C.H.A.L.L.E.N.G.E.!!!

My cousin is in sixth grade and got a Mac notebook for Christmas. I know. Totally jealous.

At any rate, yesterday I helped him create a podcast. When we were done, I went downstairs to eat and my cousin picked up his computer, and the AC adaptor, and left the room. Thirty seconds later I heard a loud crash. I walked into the room to find smashed glass and water gushing out all over the floor. Turns out he had been swinging the AC adaptor over his head like a lasso and the heavy white square part crashed into a glass vase on a shelf, breaking it into smithereens.

Do you remember being a child and having such a freewheeling and irresponsible relationship to material objects? I once accidentally kicked a pair of heels off in a hissy and broke a stained-glass window. I remember my sister and I were once chasing each other around the island in my parents kitchen, each with a full glass of water in our hands and then suddenly, like drunken whore's, clanked the glasses together, shattering them and drenching each other. I feel like I haven't gotten carried away with that kind of fun in a long time. Sad.

That said, I am fully committed to break something carelessly this week - believe me when I say, I'm due for some serious destruction.

Game on, bitches!!

Paging Mr. Sandman

Insomnia. It's here, and it's here with a vengeance.

It's hard to point to the cause as this is a relatively common issue with me. But I feel like I've probably had two nights of sleep in the past week. It's getting brutal. Today I woke up at 3:00 AM, and lay there staring at the ceiling, trying to will myself back to sleep. And eventually, I did. I fell back asleep at about 6:30 AM. 30 minutes before my alarm went off. Awesome.

Have you ever had insomnia so badly that you start drifting into madness? I think it's starting to happen to me. It started out normally... and then I started thinking, (which is the kiss of death for insomniacs). I thought about work. I thought about California. I then started thinking about whiskey, and what my favorite brands are. I thought about Irish vs. Bourbon, and decided I'm definitely more of a "Dirty South Bourbon" kinda gal. I then started listing my favorite Led Zeppelin tracks, and wondering how anyone could possibly create such unbelievable music and still have enough genius left over to make the 'The Song Remains the Same'. I then decided to write something about John Bonham (because I'm eternally obsessed with the drummer). I even started composing it in my head. It went downhill from there.

Finally, I was staring insanity in the face.

I called my ex-BF (which is my go to move when I can't sleep). We discussed different methods regarding how one may be able to induce sleep - he wondered (seriously): Could a person punch themself hard enough in the face to knock themself unconscious? I mean, I'm a relatively small person, but he's confident that if I got my weight behind it, I could knock myself out. Sure, I might break my hand, but the point is - could I turn that on myself? I decided the physics and the angling just wouldn't work. So instead I got up and went to the bathroom. Upon exiting the bathroom, he suggested... "what if you just charged towards the bed, and deliberately slammed your head into the wall above the bed? You'd get knocked out, and then just collapse onto the bed". It seemed a perfect plan, except the force would probably snap my neck. Back to whiskey. I thought, "I've got a couple bottles. Maybe I'll just go drink a mess of whiskey and pass out." I abandoned this thought because a) drinking alone is indicative of a much larger issue b) I had already slammed half a bottle Nyquil and c) probably not the best plan when I have to be at work in four hours and I am just beginning to get over the flu.

Then, miraculously, I fell asleep without having to drink myself into submission or crack my skull. And then 30 minutes later my alarm went off. Despite my preference for ditch-pig profanity, I couldn't possibly type out the words I used this morning. It was that bad. I mean, big points for creativity.

Anyway, I guess what I'm saying is... I'm really fucking tired.

And I think I need to go to the hospital.

Thick and thin ... you can always count on Rubio's

When I was back in California in September they were erecting a new fast food restaurant in my ex-BF's neighborhood- every once in a while we'd drive by and I'd comment, "Mmmm, we have to try that restaurant when it opens."

So, while I was back again over New Years my friend Holly told me that said new restaurant is one of her favorite fast food places. And I re-told this story to ex-BF, reiterating the fact that we should try it sometime.

He replied, "Nasty."

"How do you know? Have you been there before?"

"Yeah. A grip of times."

And before I even had the logical thought of "Dude, if it's nasty, why have you gone a grip of times?", I'm thinking, WHAT!!? You went to a new restaurant without consulting me? Don't you know that you must check in with me before doing ANYTHING IN LIFE because I might want to do it too? How dare you stop at a very convenient restaurant that is exactly on your way home from work to eat when I am 2000 miles away? Here I was counting the days to try the restaurant with you so we can enjoy an experience TOGETHER, only to find out you are off discovering new restaurants and new shops and new cities and probably new women!!!!!

I was actually getting quite bitter about it - because I am an irrational asshole and I need to be punched in the face. Luckily, he knows me well enough to laugh at my emotional outbursts ... and then take me directly to Rubio's for fish taco's.

All's well that ends well.

Home.

When you're away from home for two weeks, you return to what seems like an altered state of reality. Everyone you left behind went on doing whatever they did before you left. They washed dishes, had conversations, sang along to the radio, went on walks.... And I am back in California stepping right back into a life I left a year ago without missing a beat. It seems like I never left. And then I return home, wash the warm ocean air from my hair and take off the make-up I painted on before I left San Diego, and I feel odd. Uncomfortable. Unsettled and uneasy in my own home. I wonder what it is, this strange adjustment to a life I, oftentimes, don't feel connected to.

"Where the Hell Did You Get These Towels?"

Well, the holidays have come and gone. I have done much over the past few weeks, but I think I will start with Christmas at my parents. We had our usual gluttonous eve and day - lots of food, family, alcohol - and yes, fire. I also managed to exchange the usual pleasantries with my mother, including this little ditty, which I entitled "The Towel Incident":

(Cut to my mother, folding up my already clean laundry, which she insists on rewashing because she doesn't trust the detergent I buy (Cheer). She grabs an over-sized white towel with a navy blue "R" embroidered onto it.)

Mother: WHERE DID YOU GET THIS TOWEL?

Me: Oh, the Bed, Bath & Beyond Outlet. They put the "mistake" towels in a bin for like $6. Why?

Mother: IT IS SUCH A BEAUTIFUL TOWEL! IT'S HUGE!!

Me: I know.

Mother: AND THE PILE... IT'S SO THICK! I THINK THIS MIGHT BE ONE OF THE NICEST TOWELS I'VE EVER SEEN IN MY ENTIRE LIFE!!!!

Me: Do you want it?

Mother: Psssshhht, get out of here!

Me: I can buy you one online and ship it here... they're like $20...

Mother: YOU KNOW WHAT????!!! .... do me a favor, keep your money... I don't NEED any more towels.

Me: Are you sure? I can do it right now.

Mother: REBECCA, PLEASE! Get out of here with your idiot ideas.

Cut to: The Next Morning.

Me: (Washing my face, and drying it on one of my parents' towels. As my face pulls away, the entire towel is soaked in blood, because that is how hard and stiff and sandpapery it is.) This towel is literally absorbing every ounce of moisture from my body!

Thankfully, this will all be scripted in the upcoming Lifetime special I'm writing called "Mother's Towels."

It's Called Having Standards

I sat at work today peeling an orange for my mid-morning snack and bemoaning my tendency to agree to impossible tasks when I suddenly had a flashback to preschool.

Specifically, I remembered the two types of kids that I reserved my greatest four year old indignation and hatred for. The kids who I would never play house with because they’d ruin the entire recess by insisting on being the baby and spending the entire time screaming so that I (in the role of Mother, aka boss) couldn't’ get dinner made or find time to clean the house before my husband got home. I suppose some people in our child worshiping society might argue that being four is an acceptable excuse for most any personality disorder but these people are mostly idiots, democrats or hippies ... so nobody should feel obligated to listen to them.

If you are the parent of a Gen Z'er, it would be wise to ensure they grow up to avoid the following children:

Kids who say “ruf” instead of “roof”
Kids who ask adults to start their orange for them.

Just to clarify: The first set of kids are not unaware of how the word "roof" should be pronounced (and frankly I’d cut them some slack if they were at least pronouncing it phonetically) they just think it’s cute to say the word incorrectly. A desire to be wrong but adorable is cause for much concern and a clear indication of mild retardation. And the second group? The wimpy kids who behave as if they had been born with some sort of fingernail defect? Co-dependent, needy, self important babies. Obviously all of these children would perish had survival of the fittest not been trumped by over protective parenting. And where do you think each group of children from my preschool class (“82 FOREVER!!!”) is now, 26 years later? I suspect they’ve all grown up to be the kind of adults I hate.

1) Women incapable of managing their own money and always willing to claim their boyfriend is smarter than they are.

2) Men who can’t sew on a button and happily turn over tasks like remembering their mother’s birthday to their wifey-poo.

Excuse me while I barf.

Me Me Me

I like blueberry muffins but not blueberry pancakes. I drive fast but walk slowly. I am happy, sad, proud, shameful, professional and improper. I drink cans of Bud Lite in my best dress. I think too much and talk too little. I don't usually say what's in my heart but my hand can write it faster than I can feel it. I choose hope over despair. My heart jumps at the sound of your voice but your face is foggy in my memory. I wear black to weddings. I can eat a whole jar of pickles but get nauseous at the idea of putting relish on anything. I believe in true love but not in other things intangible. I am moody, messy and seamlessly unemotional and I keep a militarily clean home. My heart is cluttered with words that I'll never say but I wear them loudly on my sleeve. I believe in past lives but not life after death. I want you to pick me instead of her even though I would pick him instead of you. I love museums but libraries make me nervous. I prefer closed spaces to open ones but open roads to crowded highways. I can't nap - never could but look forward to crawling into bed at night more than any other time of day. I laugh louder than the rest of the room. I crave immediate gratification of a good short sentence but am myself long winded. I am pro-choice but anti-decision. I like rock over roll. Jack over Jim. I still believe in love at first sight even though I don't know anyone who has ever experienced it. I find Mozart fascinating but never liked classical music. I am overconfident in crowds but reticent in private moments. I feel you should choose honest moments to bare your soul but never soul baring moments to finally be honest. And consequently I believe life is yours to reel in one hand over the other, heels in the dirt .... and I will always always win the tug of war.

The Return of Open Letters!

Dear Winter:
I'm furious. It's December 19th. You are supposed to stay away for FIVE MORE DAYS. So seriously, back the hell off. Enough. 16 inches of snow in the last five days? 11 degree weather? What the hell? ENOUGH ALREADY, you overzealous bastard.

Please govern yourself accordingly,
RF


Dear fire alarm in my building that went off incessantly for the last two nights:
Seriously. Stop it. I feel like there's a gigantic mosquito in my head. And if there are two things I despise, it's mosquitoes and gigantism.

You dig?,
RF

Dear co-worker who I accidentally crashed into and knocked over and sent flying into that table with the printers when I came stampeding out of my office because I am sometimes careless and tend to walk too fast and without looking and with heavy feet and you're kind of small and I didn't see you:
Um... sorry 'bout that.

Apologetically yours,
RF

Dear Strung Out:
First off - I love you, and I think "Twisted by Design" and "American Paradox" are spectacular albums, and I think "Velvet Alley" is seriously a song that I can listen to on an endless loop, especially the part where you yell "I'll make you beg!" That said... "Element of Sonic Defiance"? .. Kind of blows.

Disappointed but not angry,
RF

Dear iPod:
Please don't die. Please? I love you so much. I cannot bear the thought of being forced to get some overly fancy new iPod that plays video and massages my hands and... shit, I don't know... speaks four languages and knows how to satisfy a camel. And frankly, I don't need any of that. You're fine. You're better than fine. But... you're kind of shitting the bed right now. You freeze up for hours. I've needed to wipe you clean and start over twice. And there's that creepy death rattle that comes out every now and then. I'd really rather not have to replace you. Plus, I kind of dig that you're old-school in that cool-like-Donkey-Kong kind of way. So, please don't die.

Hopelessly devoted to you,
RF

As requested: Things you may not know about moi.

I don’t believe honesty is always the best policy.

I have massive road rage and a cement foot. My licence has been suspended twice.

Marriage makes me uncomfortable, but I think I'm starting to believe in monogamy and fidelity.


I always leave a big tip.

I make the same mistakes over and over again. It's not that I don't learn from them, it's just that I choose to ignore the outcomes.

Libraries make me nervous. Too much selection.

I can’t sleep unless the room is completely dark.

I really, really, really dislike dairy products on skin.

I steal snapshots of moments in my days and relive them when I’m sleeping. Sometimes, I change the outcomes.

I don’t regret even the worst decisions I've made. Honestly.

My family is the most important thing in my life. Without one second of hesitation.

I love being alone, but when I want company, the urge is overwhelming.

Certain guitar riff's make me cry.

I don’t believe in soulmates.

I don’t like my hands.

I am obsessed with the smell of sulpher.

I can’t take naps.

I have a huge affinity for the South (particularly Alabama and Georgia).

I can read in Italian better than I can speak it. And understand it spoken better than I can read it.

I don’t sing in the shower, but I do when I take a bath.

I still remember my junior high school locker combination.

Cooking shows relax me.

I have scars on my left fingers from a pumpkin carving altercation with my brother.

I have too much self control when it comes to love.

I prefer Jack Daniels to wine, but I think wine is sexier.

I look at things and see what they are not.

I like cheap, dirty jokes.

I can count to ten in Japanese and can say “Go upstairs and put your sweater on” in Greek.

I don’t like to think about my future. I used to all the time, and it was making me anxious.

I used to have a Japanese fighter fish named "Dwayne Lee".

I never learned to type with the right fingers.

Sometimes I wake up and think my dreams from the night before are real.

I sometimes forgive but I definitely never forget.

I am more optimistic now than I have ever been.

I think people’s flaws say the most about them.

I suck at math.

I despise winter.

I’m not afraid of death; but I'm afraid of what will kill me.

I’d rather not know, than know.

My lasagna will change your life.

Make me laugh and I'm yours.

Admitting you have a problem is the first step .... I guess

My friend Wood and I were just discussing arranging a top secret adventure for the crew when I am back in California over Christmas. Now, our adventures are not for the faint of heart and only a super select group of people will be invited to partake. That being said, we need to ensure nobody outside the circle finds out about it or hurt feelings (rage) may ruin it.

Now the problem. Enter Dustin (Blabs McGee) who earned this name for his blatant inability to keep a secret. I know we all know this about him- but apparently its now a self-admitted problem.

See Wood's email below:


I was going to tell him a secret a while ago (don't even remember what it was now), but I asked him first.

Wood: "Dustin, can I tell you something really top-secret? Like, you can't tell anyone?"

Dustin: "Well, dude, you know me. I mean, you can... but...."

Wood: "Nevermind."


Do you love it or DO YOU LOVE IT???

A Recipe for Disaster

What do these things have in common?

They are all things I have spilled on myself. Today. And it's not even noon yet.

Here is a word-for-word conversation that I had with my colleague 20 minutes ago:

Colleague: Oh, I think you...

Me: I know. It's coffee.

Colleague: Oh. Sorry. Actually, I think you got something else right ...

Me: No, that's yogurt. And before you say anything else, this is ink.

Colleague:... oh.

Me: Can we talk about something else?

Quote of the Year

"I'm not the kind of guy to kiss and tell... but I am totally the kind of guy to sleep with you and videotape it."
~ Justin Chapman, 2007

Amazing.

Another Open Letter: Dear Asian Guy

Dear Asian Guy Near the Stairs at the Subway This Morning,

First let me please just say that I commend you. This is an exhausting city in every way: financially, emotionally, and physically. I often wonder how it is that people can afford to live here on minimum wage, and anyone who shows the tireless, sweat-stained vigor upon which this country was built gets a huge high five from me. Whether you're simply a high-school educated family man trying to earn his daily bread (spam?), or one of those “I was a surgeon back in Singapore” immigrants, I know little about your life except that it is filled with hard work and (I’m assuming, since you haven’t killed yourself) optimism.

On a more critical note, but one that I think might help you in your business affairs, let me tell you a little bit about me. At 9 o’clock in the morning, I am thinking about a lot of things. I am thinking about the day ahead and what it might contain. I think about whether or not blondes have more fun, and I think they probably do, but that their definition of fun probably isn't my definition of fun. I am thinking about Paul Potts. I am thinking, at 9 am, on my way to work, about the controversial issues such as Global Warming - is it a cause of man or nature? Something to ponder at least. I am thinking about whether anyone in Africa has actually stood in a river and taken a bath in the trunk-spray of an elephant like they always seem to do in the movies. I am thinking if blind people dream - what do they see? - are their dreams in audio as they have to reference to what things actually look like?. I am thinking about how when I was in elementary school I had was allowed to have blue high-lites in my hair for a few months, and how that blue hair was a pivotal moment in my life upon which everything could have turned out very differently (hooker) had I not realized my error the summer before fifth grade. At 9 am on my way to work I think about all kinds of things.

Here’s one thing that I don’t think about at 9 am on my way to work, indeed something I’d rather not think about: Thai food. Don’t get me wrong, Thai food under many, many circumstances is delicious. But there is a reason why there is no lemongrass and red curry pork on the Tim Horton's breakfast menu.

And speaking of menus, 9 am is not a time to be handing out yours.

Sincerely,
Me

P.S. Your restaurant-issued vest had so much flair (flair = magic).

Keep your day job. Seriously. Please.

Because of my retarded work schedule lately, my mother and I usually converse late in the evening, once her shows have finished up and I throw back my fourth can of Bud Lite. Our calls have been starting up at around 11 pm, sometimes later. As a result, I'm pretty fucking beat following a long day of work, but manage to spit out most of the pertinent details: namely back pain and bloat. Just bloat. I am not surprised nor embarassed that I behave much of the time like a 59 year old woman. (Please, look away from me .....I'm hideous.)

Yesterday, my mother had a joke. It was about 11:00 pm. This is pretty much how it went down:

(Loud television in the background)

Mom: Oh my God, Paul told me a funny joke. Wanna hear?

Me: (Unconscious with a bubble of vomit coming out of my nose.)

Mom: OK. So there's this little girl. Hold on - Jessica! Jessica!!

Jessica [sister]: (silent.)

Mom: Turn the TV down? I can't talk with it so loud!

(TV still blaring)

Mom: If your father wakes up, we're both in trouble.

(pause - TV volume lowering)

Mom: OK. So there's this little girl and she lives next door to a construction site -- wait, do you know this?

Me: (White painted face, black lipstick, wrapping invisible rope around my neck and miming my own death.)

Mom: Listen to me, you're gonna think this is so funny...it's soooo funny. So this little girl, she's sooo cute, and she lives next door to a construction site and one day she walks over (pause) No, I'm screwing it up, hold on. (pause, she starts whispering to herself) okay, so she goes next door and asks the construction men if she can help them. So, they say 'okay' and everyday she helps they do little things - you know, here and there ... Hello? Are you there?

Me:

Mom: So, they men paid her $1 for her work each week, and finally when she had to go back to school ... Hold on. Jessica!! Stop clinking your fork on the plate!! You're eating too loud, I can hear you all the way to here!! (phone rustling, girl's voice in the background.) You shouldn't even be eating, it's almost midnight! (phone rustling) OK, hi? Rebecca?

Me:

Mom: So, she had to go back to school and her mother asked her if she was going to keep helping them on the weekends .. Rebecca? Listen, you're gonna love this.

Me:

Mom: Then, her mother asks her if she's going to still help on the weekends, because, you know, she has to go back to school. And the little girl said ... Rebecca?

Me:

Mom: So, the little girl said "Only if Home Depot delivers the fucking drywall" .. did you hear me? The fucking drywall?

Me:

Mom: Isn't that hilarious? (laughing wildly) The fucking drywall!! Rebecca?

Me:

Too far? Probs.

Hell? Def.

Holla.

Single? Not for long!

I have always detested the dating scene. The old me thought thought nothing worse of getting to know someone ... small talk, awkward silences .... after a recent conversation about men and relationships over lunch with my BFF, I'm confident that as long as I stick with a few proven success strategies, I'll be breaking hearts all over the city.

Now, I've actually been told a number of times that I am a fabulous conversationalist ... and I think this rings especially true for dates as I always make a point to talk about interesting topics. Mostly I talk about myself. I tell my date about my intense dieting regimen and explain how I know I could stand to lose a few pounds, and then I ask him if my jeans make me look fat. I find that men like to participate in the conversation so I've learned to ask good questions. Sometimes, of course, I ask my companion questions about himself. Some of my favorites are: "How much money do you make?" "What kind of car do you drive?" and "Do you accept Jesus Christ as your personal Lord and savior?"

When a guy first comes to my house, I will be sure to dress my guinea pig up in her finest because I want to make a good impression. I would spend most of the time talking to my piggie in a baby voice and let her kiss me right on the mouth because I know how important it is to men to find someone who will be a good mother. Sometimes, for effect, I may pretend to breast feed her. I think that would really get the point across: Look at me! I am totally maternal and super fertile!




When I first go to the guy's house, I will always bring a little something and show I wasn't raised in a barn. For example, if I dated a Jewish guy I would bring him a large ham and a crucifix. Or if I I dated a divorced man, I'd bring him a copy of the best selling book "Why Divorce is a Huge Sin and You're Gonna Rot in Hell."

I love going out to eat on dates and I almost always spill on myself. I think men find it really attractive. Usually it's beverages - I can't tell you how many times I've missed my mouth and sent Jack Daniels on the rocks straight onto my lap. Sometimes it's food, though: last night as I was eating dinner, I dropped a little feta creamy dressing down my heaving cleavage. As I was digging in my boobs to remove the cheese, a male friend of mine walked up. I could tell he found me so hot in that exact moment. There is nothing that says "sexy" quite like cream-covered-titties. (actually that's probably true)

When things progress physically on a first date, I always, ALWAYS pretend like I'll put out and then at the very last second I don't. I think it makes men respect me. It says "Um, actually, I'm not putting out. Almost, but not quite! Look at how respectable I am!"

What more could a guy ask for?

When you gotta go....

This is a fucking gem.

Place: Shanda's BBQ - Summer 2006

Setting: All of us getting shit-faced in the backyard when Dustin (a.k.a. Dizzle, Dizzy-D, Blabbs McGee, Schnizzler, Twizzle Sticks and most recently Digger) decides to use the pisser ... which faces the backyard and has see through blinds. Hilarity ensues.

This video was taken AFTER he spend a solid 10-12 minutes looking in the mirror, flexing his big "man" muscles, checking out his ass while he was draining the main vein ... afterwards he proceeded to inspect his nostrils for snowflakes, clean out his ears, fix his hair, unbutton his shirt a few notches (you know, for the ladies) then point at his reflection in the mirror and wink ... all while we watched and busted guts laughing.

Oh, and he didn't wash his hands.

Peace.

P.S. For a little background on Dusty click here.

It's more about the "beats" than the "bells" ... per se

My sister just got married. Congratulations A & C. It was the best wedding I have ever attended - and I'm not just saying that. EVER.

Me on the other hand was never was the kind of girl to dream about her wedding growing up. Now that I am at the over-the-hill, I still do not dream of my future wedding. And no, it's not because I don't have a boyfriend right now. I HAD boyfriend and I can honestly say that I just I wasn't feelin' the wedding thang.

There is one thing that I do think about, and that is the song I will dance to with my future husband. Song choice is critical to me. It dictates who you are as a couple. Pick something too sentimental and people will laugh. Pick something too edgy, and well, people will laugh. (And by people, I mean me). The song could potentially be more important to me than the sacrament of marriage itself. I'm totally serial. I'd get married just for the song ... okay, and the money.

Even though I am unsure at this point who my respective spouse will be, my #1 choice is "Iris" by Goo Goo Dolls. "No Butterfly Kisses" or "This I Promise You" by N'Sync. ......(although "Givin' Up the Nappy Dugout" by Ice Cube is still in the running).

Now my friend got married in 2004 (she's my age). Considering she has been blessed with a friend with stellar musical taste (me) you would think she had plenty of good solid choices or at least someone to consult.

Right?

Wrong.

She danced with her husband.....wait for it..... yeah. "Heaven" by Bryan Adams. HEAVEN!! Now don't get me wrong, I love me a little Summer of '69 and Cuts Like a Knife, but come on. My innocence is lost. I can never appreciate the greatness that is Robin Hood Prince of Thieves again--

Oh. But wait.

It gets better.

Guess what song she danced to with her dad.

Seriously. Guess.

Give up?

"The Circle of Life" by Elton John.

[crickets]


Now although I was a "mature woman" at the time, you don't know how difficult it was to restrain myself from interrupting the whole thing with the Hakuna Matada dance. Really really really REALLY restrain myself. Like Hannibal Lector in that freaky looking mask restrained.

Is there a lesson to be learned from all this? Hmmm tough call, but I would say the lesson is that my dear friend has absolutely no taste in music and her husband has no balls.

On a brighter note, her wedding was one of the first times I ever barfed out of my nose, so for that, I will always be grateful.

Golf Pro's and Evil Ho's

I'd like to take this opportunity to apologize to my dude for my complete and utter temper tantrum on the golf course Sunday morning. The only excuse I can offer is, "PMS and golf do not mix." .... I was also horrifically hung-over.

It's just that I was at the end of my rope considering I spent a the better part of Saturday sitting in his living room with the blinds closed watching him play Wii. (I could only watch as I was suffering from minor shoulder dislocation thanks to NFL 08).

He also called me evil in the car on the way to the golf course then tried to be my friend.

Despite the rough patches, he later admitted he thought it was hilarious when I warned the foursome who were patiently waiting behind us "I wouldn't stand behind me if I were you, this fucking ball might go backwards."

So, contrary to my mantra the entire nine holes, which was something to the effect of "Hating this fucking game", I am not "Never playing this stupid game again." ... because I do love me some mini-golf.

Mother Nature is Vile.

I know it's a bit premature to write summer 2007's obituary, but Mother Nature hasn't exactly been making a stellar case against such a hasty and hateful action. The so-called hottest month of the year has done its best October impression as of late, washing out the last few remaining weekends of potential beach action that are left.

Overall it's been a spectacular summer, highlighted by weddings, cottages, patio's, beach trips, BBQs and a variety of other enjoyable outdoor activities. However, despite all the fun, I'm not ready to give it up just yet. I've heard several people comment that they're ready for fall and cooler weather, which, is utter sacrilege to me. Before you idiots know it, we'll be trapped in January hell and you'll all be pining away for the hot summer weather.

All I know is, September best be as hot as the devil's kitchen. So, Mother Nature, please, get your shit together or I may just go postal on your ass.

Croc-a-doodle-doo

I always say that if I could remove one product from the earth, it would be those stupid shoes with the wheels in them. Nothing pisses me off more than to see kids whizzing by me at Target. I used to want a pair but now these shoes are causing me to lose my patience with kids altogether. I think it's more the fact that sneakers are made to be worn to walk, run, play sports, etc., and roller blades are made to be worn outside for exercise. Never were the two supposed to meet, date and have babies. I'm dead serious when I say that if I could meet the motherfucker who invented these, I would put on a pair of my fabulous stilettos and kick him square in the crotch.

Now if I could remove two products from the Earth they would be Healy's (rollersneakers) and Crocs. Let me just clarify something first. Crocs don't bother me on small children. In fact, I think they're kind of cute on little Violet Affleck. But when my 45 year old coworker walks around the office in her electric blue Crocs, I have thoughts of feeding her to a Croc. My vision gets fuzzy, I get nauseous, and quite frankly, I go to a bad place. My mother told me she was going to get a pair to wear around the yard. I promptly responded that when I come home to visit they will disappear. Forever. I'm actually looking forward to colder weather so my eyes don't have to be assaulted by Crocs anymore. And then someone emailed me this:

WHAT. THE. FUCK?

There's really nothing I can say about this catastrophe. So help me God, if anyone I know gets a pair of Fuzzy Crocs, I'll be suggesting a trip to the zoo.