left, and I love this woman....

2008-10-27T06:30:00.000-05:00

At least she ASKED the question I would've asked. For that reason alone, she's my new favorite journalist. You go, girl...

Mr. Lawyer McCheaty is getting angry.

The Harrison Bergeron-ing of America.

2008-10-21T07:01:00.001-05:00

I have been very heads-down these days, trying to juggle about 7 different projects that I'm both managing and creating deliverables for. So, I rely on things like Fox News and the mind behind www.themockdock.com to give me my daily scoop of both snarkiness and news.

Yesterday, my friend Mockarena sent me the following movie trailer. We're both slightly disillusioned by the fact that we may be leaning towards becoming a more socialist country, and as a result, this irritates us WAY beyond the fact that Tara Reid can make a really, really good living as an actress. She is an actress, right?

So, two things. One, when our country spirals into socialist mediocrity, don't blame me. I'm voting for the other guy, because I think capitalism and all that it represents keeps us on our toes. Sort of like when I used to play tennis, and I always played better when they put me up against girls that were nicknamed "Moose."

Two, this movie is going to rock, mainly because Kurt Vonnegut rocks, but also because I think it's quite timely.

I'll be there opening night. God bless your brilliant soul, Kurt.

Second in line to fainting goats, I now want "Robert" on my property.

2008-10-20T10:53:00.002-05:00

I can't understand a word this man is saying, but he's a German dude named Karl who raises these giant rabbits. The rabbit is aptly named "Robert" (he does look like a Robert, I believe). I must have one immediately.

He was featured in the Chicago Tribune. Here's the snippet husband-man sent me today (at lunch, of course):

First bred in Germany by veteran breeder Karl Szmolinsky. The breed made worldwide news in 2006 when 23 lb (10 kg) "Robert" won a prize as Germany’s largest rabbit. As a result, the North Korean Government has begun a breeding program to use these very large rabbits to feed the population. It is reported however, that the rabbits sent by Szmolinsky were eaten at a birthday banquet for Kim Jong-il.

NICE. Kim Jong-il is an asshole. Karl, however, is keeping one, because he apparently fell in love with the fuzzy little man like I have.

If you haven't watched this yet, you must immediately.

2008-10-19T18:21:00.000-05:00

Democrat, Republican, Independent...whatever. She plain rocks, and you can't dispute it, people:

http://www.themockdock.com/2008/10/19/poehler-palin-rap/

Bruxism, becoming brunette, and Brazilgentina

2008-10-15T18:39:00.001-05:00

You know that migraine I had the other day? It was quite possibly a hormone-thing, but after consuming 3 Imitrex over the course of 2 days, the pain moved directly into the right side of my face and prevented me from chewing food. So, I decided to go to the dentist. I hate the dentist. I've proclaimed my hatred for the dentist in previous posts, as I'd rather have four pap smears - one right after the other - than go to the dentist. So, me going is a big deal. I either have to be punched directly in the face and have teeth knocked out of my head or have the raging pain I had the other day to ask for an appointment. But I know that if I can't eat solid food, there's an issue. I like food.

Lucky me...it turns out I have this little thing called Bruxism. It's a fancy name for clenching and grinding of the teeth. I do this at night. Why, you ask? I have no friggin' idea, other than the fact that I am a freak and a half. I'm a historically-maniacal insomniac who apparently thinks too much not ONLY while awake, but also while I'm asleep. I guess my sleeping brain believes that clenching and grinding my teeth with four times as much power as I do when I'm awake will rid me of all worries and life stressors. Welcome to my type-A little world. Jump right in. The water's warm.

So, my dentist said that I have good, strong teeth, but they're being worn down with the constant grinding, and the pain I'm experiencing is a result of this. The solution for this problem is to STOP DOING IT, of course. And the only way to stop doing it is to wear this really attractive mouth guard at night. Kind of like a very thick condom for my teeth. A teeth Trojan, if you will. My first mental image was Joan Cusack in Sixteen Candles...the vision of her with that hugely awesome headgear.

Within 10 minutes of the diagnosis, dentist-man shoves this nasty cement crap in my mouth, holds it there for three minutes, and oila! Instant mold of my upper mouth. I shall have my really sexy cure for bruxism by tomorrow afternoon. In my very own hands. Lucky, lucky me!

To add to my extreme overall hotness, I got my hair cut tonight. And colored, of course. Brown. Really, really brown. I'm a brunette tonight for the first time in YEARS. And, while I realize I have to let it settle and grow on me a bit...fade out and find its groove...I'm a blonde by nature. Yes, I realize that my blonde may not be all real, but I'm truly a blonde from the depths of my soul. Tonight was one of those, "I just need a change, and it's winter, so why the hell not?" nights. I went full-on brunette and got a little Posh Spice cut to go with it. The cut is adorable, and I love it. The color? I kind of hate it. I'll let it try to change my mind in the next few days, and if it doesn't convince me of its sheer sexiness, I will reconsider and kill the brunette me. And that's OK. Because I live in a constant hairocracy...and I'm the dictator.

To top off my sexy brunette bruxism, I also found out today that my slated work trip to Brazil has been derailed. Instead, I shall be going to ARGENTINA. I am BEYOND excited about this. Brazil was going to be a cool place to visit, but I started becoming fearful of my eventual slaying upon my arrival at the Sao Paolo airport. Argentina is where Oscar the Boxer lives, so it must be OK. This news made up for any dental condoms in my future, as I'll finally be visiting a Spanish-speaking, South American country at 37. I've been wanting to do this since I sat happily, conjugating verbs and going by the self-imposed Spanish name Cha Cha, in 10th grade Spanish class. My undergraduate minor in Spanish will finally have a shot at rearing its head, other than to say, "Otra margarita, por favor!"

So, to recap. I am the coolest writer-chick on the planet today, as I'll be jetting to South America in December. This completely overshadows my complete brunette indifference, the teeth Trojan, and the fact that I could very well be morphing into Joan Cusack's character in Sixteen Candles.

And with that, I bid you goodnight.

This is basically what happened, only the bird that hit us was real.

2008-10-13T12:25:00.001-05:00

Concerning my last post about the flying chicken....Well, it was a lot like this. I am Christina Applegate, and she's Cameron Diaz, only I think we're way cuter.

Flying Chickens, vodka, and my deferral to themockdock

2008-10-12T19:10:00.001-05:00

I could blog all of the events of this weekend, but Mr. Daisywriter has made me his world-famous, "the kids aren't with us tonight, so have a cocktail" cranberry vodka drink. He missed his calling as a bartender, because as a man who doesn't drink very much at all, his cocktails are unbelievably dangerous and yummy. I am somewhat tipsy, if you will, so I shall refrain from trying to sound smart in any way, shape, or form.

Instead of acting like I can spew original thoughts, I shall defer blogging of the weekend's festivities to my fated fabulous friend Mockarena. She blogged what really needed to be blogged - the wedding to end all weddings. The big, huge, obese Greek one that everyone wants to attend. We attended it, indeed, in true Mock/Daisy fashion.

I would like to point out, though, as I did in a comment to themockdock.com, that I believe that Jesus threw a sacrificial fowl at us. I'd also like to publicly proclaim that Hacienda in Kokomo, Indiana, has salsa that I truly believe is laced with crack.

http://www.themockdock.com/2008/10/11/greek-orthodox-weddings-suicidal-chickens-and-hacienda/

The simplicity of men.

2008-10-10T13:25:00.001-05:00

I don't often write about my husband-man, as I love him dearly and admire him greatly. I keep the majority of my blogging focus off him, as he's a private man, and I try to respect that. Unlike me, he doesn't talk unless he has something of real value to say. I, on the other hand, am a walking mouth that jabbers constantly. He's always been unassuming, never one to be flashy...doesn't care about what brand of clothes he wears or car he drives. He buys a car because it's practical. He's quietly confident. He doesn't need the fluff, and I know that he's pretty cerebral, which is one of the main reasons I was first attracted to him. I've always been a sucker for a smart man. Smart men that don't use hair products and have no idea what Burberry is. The kind of man that's rugged...the one who wears work boots and has substantial facial hair and often grease or dirt under his fingernails. No way around it...this is just plain hot - at least to me.

I wouldn't normally "out" my husband for anything in my blog, mainly because there's not much to "out" about him. However, I felt compelled to do so today. You see, my husband - the guy who watches only Discovery Channel, Sci Fi, TLC, and the History Channel (with the occasional exception of Family Guy and South Park) - is a thinking man. Case in point: last night, I came in from my night class, set my keys on the counter, said hello, and noticed that he was watching a documentary on how lead was made. Yep. Lead. As in that heavy stuff. Yeah.

So, knowing what kind of a guy my husband is, it makes me giggle when he gets excited about the one show I never dreamed he'd get excited about. It's the exception to the cerebral rule to end all exceptions. The season premiere of this show is tomorrow, I've learned, and all things will be set aside to watch it. Leave it to cheerleaders to make my cerebral husband a deer-in-the-headlights. God bless CMT's Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders "Making the Team." In all its anti-feminist glory, I, too, love this show. It's a train wreck. It's simply awesome.

Yes, I'm outing you, hon. Because it makes me smile that we can sit down together as a happy couple, I can snark on the girls' dancing ability and lack of world and political knowledge while you stare at their abundant boobs. It's the little things. And in this case, I find bonding with my husband over blatant T&A just plain sweet.

To hook any potential viewers out there, Joel McHale highlighted my absolute favorite scene from last year's show. Enjoy the blondeness:

Chuck Norris the Visionary

2008-10-09T10:11:00.001-05:00

My Dad sent me this article today in a roundabout way. I just love that Mr. Norris is giving commentary on Washington. I secretly hope that he goes to Washington and opens up a can of whoopass on everyone. Yes, I just wrote the word "whoopass." That was a first. Congratulations, Dad.

http://www.humanevents.com/article.php?id=28902

Appraisals, churches and chicks

2008-10-09T07:03:00.005-05:00

Yesterday was a blur of work, work, and more work. I worked at home yesterday, which makes me once again proclaim that I love my job. I didn't shower all day, didn't wear a stitch of makeup, and didn't wear any shoes except flip flops temporarily while taking the dogs out a few times. It was non-stop chaos, con-calls, and creative writing from 6:30 am to 6 pm. But it was a gloriously mish-mashed day. While juggling work, I was also expecting an appraiser to come to our house, as we're trying to take advantage of the financial ruin of our country and refinance our home. Additionally, I had a date after dinner to see my neighbor's new shipment of chicks - little, fuzzy, baby chicks that I'll be tending to this weekend when they're out of town. Who would've thought that there's actually work into keeping these little fuzzy things alive?

While on my second conference call of the morning, I was interrupted by what I refer to as the "bible people." These people have come to my house before. In fact, I think that in the past year of living in my country residence, I've had at least 4 visits from people trying to make me see the "light of Jesus Christ." Right after we moved in, The God Squad was in the form of a 16-year old kid and his little girlfriend - who didn't speak much, as I don't think she believed it was her place as a woman to do so. The teenage boy was trying to tell me - a 36-year old at the time who, I will venture to say, has lived a few lifetimes in those years - how to live life. He asked if I had been "saved" yet. I still don't really even know what that means. And, he couldn't even grow facial hair yet, for chrissake. My lip was bleeding from biting it, and while I wanted so badly grab the girl, shake her, and give her some Camille Paglia to read, I didn't. I kept my mouth shut, was polite, and smiled at them while explaining that I was busy working. I actually work and all. I did the same thing yesterday. It was a lady and a man, dressed in those horribly unfashionable dark suits that scream cult couture. I mean, why can't a woman of God come to your door in Jessica Simpson shoes? Is there some I-accept-Jesus-into-my-life paperwork you sign that says, "I'm going to forfeit the fun of being a put-together, sexy, strong-willed woman. I'm not ever going to consciously appreciate the fact that I have a nice rack, because that would just be wrong. Even though God made me as a woman and has given me these long legs, I know I shouldn't show them. EVER. No way. I'll be dowdy and wear my husband's clothes instead. Yeah. That's what God intended."

When I told the lady that I was in the middle of a conference call and that I had no time to take away from my workload, she said to me, "well, bless your HEART."

Bless my heart? Because I have to work? I like to work. I like making money. I like buying food and shoes, lady.

Bless. My. Heart. Alrighty then.

I think I've said this before, but I do believe there's a God...I just believe that he's up there shaking his head at all of us, saying, "This is SO not what I had in mind...you people have just royally f*cked up everything I set out to do." THAT is how I think we, as a people, are flawed. We're just not nice to one another. We just don't GET it as a human race, I don't think. Plain and simple. And, while I think some people find their own way and do it in a sincere manner, I think a lot of the Christians I know, at least, have this air of "I'm in a special club and that makes me superior." It's an extension of a high school clique, and heaven is like that awesome club you want to get into, but aren't sure if the guy at the door is going to let you in based on his own perceptions of you.

I don't believe that's the way God intended things to be. And the Catholic church? Well, my steady readers know the drill there. Money makes people - and institutions - corrupt. And that's all I got to say about that.

When spirituality gets wrapped up in money and elitism based on who finances the biggest and grandest stained-glass windows in the church....when it becomes a way for insecure people to point fingers at me and judge me...when it is a way for other flawed humans, such as myself, to justify their own sins and wrongdoings by thinking, "well, I can just ask for forgiveness for being a complete son of a bitch most days of my life and still get into eternal happiness in heaven"....then it's not something I'm genuinely interested in.

Try explaining that to the Church Lady at your doorstep. It's harder than you think. Next time, when she tries to make me over to be more in Jesus' likeness, I, in turn, may offer a makeover for her. I'll start with the shoes and work my way up. And THEN we can talk about how cool God is.

More fun from Oscar the Boxer.

2008-10-07T15:29:00.001-05:00

I'm getting ready to head home for the day - much work to do tonight. When the humans piss me off, I turn to the pups...and I love some Oscar Schnookums. He looks so much like my Tess Larue. His little clips have inspired me to start documenting my three canine children's lives more. I shall begin that promptly. Until then, here's Oscar at the beach in Argentina. It actually made ME smile, and that's a huge feat today. I especially like the porn-like 70s music. Solid gold.

I love my job. I love my job. GGRRR. I love my job.

2008-10-07T11:35:00.003-05:00

Today sucks. I'm irritated beyond repair today. Today, I really hate my job, but I'll just keep reminding myself that it's the first day I've hated my job in 8 weeks, and I really, for the most part, adore my job overall. I just hate it today. I hate it so much today because of one distinct person, actually. Then the one condescending, blood-sucking, soulless excuse for a human has made it his/her mission to make my work life both inefficient and as difficult as possible today, which in turn makes me irritable towards all other normal human beings, of course. Today is a grand reminder of why I have worked contract my whole career. Corporate politics are such raging, smelly, ridiculously unnecessary bullshit. It also reminds me of how wonderful life may be had I actually majored in piano performance and gone on to play backup for Clapton. I don't know if Clapton provides a dental plan, though.

I must snarf down my sandwich now, then catch up on the 50 million things I have to do, due to the fact I spent all morning cleaning up the mess caused by that said soulless human. In the meantime, the above clip sums up my day. I'd like to emphasize that I am the chicken. Enjoy.

October Foo Fix

2008-10-06T14:42:00.000-05:00

It's been a year (on September 25th, to be exact) that Echoes, Silence, Patience & Grace came out, and I still friggin LOVE this album like I was hearing it for the first time. It may very well be the new millenium's Abbey Road. I can say that, because I'm now a member of the "I'd Sell my Family to Marry Dave Grohl" club on Facebook, which makes me ridiculously cool and borderline psychotic stalker.

My favorite song on the album - and it's taken me a year to really pick - is "Let it Die," which is the first song they played at the concert I took Speedy to in Indy this past July.

I know you want to thank me for giving you this month's Foo Fix. But, it's OK...you don't have to thank me. It's the least I can do for my three adoring fans. I'm a giver like that...

Flying Shlongs and the Best. Job. Ever.

2008-10-06T14:08:00.001-05:00

Forgive me, faithful Daisywriter companions, for I have blog-sinned. It’s been a week since my last confession. So much has happened in the past week, even though none of it was really that blogworthy.

First and foremost, I captured a fabulous snapshot at the Purdue/Penn State game this past Saturday. It’s a flying penis. A really, really large penile member floating around the stands in a glorious, inflatable format. Someone actually BOUGHT this thing somewhere. In fact, it’s created such curiosity in me to find out where in the sam hell you can actually buy 8-foot blowup shlongs. The flying penis first reared its head (no pun intended) a few weeks ago at another Purdue home game -in the student section, of course - but it was snatched up so quickly by security guards, it eluded me. This time, I was ready for the big one-eyed wonder worm, and lo and behold, I got my photographic evidence. There’s nothing funnier than a flying penis. Much like chimpanzees, it’s up there as comic gold on the funny list.

So, there was that blogworthy occurrence. Pictured above for posterity.

Fast forward to this morning, when I arrived at work like my conscientious early-bird self, opened up my Outlook inbox, and saw a really cool surprise. My boss #1 is Mr. Communications man-in-charge of my company, and I am, for lack of a better phrase, his right-hand writer/editor/manager chick. He’s like a marketing and communications-slanted John McCain, if you will, and I’m his Sarah Palin. If he’s not able to do something merely because he is incapable of cloning himself, I’m his little Alaskan princess stand-in, whisking into action with my rifle to combat communications terrorists and such. I'm just amazed that I have a shred of imagination left, people. Honestly.

My boss will be out of town on business in Tennessee in early December. He has committed to being at an engagement and as a result, he will not be able to travel to Brazil to handle yet another engagement. Yeah, you read that right. BRAZIL. What does this mean? Well, this means that I, Daisywriter, the girl who doesn’t speak a lick of Portugese but feels as though her Spanish minor may still come in handy beyond ordering margaritas one of these days, gets to possibly go to BRAZIL. I almost urinated all over myself with excitement.

Of course, my thoughts went immediately to colorful, party-filled, naked people in the street in Rio, free and festival-like and very, well, Brazilian. People with this fabulously sun-kissed skin, soaking up rays and being decadently carefree while I watch, all WASPy and pasty and ginger-like, in absolute bewilderment. However, upon conveying the wonderful news to my husband, my thoughts were somewhat squelched. Husband-man is petrified that I’ll get killed anywhere near a Brazilian airport by random gunfire (much to my surprise, their murder rate is four times that of the United States). Or worse - I'll be kidnapped and sold into Brazilian sex slavery. He’s completely freaked out about my safety or the lack thereof in such a turmoil-infused country. Which, I’ll admit, is very sweet and protective and dutiful-husband-like, but I keep telling him to give me at least 5 minutes to bask in the glory of my Brazilian, half-naked, sunshine-filled, party daydreams.

I guess I never really thought about the crime, but he has made me promise that I’ll have either a traveling companion or some sort of escort for the trip. Traveling alone is, in his opinion, not an option as a pasty tourist chick. Even the boring federal transportation sites tell travelers to be cautious, as “random acts of violence” are common in that neck of the woods. And here I always thought everyone was just drunk and in costumes all the time.

So much for carefree and colorful. Although I am thinking about confiscating the giant shlong and taking it with me as a peace offering.

The Female Chuck Norris

2008-09-26T09:54:00.000-05:00

My friend Paul sent this to me today (I totally used your name, Paul...consider this your very sad and pathetic 10 seconds of fame, dude). It's an article about who I believe is the female Chuck Norris. While my Vols suck donkey balls this year (they do...they really, really do), the girls basketball team still rocks, as I know it always will as long as Mrs. Summit herself is in charge.

Summitt has shoulder surgery for raccoon attack
Sep 25, 1:39 pm EDT

KNOXVILLE, Tenn. (AP)—Tennessee basketball coach Pat Summitt had offseason shoulder surgery, not for a sports injury but because of a tussle with a raccoon.

The winningest basketball coach in NCAA history has had problems with her right shoulder since dislocating it while chasing away a raccoon poised to attack her Labrador. The attack came near her home on March 5, just days before the Southeastern Conference tournament.

A month later, Summitt guided the Vols to their eighth NCAA title.

Summitt had arthroscopic surgery Thursday in Knoxville, Tenn., to repair recurring instability problems.

The coach will begin rehab in about a week. The Lady Vols begin practice on Oct. 17.

She didn't even have to use her gun. You know she has one. Total studette.

Oscar the Talking Dog: My New Obsession

2008-09-25T09:58:00.002-05:00

I love this dog. I swear, I first saw him in the video above, but there are about 15 more videos of him on You Tube. He's Oscar, the talking boxer, and he's so adorable, I may eat his scrunchy, wrinkled, mooshy little face.

Bizarro World and My Fabulous New Gig

2008-09-25T07:19:00.001-05:00

Yesterday was the weirdest day. First of all, my alarm was nonexistent at 5 am. It never woke me up, and my biological clock woke me up about 45 minutes past my usual waking time. So, from minute one of rising, I was in a state of panic frenzy, rushing like a crazy lunatic. I finally made it to work, everything seemed to be fine, when I realized that I am still a pre-menopausal woman and suddenly had cramps that would kill a large horse.

Fast forward to end-of-day. Because I do an 80-mile round trip to work every day, I try to get up with the roosters and get there early. Then, I feel OK with leaving by 4:30 or 5. Yesterday, I did just that, thinking I'd be home in time to hang with the stepson on our scheduled Wednesday night together. I got on the highway to realize that, SH*T, a semi had somehow lodged itself under a bridge or overpass or God only knows, so traffic was at a standstill. Thirty whole minutes later, I had driven one mile and made it to the next exit. People were irritated and driving like morons at this point. After I turned off the exit, I noticed a wreck that happened right behind me. I missed it by seconds. Then, I traveled about 3 more miles, came to a stop light and saw that it was clearly a shade of yellow. I slow to stop, while the crazy bastard next to me decided to gun it and subsequently flew through the dangerously then-pinkish light. He did, and I thought, "wow...this idiot's going to slam into someone." Which, in fact, he did. Right there. About 10 feet in front of me. Slammed into a woman that was trying to make a left turn. It's as if it was all in slow motion in a 3-D movie.

So, I wait to see if people are OK. Once I saw that everyone was up, moving, and yelling obscenities at one another with no protruding bones or bloodshed, I thought, "get me the hell OUT of here," and I drove around them. Perhaps it wasn't the nicest and most helpful thing I could've done, but at that point, I felt as though I had entered the Twilight Zone and wanted desperately to just get home. With all my parts intact.

After 2.5 hours just to get home last night, you can imagine my elation when I saw that I will be allowed to telecommute a few times a week starting next week. My collective bosses - I have two that "share" me - left the approval on my chair. This allows me to transition into how much I friggin' LOVE MY JOB. I love my job, people. I do. It rocks. I have an office with my name on the door, which would be enough for someone like me, really. After contracting for 14 years, I'm used to the corner supply closet the size of the backseat of my car as my office. I'm used to being the red-headed stepchild, of sorts. I tend to be more grateful than your average permanent employee-type who has had a 401K and this really neat thing called Vacation time for their whole career. I'm the nomad who has landed. And, after years of either crappy or nonexistent bosses, I now have two down-to-earth, respectful, appreciative, fantastic bosses. Both men, thank God...and nice, down-to-earth, normal, family-type, good-guy men. And, even though it's a gazillion miles away from my house, I love to come to work every day. This is huge. I would guess that my father has probably just fallen over in his chair upon reading this paragraph.

I get to dodge communications bullets and catch speeding ones in my mouth on a daily basis. Some hate the chaos, but I thrive in it, and so it's been a joy to be able to write a video script one hour, while editing a brochure the next and then driving to another state to actively serve as project manager on another project. I have not been bored since Day 1. I've been super-crazy-girl-busy, and I've loved every single minute of it. For once in my adult life, I don't just like my job. I friggin' LOVE my job. So there you go.

From the madness of yesterday comes the appreciation of today. That's what life is all about, right? Perspective. The kind that can change on a dime.

Carpe diem, indeed.

Friday Night Saks Bitches

2008-09-22T06:39:00.000-05:00

My entire weekend consisted mainly of football. College and NFL. Before I blog about my football experiences (some were too painful to write about just yet), I shall tell you a quick story about my Friday night.

Another preamble to a quick story: I love to shop. It's as if I woke up at 30 and became especially obsessed with shoes and handbags. I have lived in many cities, shopped in many different stores, and while some have been more uppity than others, I've never felt as though I wasn't good enough to shop at any store I've visited. I've bought things on Newbury Street (the "Rodeo Drive" of Boston), been in several boutiques on Oak Street (Chicago), and LIVED in Atlanta, for chrissake. If anyone's going to be uppity, it'll be some sales clerk in Buckhead. Believe me.

Well, fast forward to Friday night. My friend Mockarena (www.themockdock.com - story also chronicled there, but from a different perspective, of course) and I were having a girl's dinner and cocktails night out. It started out lovely. I followed her to her house after work, met her 2.5-year old son, Mini-Mock, and hung out for while reminiscing with her husband (who happened to go to my high school in the South, of all coincidences). We then took off for our intended destination - The Cheesecake Factory - at the big fashion mall here in town. Knowing that the wait would be horrendous on a Friday night, we thought it would be nice to walk through Saks Fifth Avenue and mock all the overpriced crap. So, we did.

Upon entering the handbag and shoe department, I spotted this supple, platinum gray leather Prada bag. Price tag? $1500. It was extremely lickable. I seriously wanted to either lick the leather or put it on the floor, take my clothes off and roll around on it for a while. That's how yummy this purse was, people.

Knowing that I'm way too intelligent to ever spend $1500 on a purse, I thought it'd be funny to get my picture taken with it - much like I would have my picture taken with the Pope, should I ever get to meet him. So, Mockarena took my phone and snapped a picture. Within a second of the clicking sound, the two clerks in the department shuffled quickly over to us as if we were hardened criminals. Older-lady clerk behind the counter (who I assume was in charge of overpriced scarves) motioned for younger lady clerk (who looked just like Michelle Obama) to stop us. I thought she may confiscate the camera. She told us that pictures were not to be taken...blah blah. I sort of tuned her out when she was scolding us, instead going into an immediate daydream about what Prada prison would look like. I was livid.

Mockarena was shocked. Just astonished at the whole spectacle, and kept asking, "Why? Why?" Remember when Nancy Kerrigan was smacked in the knees with crowbars by Tonya Harding's posse? Yeah, it was like that.

Only the bitch could NOT give us an answer other than, "It's Saks policy."

Of course, Mockarena was shocked and nice, whereas I was irritated by the whole thing. If it's a stealing-ideas-to-combat-counterfeiting thing, then they clearly need to explain that to customers instead of being uppity bitches. I think they just like being uppity bitches, though, and thoroughly enjoy being condescending to customers, mainly so they can feel better about the fact that they barely made it through high school and make $9/hour.

I have four fake Pradas in my closet right now. Not to mention a Dolce and Gabbana and I've always wanted a Balenciaga knockoff (although I have yet to see one at my Marathon Gas station, state fair, or flea market - where the other knockoffs were purchased). The day I spend $1500 on a purse is the day I've officially gone insane. Certifiably nuts. Especially when I can get one at my local gas station for 30 bucks.

Now, I understand the whole counterfeiting thing...I feel really bad for people who invent something cool and then get their ideas stolen. But this is a plain, gray leather sack. It's not like it's the cure for cancer or a revolutionary solar panel, people. This is a f*cking purse. It's 2008, and if you think that you should get some sort of patent for a plain, gray purse, then you're obviously making way too much money and taking way too many drugs.

Get over yourself, Ms. Saks purse manager. And, I can't wait for the day I shall walk through your store again, wearing all four of my fakes at once.

Now THAT would be a picture.

I gotta get me one of these.

2008-09-19T08:45:00.000-05:00

So my husband sends me a clip this morning about these goats that get scared and faint. I found this additional video, which I had to share, of course. I now want 10 fainting goats on my property. Immediately. And, I will love them like I love my dogs, but I shall also scare them approximately every 20 minutes just to pee my pants laughing. It's the little things, people.

Random Capitalist Plug

2008-09-16T07:10:00.000-05:00

This is extremely random, but I came across this site this morning and I have fallen in love with the jewelry. Had to plug.

http://store.brevitydesign.com/

God, I love Dunkin Donuts

2008-09-15T19:10:00.002-05:00

I just found out that there's a Dunkin Donuts right down the street from my office. This could very well be one of the happiest days of my life, people.

The Difference Between Men and Women

2008-09-15T19:04:00.002-05:00

My husband showed me this picture, and asked what I thought. I pondered for a second, and I expressed what first came to mind: I wasn't quite sure if her shoes were Nikes or Pumas, but they're green. I mean, they don't really match what she's wearing, although I guess I could try to like them if they were part of a cute marathoning ensemble or something. I could maybe make them work in the right fashion situation, as the color could really add a pop to an otherwise drab outfit.

Then he turned to me and said, "She has shoes on?"

Yeah. This is precisely the difference between men and women.

If I did at least one of these, I'd be the coolest professor EVER.

2008-09-15T06:35:00.000-05:00

My good pal forwarded this to me this morning. I have to say, number 15 is one of my favorites, but it's really hard to pick just one. Mr. Meiss is rather humorous.

50 Fun Things for Professors to Do on the First Day of Class
by Alan Meiss

1. Wear a hood with one eyehole. Periodically make strange gurgling noises.
2. After confirming everyone's names on the roll, thank the class for attending "Advanced Astrodynamics 690" and mention that yesterday was the last day to drop.
3. After turning on the overhead projector, clutch your chest and scream "MY PACEMAKER!"
4. Wear a pointed Kaiser helmet and a monocle and carry a riding crop.
5. Gradually speak softer and softer and then suddenly point to a student and scream "YOU! WHAT DID I JUST SAY?"
6. Deliver your lecture through a hand puppet. If a student asks you a question directly, say in a high-pitched voice, "The Professor can't hear you, you'll have to ask *me*, Winky Willy".
7. If someone asks a question, walk silently over to their seat, hand them your piece of chalk, and ask, "Would YOU like to give the lecture, Mr. Smartypants?"
8. Pick out random students, ask them questions, and time their responses with a stop watch. Record their times in your grade book while muttering "tsk, tsk".
9. Ask students to call you "Tinkerbell" or "Surfin' Bird".
10. Stop in mid-lecture, frown for a moment, and then ask the class whether your butt looks fat.
11. Play "Kumbaya" on the banjo.
12. Show a video on medieval torture implements to your calculus class. Giggle throughout it.
13. Announce "you'll need this", and write the suicide prevention hotline number on the board.
14. Wear mirrored sunglasses and speak only in Turkish. Ignore all questions.
15. Start the lecture by dancing and lip-syncing to James Brown's "Sex Machine."
16. Ask occasional questions, but mutter "as if you gibbering simps would know" and move on before anyone can answer.
17. Ask the class to read Jenkins through Johnson of the local phone book by the next lecture. Vaguely imply that there will be a quiz.
18. Have one of your graduate students sprinkle flower petals ahead of you as you pace back and forth.
19. Address students as "worm".
20. Announce to students that their entire grades will be based on a single-question oral final exam. Imply that this could happen at any moment.
21. Turn off the lights, play a tape of crickets chirping, and begin singing spirituals.
22. Ask for a volunteer for a demonstration. Ask them to fill out a waiver as you put on a lead apron and light a blowtorch.
23. Point the overhead projector at the class. Demand each student's name, rank, and serial number.
24. Begin class by smashing the neck off a bottle of vodka, and announce that the lecture's over when the bottle's done.
25. Have a band waiting in the corner of the room. When anyone asks a question, have the band start playing and sing an Elvis song.
26. Every so often, freeze in mid sentence and stare off into space for several minutes. After a long, awkward silence, resume your sentence and proceed normally.
27. Wear a "virtual reality" helmet and strange gloves. When someone asks a question, turn in their direction and make throttling motions with your hands.
28. Mention in passing that you're wearing rubber underwear.
29. Growl constantly and address students as "matey".
30. Devote your math lecture to free verse about your favorite numbers and ask students to "sit back and groove".
31. Announce that last year's students have almost finished their class projects.
32. Inform your English class that they need to know Fortran and code all their essays. Deliver a lecture on output format statements.
33. Bring a small dog to class. Tell the class he's named "Boogers McGee" and is your "mascot". Whenever someone asks a question, walk over to the dog and ask it, "What'll be, McGee?"
34. Wear a feather boa and ask students to call you "Snuggles".
35. Tell your math students that they must do all their work in a base 11 number system. Use a complicated symbol you've named after yourself in place of the number 10 and threaten to fail students who don't use it.
36. Claim to be a chicken. Squat, cluck, and produce eggs at irregular intervals.
37. Bring a CPR dummy to class and announce that it will be the teaching assistant for the semester. Assign it an office and office hours.
38. Have a grad student in a black beret pluck at a bass while you lecture.
39. Sprint from the room in a panic if you hear sirens outside.
40. Give an opening monologue. Take two minute "commercial breaks" every ten minutes.
41. Tell students that you'll fail them if they cheat on exams or "fake the funk".
42. Announce that you need to deliver two lectures that day, and deliver them in rapid-fire auctioneer style.
43. Pass out dental floss to students and devote the lecture to oral hygiene.
44. Announce that the entire 32-volume Encyclopedia Britannica will be required reading for your class. Assign a report on Volume 1, Aardvark through Armenia, for next class.
45. Ask students to list their favorite showtunes on a signup sheet. Criticize their choices and make notes in your grade book.
46. Sneeze on students in the front row and wipe your nose on your tie.
47. Warn students that they should bring a sack lunch to exams.
48. Refer frequently to students who died while taking your class.
49. Show up to lecture in a ventilated clean suit. Advise students to keep their distance for their own safety and mutter something about "that bug I picked up in the field".
50. Jog into class, rip the textbook in half, and scream, "Are you pumped? ARE YOU PUMPED? I CAN'T HEEEEEEAR YOU!"

And, of course, I shall cite this work:
http://monster-island.org/tinashumor/humor/profs.html

And Robbie Williams, also, is not gay.

2008-09-12T14:48:00.002-05:00

First there was my Prince shout out. Not gay, people. Just has a really, very, superbly gay stylist. And then there's Robbie Williams. Now, I know I'm a bit behind the times. I don't always know who the kids are listening to these days, and I definitely don't keep up much with British pop music, but I was recently introduced to Robbie Williams - the face - beyond the lame song (I think it was called Millenium) I've actually heard on the radio one, maybe two, times. He has a splendid voice when he's not singing the poppy crap. Angelic, even. But I don't think America will ever hear it, because they're too busy listening to Heidi Montag. Please stab me in the ears.

Robbie Williams has never really made it big over here, but he's HUGE in England. I don't get why some people make it here and some people don't. I mean, look at Amy Winehouse and her popularity in the States, then you look at Robbie's and it's truly perplexing. I personally think Amy Winehouse died about 3 months ago, and they're holding her up a'la Weekend at Bernie's. No one can live through what that woman has does to herself. Honestly.

So, Robbie Williams the somewhat unknown British pop star, is not gay. There you go.

And, his hotness and the hoopla surrounding his hotness has prompted me to once again break out my long-awaited Top Five list, which includes the top five men that I, Daisywriter, should have a thumbs up from husband man should they ever come sniffing around for a smooch. The trump card notion. Don't say you don't have a list. If you do, you're a lying sack of crap.

I've told husband man that he can have a list, too, of course. I encourage the creativity. I've been very upfront and said that if Demi Moore actually came knocking on our door, I'd first ask if she was lost, then ask for proper identification, and finally would allow my husband to take her out for a night on the town. We have a truck stop nearby I think she'd enjoy, after all.

So, the top five list is forthcoming. I know you're eager. Try to contain yourselves.

Correction and Clarification.

2008-09-11T18:17:00.000-05:00

In my latest post, I stated the following concerning said friend Mockarena:

"I believe we're friends primarily for one reason and one reason alone: we both feel that Prince is heterosexual."

This prompted one of the two comments I think I've received on my blog (two of which came from her, I believe). I would like to clarify that yes, for the Prince connection alone, Mockarena and I would've become friends. However, we are also friends for the following other 10 random reasons (and this list excludes the 10,000 OTHER reasons currently on the living list):

- We both love Victoria Beckham and Sarah Palin. Fascinating. We just can't look away, people.
- We both appreciate Robbie Williams' talents and penchant for grabbing his genitals (blog entry forthcoming). We especially like it when he sings either with his father or to his mother (usually surpassing Sinatra's prowess in a Sinatra song), as this parental affection shows that deep down, he's a good boy. A good boy who likes to grab his crotch as often as humanly possible.
- We both love men and have married two individual males who are, well, MEN. No hair products. No whining. No metrosexuality anywhere in their genetic makeups.
- We both think that kids are amusing as hell. Especially when you dress them up in chicken costumes at Halloween.
- We both love old 80s music and movies and appreciate all things from that beautiful, innocent, Reagan-infused era.
- We both loathe the young celebrity of today, especially those little bitches.
- We both laugh at things other people would not see as funny. Others may think this makes us sub-cerebral and just plain giggly; I say it shows that we know something that they don’t.
- We both think that Jessica Simpson looks painfully constipated while singing, and if he was not still living right this second, we would equally agree that she is Joe Cocker reincarnated as a blonde, bowel-challenged bimbo who peddles great shoes and handbags.
- We both believe Madeline Kahn was a comic friggin’ genius. And Mel Brooks was even more of a genius for showcasing that fact.
- We both love candy corn in its pumpkin-molded form (and I just found that out today, so it didn’t even make it to the real list yet).

10 reasons of 10,000. I needed to clarify, apparently. I apologize, my Mockarena friend, and will be more cautious of my words the next time. Even if I do sling a blog entry in between "I need it now!" deliverables. Like I tell my students, “Always read something more than five times before you turn it in, as Bill Gates can’t do everything for you, you lazy slackasses.” And, because I only have four readers, I can't afford to lose any. Regardless of what the Schoolhouse Rock song said, three really is NOT the magic number.

Now go read her blog one more time (shameless plug #14 - www.themockdock.com) so she can get on 20/20 again and let me represent her from a public relations perspective (I want to personally hijack and shave John Stossel's Magnum P.I. 'stache).

And so it goes. One of Daisywriter's first retractions on record.

Prince and Bigfoot

2008-09-11T15:08:00.003-05:00

"Perceived Gay Prince"

One of my newest girlfriends is a woman I work with ("Mockarena" herself...shameless plug...www.themockdock.com). I believe we're friends primarily for one reason and one reason alone: we both feel that Prince is heterosexual.

Now, mind you, I believe that Prince is in touch with his feminine side. I also believe that he's dripping with sex appeal, and I just refuse to believe that all of the women he's worked with over the past 20 years didn't indeed have sexual relations with him. I'm just saying.

Of course, there are naysayers. In fact, Mockarena's sister pokes fun at us, as does about 9/10 of the general population. It is difficult to defend album covers such as the one depicted above.

I'm posting this, however, because I feel as though I'm one of two women in the world who truly believes that this man is weirdly sexy in his own, "I-break-all-gender-categories" way. It's as if Jimi Hendrix and a non-gay Little Richard had a baby and named him, aptly, Prince.

So, to all you women who love Prince. I salute you. While he wouldn't be on my top ten hottest men of all time (or at least for this week) list, he'd still be an intriguing catch if I was a fishing single woman.

Prince is not homosexual, people. He's just misunderstood.

And, I also believe in Bigfoot, so sue me already.