awww yeah, baby! this is where the magic happens!

The fantastical Manager Mom put out a call for her fellow bloggers to take a moment this weekend and share with others the place where they find their inspiration to work or write. I typically do the bulk of my writing while at work at the bookstore, but management tends to frown and is all, "We don't pay you to write books, missy, we pay you to sell them," so most of my shifts end with my pockets overflowing with scraps of paper and wadded up Post-It notes laden with phrases and idea fragments that I then pillage when I get home in a feeble attempt to remember my ideas. Usually I fail to recall what was so inspirational about "two guys, nipple, bears - hahahaha," thus, you've not been regaled with that tale.

YET!

Anyway, because my inspiration strikes as randomly as the above paragraph, I try to contain the magic to a couple of other locations, like out on my deck during particularly nice days. Notice that light pouring down from the left and directly upon my laptop in the above photo?

Yep. That's God, and he's all, "Spread the good word, FADKOG! May your tales of whimsy, panties, double entendre, BOOBS!, and various adorable things your kids do be the balm that soothes a wounded nation." All props to God, yo, because without him there'd be no ...for a different kind of girl.

Fist to chest, G. Fist to chest.

Sometimes God decides to make it rain or plays tricks on me where it's 99 degrees one day, and then like 74 degrees the next (Ha ha, God, you little prankster!), so I write inside. More often than not, it's while wrapped in the loving arms of the above chair. It's not easy, though, because I believe that chair is stuffed with chloroform and it sneaks up behind me while I'm in the middle of a cohesive thought, places a dirty, soaked rag in front of my face, and knocks me out. I wake up anywhere from three to five hours later, confused, with my hair often cut short, and a man in a mask telling me my new name is Patricia and I'll now do whatever he wants. I cannot stay awake in that chair to save my life.

And by "my life," I mean "Patricia's life."

Blame (or credit) the Narcolepsy Chair for those rare times I write really short posts.

Oh, wait! Do you notice that thing next to my computer up there?

It's a skeleton! You know why that skeleton is there?

Because me, God, and Patricia are giving you people our all when I sit down somewhere to write! Bare bones, straight up writing! Damn that I can't remember why I ache to tell the tale of "two guys, nipple, bears - hahahaha."

(It also means my oldest son doesn't listen when I tell him 23 times to pick his stuff up before I throw it away, because he's looking at me funny and saying, "I don't have to take orders from you, Patricia! You're not my mom!" )

'til now, i never got by on my own

After a week away from home, my Tool Man returned Friday afternoon. I promptly put him to work by sending him running off to the store for treats for me, vacuuming, carting a child off to a birthday party, and cooking for us.

And that's just for starters!

No. I'm kidding. I made out with him, ordered us a little Chinese food for lunch, made out with him again during the 10 minute wait we had for our order (Question - is this 10 minute wait for Chinese food universal? Oh, that life could always be as efficient and packed with the tasty delicious goodness that is hot and sour soup!), and THEN I made him do all those things (plus more!) listed above.

Listen, the dude owed me and I made out with him, so it wasn't like I was cracking a whip. Because we're not into that, OK? I mean, a little spank here and there is fine by me, but I've got a line, and the line says no whips.

By the end of the night, when Tool Man and I collapsed, exhausted from all the making out, so we called it a day and drifted off to sleep. Well, Tool Man did, but it took me a bit longer because Loaner Dog was all up on me, batting her bulging Shih Tzu eyes at me, trying to get a little from me. I shouldn't have to do this, people, but just let me remind you that there's a line.

Early Saturday, while I was still sleeping, Tool Man grabbed our two adorable lug nuts, and together, they ran away from home. Before you can say, "Well of course they did, Hottie! You make him work too hard when he gets home from his tough man job. Hell, I'd run away, too!", let me say that this: (A) You've not seen my kick ass rack, and if you had, the only direction you'd be running is toward it, and (B) it was a planned Man Weekend that they were all looking forward to (but not as much as me). Their departure meant I was going to be home alone (albeit with one horny little dog) for THREE GLORIOUS DAYS of silence, and had I been awake, I'd have pushed them out the door even sooner than they pushed themselves.

My plan during this reprieve from my wifely and motherly duties was to go off the grid for the entire weekend, kind of like Jason Gedrick did in Iron Eagle, when he and his band of ragtag warriors infiltrated the United States military with the help of a hard on the outside, soft on the inside Louis Gossett Jr. (aka 'the poor man's Morgan Freeman'), stole a fighter jet and flew a daring rescue mission to save his father. But you know what they say about best laid plans, right? That's right. So if you and I shared an IM conversation or bantered in emails back and forth at any time this past Saturday or Sunday, just don't blow my cover, OK? As far as these other people know, I sat in the breeze in my narcolepsy chair, finished reading Stephanie Klein's hilariously funny and gut wrenching book, Moose, and spoke to no other living soul for two days.

(Backpacking Dad? Listen to this tape when no one else is around, OK? I think if you wait just a minute or two, the rest of the people here will skim by this parenthetical call-out, then it'll be fine. OK. Now. I just want to say it was truly an honor to fly with you Sunday, and you should know that I would proudly suit up and take the the skies again, for the safety and honor of our people. You are a man of great fortitude and random movie knowledge, and I slept a bit more soundly last night knowing you're out there. Sincerely, Col. Nippley)

I enjoyed my first day of solitude pretty much living up to my dreams. However, if you've been around here awhile, you know I don't particularly enjoy being home alone at night, so Saturday morphed well into Sunday before I braced myself for sleep, which I couldn't even begin to try for without checking to see if the front door was locked (again!). When I did, I spotted something in my yard, and let out a bit of a scream, causing the thing to look at me (with evil red eyes!), and then run away.

Bunnies tend to do that when you make sudden loud noises.

So now it's Monday, my final day of solitude. I've slept fitfully for two nights, never cracked a book, watched enough television to kill me, have no good anecdotes from which to blog about, haven't used my voice in two and a half days, and fear the couch cushion may be adhered to my ass after Pantless Sunday (Why get dressed when you're just going to have to put pajamas on in two hours anyway? Walking up the stairs takes energy, y'all).

Wait! I feel it should be noted that the couch cushion wouldn't be adhered to my ass because I spent the day without any pants on (yes, Backpacking Dad, I fly with no pants on. I guess I should have told you that while we were somewhere over the Med). It would be because I barely moved from one spot on it. I mean, you got that, right? You understood what I meant?

So today I intend to pack a ton in the few hours of solitude which remain before I must go to work and my family returns. I must banishing bunnies, refuel the jet, and finish books. But first I need to pry myself off the couch and put some pants on.

'i know this much is true...'

• It's virtually impossible not to sing along to Queen's Bohemian Rhapsody. Try not to. I dare you. Before you realize it, you're four minutes in and are singing about Beelzebub. Yep. See what I mean? I'd be all, "Ha ha. Too late. You're time has come," and you'd be all, "Curses! I MUST sing this!" This song is the perfect remedy for when you don't have eight and a half minutes to commit to Meat Loaf's Paradise by the Dashboard Light (though, if you don't, I really have to ask, what in the world are you doing that is so damn important?). I believe science will one day prove my theory.
• It's also hard not to sing along to this song, too. Even if you're a good girl and play this version.
• I am easily distracted. I just spent more than 20 minutes singing along to all the above mentioned songs. There may also have been some dancing. Who am I kidding? There's always dancing.
• All that dancing has made me quite hungry. Cinnamon toast has become my latest obsession.
• Zac Ephron is trying to hypnotize me with his piercing eyes. Good effort, Zac, but trying like this might be better.
• The real reason my kids don't have school on Friday is because High School Musical 3 opens that day, and they'll need to be there. Because I love them and will take them. Seriously. Not because of Zac Ephron hypnotized me (Though, seriously, click through those photos. Does that sound like a kissing noise? If it does, I may need to fight some little girl for a seat closer to the screen).
• You shouldn't worry about me, though. I'm still very much a Joe girl. Or woman, if you insist on getting technical about it.
• Always Home and Uncool is trying to make me have a raging crush on him, but he needs to know that he doesn't have to work that hard (but it's cute!)
• I will never, ever understand The Price Is Right. Ever. I'm serious.
• I'm still incapable of watching a horror movie while home alone at night. Damn you, irrational fear of Big Foot and what you've done to me!
• Robot Chicken is the tits, still.
• Life would be so kick ass if we periodically broke out into perfectly choreographed song and dance routines. At the very least, it would keep my friends from looking at me uncomfortably when I do this now.
• I've been remiss in my use of haiku lately.
• I'll tell myself all day that I will sit in my narcolepsy chair and read one of these books, but I'll probably spend this rainy day doing laundry, picking up, baking, and clearing off my DVR.
• Someone needs to give me a Cliff Notes version of Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles, because I am kind of irritating my Tool Man when I pause the DVR and ask for clarification on whether we're now in the future or the past. Trust me. I've seen all the movies. Many times. I'm just easily confused. Killer robots are wacky, yo!
• Also, the above truth has nothing to do with what might be the real truth, which is I spend most of the T:SCC waiting for Brian Austin Green to show up onscreen.
• I seriously want to be Kelly Ripa.
• I do not watch as much television as this post would have you believe.
• This kind of post is what keeps me from reading any of the above mentioned books and writing haikus.

I have cinnamon toast to go eat and some Queen to sing along with now. Feel free to share that which you believe to be true with me. Or, you know, write me a haiku. Whatever.

dog days, it turns out, are not actually over

This is Max.

Everyone say "Hi, Max!"

Max is my spirit animal. The universe, in whatever infinite wisdom goes into it, believes I should spend a large portion of my day asleep, posing in a fashion that results in getting belly rubs, and licking my privates. The more I think about it, the more I believe the universe is pretty spot on!

In addition to his spirit animal duties, Max is also our new family dog. Hooray!

We adopted Max last Tuesday, and he officially made himself at home here Wednesday evening by christening the corner of our living room steps like the Queen launching a ship. We've been told he's a terrier mix. Based on the way he jumped completely out of his collar and leash and sprinted half a block faster than I could blink my eyes when an unleashed dog aggressively greeted us on the last of our three hour-long walks Thursday (apparently the universe wants me to go on some type of quest), the mixed portion of him is Kobe Bryant or gazelle. I imagine we're going to have to look into the city's ordinances for exotic animals now.

When we chose Max, his name was Mason, which humane society volunteers had shortened to Mace. Look at him. Does he look like a Mason to you? Does he look like he'd tolerate being referred to as Mason Dixon or The Grand Poobah? Because that's what I'd undoubtedly have started calling him if we'd kept that name, and I've got to admit, I was pretty close to selling the kids on The Grand Poobah since, well, there's going to be a lot more pooh happening around here now.

In the end (unintentional pooh joke FTW!), we opted to rename our pet, and the boys quickly chose Max, which means instead of The Grand Poobah, I've referred to him as one of the following every day since:

• Maxwell
• Maxwell Smart
• Maxwell's Silver Hammer
• The Maxtrix
• Maximilian
• Maximum Overdrive
• Maxi Priest
• Maxi-Pad (I apologized)(it's been hard to stop, though)
  
• Mad Max
• IMAX
• Frankie Say Remax
• Tone Loc

That last one is a nod to Where The Wild Things Are, of course. Additionally, I've confused him by calling him Sir Sheds A Lot and I Know You REALLY Wanted Another Baby, Dear, But If We're Talking About Something That's Going To Need Us To Clean Up It's Poop Anyway, How About Something We Can All Enjoy?

Speaking of poop (again)(forever and always), in the five days we've now owned Max, I've yet to see him do his doody duty. My children assure me he's achieved maximum output (adding it to the list!), but like I told my pal Twobusy, I like to look at this function as if it was a ghost. I hear about ghosts from time to time, but I haven't personally seen one, and I'd like to keep it that way for as long as possible. Especially if it's a ghost and/or pooh that tries to kill me or steal my soul. I think the neighbor's giant barking dog is that kind of pooper.

My spirit animal is pretty rad. He's housebroken, curls up and sleeps through the night on the couch, rarely barks, kennels nicely when necessary, walks great on a leash, and, as we've ascertained earlier, doesn't poop in front of me. I couldn't take one of the many hairs he's shed all over my beautiful red narcolepsy chair (that's a pretty funny post so what are you doing here when you could be following that link and reading that one?), clone him and end up with a better dog. He's maximum pleasure with minimum effort. He's like everything I'd want in a husband if he were human!

The universe wishes for me to go squeak a toy now, so you'll have to excuse me. How cool is that? I imagine it must really suck if your spirit animal is an otter.