...for a different kind of girl

silent surburban girl releasing her voice, not yet knowing what all she wants to say about her life and the things that make it spin. do you have to be 18 to be here? you'll know when i know.

Wednesday, July 29, 2009

poker? i hardly knew her!

I found this note penned by my Tool Man (who, it should be noted, is not a boy between the ages of 5 and 15, despite what his handwriting looks like) on our bedroom dresser last night. As he was already asleep when I noticed it, I couldn't ask him what's so important about Husky Nailer that he felt compelled to jot it down on a piece of paper that he'll inevitably leave on the bedroom dresser amidst various pens, screws, tire gauges and a J.R.R. Tolkien novel for weeks on end until I lose my mind and throw them all away, including the J.R.R. Tolkien novel, which I won't actually throw away but will perhaps hide, so I'm coming to you today, friends, to determine what you think Husky Nailer means. Is it:
(a) The breed and name of our neighbor's new dog
(b) A new pneumatic nail gun launching in the fall by Tool Man's tool company
(c) A fetish diagnosis
(d) The name of a lesser celebrity wrestler
(e) Tool Man's secret porn name
(f) Even worse - Tool Man's secret porn name for me, in which case this could be the last known document ever penned by this person
(g) None of the above
(h) Do most multiple choice tests actually have this many choices?
(i) I hope they don't look too closely at that photo because I need to dust that bedroom dresser
(j) All of the above


Monday, July 27, 2009

'she has trouble acting normal when she's nervous'

subtitle: More inane facts about me which shall now and forever serve as a means of filling in the gaps when I've been too busy/tired/boring to write scintillating tales of mirth and merriment, but scratch those other two options because mostly I'm just a very boring person as evidenced by the fact that, well, I'm too boring to think of specific examples of how boring I am. Suffice to say I'm pretty damn boring.

Anyway, on with the show!
  • Last week I offered to have sex with The Cheesecake Factory after my Tool Man and I had our first meal ever there and I gasped in horror when the bill arrived, as though it had been placed on the table by a corpse and the words "I must kill you now" were scrawled in blood next to the price for my glass of iced tea. I assumed it was either a typographical error or I needed to show the restaurant a good time since it had given me dinner and all. In the end, I'm pretty glad Cheesecake Factory rebuked my offer because it's portion(s) is way too big.
  • I've never sent a text message to someone in my entire life. Oh, sure, there was that one time I thought I sent one to Fade To Numb that included words like "zombies," "don't look them in the eyes" and "come to your hotel room," but he insists it never arrived. Or did it? For all I know, zombies could have intercepted it and all this time, I've been talking to a version of Numby that (fingers crossed) could do the Thriller dance (which would be awesome, btw). Maybe he was just scared I'd actually come to his hotel room, so he lied. Hmmm. Something to ponder, too. Anyway, the point is, I'm not technologically savvy.
  • I also have large fingers. This probably impedes my ability to send text messages more than having an archaic phone. It's also probably another reason Cheesecake Factory told me it should be going when I made my offer.
  • When I look at other peoples' wedding photos, I have an overwhelming desire to get married again. About seven out of ten times those thoughts involve marrying my Tool Man. Also, we could use new towels and a larger crock pot.
  • Anyway, if looking at wedding photos can give me that sweet feeling, you can pretty much imagine what looking at photos of new babies does to me.
  • I also want to get married again so I can do something cool like this couple who rocked their wedding entrance. The first time I watched this clip, I actually cried. PMS much?
  • I also cried at least once during the last three episodes of the third season of Buffy The Vampire Slayer. "Why don't you look at me the way Angel looks at Buffy?" I asked my Tool Man. "You mean pained?" he responded. "I mean with a love that makes his non-beating heart ache," I said. "We've been married almost 15 years," he said. "What more do you want."
  • Seriously? New towels. And a honeymoon that doesn't include the words Wisconsin and/or Dells. (no offense, Wisconsin)
  • I've been overusing the phrase "You old galoot" a bit lately.
  • I think buying new underwear is akin to OD'ing on antidepressants for boosting a good mood.
  • In case you weren't sure, when I look at photos of new babies, I get a tiny bit crazed and the sound of eggs releasing from within the recesses of my body is deafening to the point where if you were showing me a photo of your new baby and asked "Isn't he/she adorable?" I'd look at you and respond "It is a nice day, but I think it's a bit too windy for a ride in a convertible."
  • I get irritated by drivers in front of me who start to brake for an impending red light while upwards of 30 feet from the traffic signal.
  • I also get irritated that McDonald's charges nearly $1.50 for an ice cream cone and then hands you a microscopic sample of their frozen treat when you pull up to the drive-thru window after a tough day and words like "portion control" and "part of a sensible eating plan" run snidely out of my head when I think of the half gallon of ice cream I could have bought at the grocery store for $1.50.
  • Did you catch that part where I said I was boring? I'm also very clearly lame.
  • Not lame? Hanson. I am never, ever being facetious when I speak of my great love for Hanson. I'd not be surprised if my neighbors put their house up for sale after seeing me dance in my kitchen to Where's The Love Saturday night. Four times. In a row.
  • I just spent 30 minutes watching various clips of people dancing to Thriller so it's time for me to maybe do something else with my day.

Sorry I've been lax in the whole responding to emails and comments lately. Life's been busy this summer (and I mean busier than just sitting around for hours watching old television shows and crying)(though sometimes I cry when I don't even watch old television shows, so hey, hmmm...). Please know, however, that I am trying, and I appreciate them.

I'm also still pretty damn boring.


Sunday, July 19, 2009

'i mock you with my monkey pants'

Oh, Internet, how you charm me with your constant reminders of how I must be fat and depressed (not necessarily in that order) when I turn you on and find every web page I visit bordered with ads for Weight Watchers and anti-depressants (not necessarily in that order)! You make me happy, Internet. So, so happy. It's like having an electronic version of my mother inside my laptop, subtly shaking her head and wondering where it was she went wrong. Yeah, Internet!

Sunday was (is, really, since it's only 11:25 p.m., as I type this) my Tool Man's birthday, so we spent the entire day doing exactly what I wanted to do, which was watch the second season of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Oh, don't you worry about the Tool Man, thinking he got gyped on his birthday, my friends. After eight straight hours of vampire slaying and demon vanquishing, we pushed pause on the DVD player and did a little somethin' somethin' that my Tool Man LOVES to do, and I was more than happy to give it to him extra special-like because it is his birthday.
We had birthday cake.
Mmm-hmmm! Tool Man ate two big gooey slabs of it.
Because I like it in multiples.
After birthday cake, we waddled our way back to the couch for another 5 hours of slaying, and you know what? I didn't think I would ever fall victim to this, but oh, my, I believe I have surrendered a chunk of my already crowded heart to David Boreanaz and his fictional vampire with a heart of gold. I feel like I need to book a flight directly to the beautiful Blissfully Caffeinated's house, knock on her door, and apologize for all the times I've responded "Meh..." when she's tried to convince me this man was suitable of my love. Thankfully, hundreds of other people also love him and thus saved me the time it would take to create a fan video (which I would never, ever do)(but if I did, I'd start with Joe Jonas) that I will now share here with you. You don't have to watch, of course. Three days ago, I wouldn't have watched, either, but when he told Buffy he loved her I may have sighed and whispered, "Yes..." so, you know, whatever.

Here's a suggestion - just turn down the volume and enjoy.

Or mock me. That's what I figure you're going to do anyway. You're just like the Internet!


You know what I just realized after watching that video clip (four times)(OK, really it was only two times)(I'm lying. It really was four)? My Tool Man has the exact same haircut as David Boreanaz. Now, if the Internet and I could just get him to lay off the birthday cake, and I surprised him by tossing a bucket of water on him when he came through the front door so his shirt perhaps flapped open and clung to his cake-deprived pectorals and abs, every day would be like a birthday around here, and by that, I don't mean the kind where the two of us sit around and do nothing but watch television all day

Speaking of birthdays, I suppose it's time for me to get off this thing and go give Tool Man his present. Or presents. We'll see how the night goes. I guess what you could say is we've got some slaying to do, and by that I mean slaying with one fewer letters.

Get it? Heh. Heh, heh, heh.


Oh, Internet, who says I'm depressed?

(apparently you really think I am because I just clicked back in Blogger to edit this post and right there on the edit page was a big old ad asking "Do you think you're depressed?" and you know what irritated me about it, Internet? No, it wasn't that I have never, ever had an advertisement on that page before. It was that the question was accompanied by a photo of a smiling, clearly non-depressed woman. If you're going to sell it, sell it hard and with the truth)

(we'll talk about that fat thing later this week if someone doesn't get this leftover birthday cake out of here, though)


Thursday, July 16, 2009

that's what you get for wakin' up in the suburbs*

*Did I say wakin' up? I mean waking up would presume I've slept and I'm still sleeping for hell wherein the word sleep should be a verb, but instead it's something akin to the jackass 11th grade boy who mocked you relentlessly when you were a somewhat freakishly overdeveloped 9th grade girl who would've preferred the earth open up and swallow her whole when it was time for gym class and your uniform tshirt was grossly tight rather than endure his taunts and tirades while you kept one eye on the clock and the other on the other side of the volleyball net so as not to be smacked in the kisser when the smudged white orb came sailing over after being helped along by an overly aggressive boy from your homeroom who used to eat crayon shavings in first grade but now apparently has a mission in life to be remembered for being a tool.

(or the short version - still not sleeping at all)

Thank you for all your suggestions and sympathies to my post earlier this week about my insomnia. Short of the suggestion to start having an evening libation, I've been following most of the suggestions to the letter (except I like to read before bed because typically, I'd fall asleep and wake up in the morning with the book over my face, but lately, not so much). I even take an over-the-counter sleep aid, which I've started to look forward to a bit like Pavlov's dog. To save a bit of money, I bought some generic version of Tylenol PM called Sleep II, which is apparently the a sequel (the Electric Boogaloo) of Sleep (also? sigh...I'm so tired it took me forever to think of the word sequel. Instead, I thought of things like follow up, that which comes after the first, next thing, thing that often isn't as good as the first, should have just left it alone after the first one, and what's it called?). That's to say Sleep II is like the bastardization of Teen Wolf starring Michael J. Fox in which Jason Bateman is now failing to lull me into slumber through the likes of
Teen Wolf Too, but the manufacturer knows I'm going to buy it because I loved the first version so much the second one has to be good too, right?

Answer - no.

Also - thank you,
Betsey Booms, for making me constantly think of Teen Wolf!

Anyway, I cried a lot when I read some of your comments, as well as the emails some of you sent me, too. Cried, you say? Yes. Because I am just that tired. And because you're all so nice. Perhaps if we hugged, I'd be lulled into the false sense that someone was rocking me to sleep and I'd quickly drift away while my chin dug deeper and deeper into your shoulder, but because you felt sorry for me, you'd stand there, unmoving, even though you might have to use the bathroom or damn, your favorite show is over and the remote control is all the way across the room, or your nose started to itch, because you felt sorry for me and wanted me to get as much sleep as possible. You people are good people!

So...are you still with me? Have you really read these first rambling paragraphs? Then you'll realize THIS is part of the reason I can't sleep! My mind never seems to shut down and spends the wee evening hours as a springboard of inane thought. To share, and to perhaps exorcise some of the demons in my head, I thought I'd share a sampling of what goes on in my mind in the midnight hour:

  • Does anyone ever use an entire bottle of fingernail polish? Ever? I've got bottles that are older than my children.
  • Ack!! Why am I in bed with my father-in-law!! Oh, it's just my Tool Man, who, after shaving off the goatee that's been a staple of his face for so long, looks scarily like his dad now. I hope he picks up these subliminal messages I've been sending him as I whisper in his ear as he sleeps to grow the facial hair back. I'll even welcome the full beard should he want it back.
  • Why was that weird old dude wearing sunglasses and sitting in the corner of the Dairy Queen, suspiciously not eating any treats (tip - the Tagalong Blizzard? Meh.) staring at me the entire time I was trying to eat my hamburger and french fries?
  • Did it make me paranoid? Yes. So paranoid, in fact, that here would be a perfect opportunity to insert a Jonas Brothers video of their song of the same name!
  • Joe. Joe. Joe. Joe. I feel sorry for Kevin. Joe. Joe. Joe
  • Goddamn you, Nickelback!. I do not want to like you. Get the hell out of my head!
  • If the Ed Hardy clothing line ever releases a shirt that reads Team Kate in their tattoo-inspired design, I promise you I'll go out and buy one for every damn day of the week. She may be a bitch, but when you've been married to a complete douche like Jon Gosselin for 10 years, who's out parading a 22 year old girl around the south of France on a yacht (he's on a boat!) and calling what is clearly his girlfriend his stylist (which would infer one has style, but him? clearly not)(nor does he have class) then I think there's a pretty defined reason why Kate kept his manhood in a jar on top of the fridge.
  • Speaking of that douche Jon Gosselin, is it just me, or is he another set of hair plugs (sorry that first batch doesn't seem to have done much for you, bub) and a bad straw cowboy hat away from morphing into Bret Michaels. Douche. That one's for Jon Gosselin again. Although Bret Michaels? Yeah, you're kind of close.
  • Speaking of douche some more, is it just me or does there seem to be a rampant, wildfire-like use of the word douche and douche bag on television these days? I should note that using that word makes me cringe. It doesn't delight me in the way the word conundrum does, but it seems to be all over TV these days. I don't even watch that much TV, but it's uttered on nearly every program I tune into. I'm expecting Jim Bob Duggar to fire off a rant filled with bleeped out expletives and douche this and douche bag that any day now on 18 Kids and Counting.
  • If he did, I, of course, would be even more delighted in that than I was when Josh Duggar crowned his wife Anna a master swallower (which HELL YES! I just googled that line to see if there was a video clip of it out there yet and the post I wrote wherein I proclaimed that line to be a perfect gift bestowed upon the universe much like that of the birth of the Christ child - except I didn't go quite that far - comes in JUST AFTER Josh and Anna Duggar's official website!!! As the Duggars might say, God is, indeed, good. By the way, that same post was where I posted photos of myself from my junior prom, so if you haven't seen those, or you wish to see why that douche (see!? EVERYWHERE!) 11th grade boy mad fun of me, here's your chance. You know what else is good in addition to my blog standings there? Take a look below:

Oh, Internet, you are so, so good to me! I love you, sweet collection of wires and pulleys! I don't know what the cat is all about, but apparently it's playing them out (is this some fad I'm unaware of as I fail to sleep?), but if that's the case, I should let it play me out of this post because it's far, far too long now and my son has a play date coming over in an hour and I'm still in my pajamas, which is funny because why do I wear pajamas if I don't sleep, and I'm laughing, laughing, laughing at the irony, but you're probably not because I'm the one who's exhausted and you? You're probably just exhausted of me. I completely understand.

p.s. - I just realized someone googling any of the Duggars may now get this post and believe my rampant use of the words douche and douche bag (shudder) relates to them. I assure you that will never be the case. At least as long as Michelle Duggar and her girls never buy any Ed Hardy tshirts at their local thrift stores.

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Monday, July 13, 2009

so tired that i couldn't even sleep

So here's the thing. I'm tired. Actually, tired tapped me on the shoulder early this morning, I think it may have been somewhere around 2:29 a.m., maybe even later (it was so very much later), and told me I was being far too polite referring to how I feel as simply 'being tired.' I remember thinking "Well, then, I'm very, very tired," when I turned back toward the clock on the nightstand and saw the numbers 3, 4, and 5 lined up in a row (as in a.m., as in who the hell should be awake at 3:45 a.m.?). I also remember thinking, "Well, that's clever and a rather welcome change of pace from the usual 2:22 a.m., or 3:33 a.m., I've grown quite used to."

I'm tired.

Strike that. Strike that and all the verys I could place in front of it to qualify it.

I'm exhausted. Physically, mentally, emotionally, and probably spiritually. If you go to church and get stuck sitting in the front row like I did this week, which you hate because, well, you just do, can you blame the bright lights for the water coming out of your eyes? I mean, that's also what I do when I realize my eyes are leaking while I'm sitting at a traffic light, so same rules apply, right?

I honestly can't recall a night when I've gone to bed and didn't lay there waiting to see what symmetry the time had for me the next time I glanced at the clock. There's a name for that, I believe, a name for when you wake up (if you've been asleep, that is) at the very same time every night to find the clock reading 2:22 a.m., or 3:33 a.m., but I can't think of what it's called. Maybe it's called a coincidence. Or maybe it has something to do with the body's circadian rhythms, but I think you have to be asleep in order to dance to that beat. I'd google it, but I'm too tired to think of the right words to phrase the question. Somehow I don't think "You know, that thing where the numbers are all the same, right?" would net me the solution. That or I'd uncover some sort of doomsday theory, and I've already got too much of that kind of thing going on in my head.

Of course, I could take a nap. A few minutes to refresh myself. Fifteen minutes here and there. But I don't because I've convinced myself I'll fall asleep for hours and ruin whatever hope I have for rest that evening. Naps, it would seem, have become a less a refreshing way to recharge and are now something more like a prelude to hibernation.

I'm exhausted. I also think if you looked at me, if you read here and there, if you dropped me notes on Facebook and told me how you missed me and thought we should get together and "Hey, isn't it time we had a talk?" you'd conclude there's a reasonable explanation for why it is I can't sleep. Or not. Whatever it is, it's gone on so long now that I'm probably growing accustom to it.

I hate that I'm accustom to this.

I hate that I'm writing something that seems like a steaming pile of woe is me.

I hate that I can't sleep.

(I love that I'm getting so many damn books read, though. Need a recommendation? I'm your girl.)

There's really no gist (but there quite likely is) to this post other than some lame attempt on my part to release some of the words that bounce around my cranium like a hyped up preschool playgroup at an inflatable funland. Those damn words are loud in there, and they're one-sided and, to be honest, they're also sort of pissed.

I have to try to go to bed now. The thought of that shouldn't stress me out, right? Make me antsy? That's definitely not going to be the suspiciously cute boy who crosses the gymnasium floor and asks me to dance and tells me his name is Sleep while we spin along to those circadian rhythms, no?

I am very, very exhausted.


Thursday, July 09, 2009

i remember when you couldn't wait to love me, used to hate to leave me

A typical night at a typical bookstore:

She - "You know, I've been going to a lot of movies lately and when I've been to them, I've been seeing a lot of previews for movies that are going to be coming out soon, and I figure I'd like to read the books first, so, tell me, where would I find those books?"

Me - "..........." (I believe I actually look just like that when I'm waiting for a customer to fill in big, obvious blocks of missing information. My eyes morph into feathery quotation marks and my mouth is a series of dots)

She - blink, blink.

Me - "Well, since we broke up last month, you've not been calling me to go to movies with you. Because you didn't want to go out with me anymore, I don't know what you've been seeing. I thought when we ended things, we'd at least try to still be friends. Maybe still get together for a movie. Maybe split a dessert somewhere afterward."

She - "Um..."

Me - (pointing to the good natured man with her) "I suppose you've been going to movies with this guy, haven't you?"

She - blink, blink.

Me - "I miss you."

I swear I have the customer service skills of an angel (though the lady searching for MC. Hammer's greatest hits CD last year may recall it differently)(though I was being fantastically nice and cute during that encounter)(you know what? just go read that post because it is MUCH better than this one is turning out to be), and in the end, I sold her copies of The Time Traveler's Wife (have had this book forever, but never read it), Julie and Julia: My Year of Cooking Dangerously (read this and very much enjoyed it), and I Love You Beth Cooper (love this book, but fear the mess the movie could be). This, friends, is what's called up selling. I like to call it selling the hell out of my night. My managers probably like to call it earning my place on the schedule.

She - "Thanks for all your help!"

Me - "No problem at all! Hope you enjoy them! Oh, and, um, you know...call me."


Can I just put this out there? If you're out shopping somewhere and realize suddenly that you have a pressing need to pass gas, and it's so urgent you just have to drop it right then and there, STAY IN THE AISLE AND OWN IT! The last two nights I have been leading customers to different areas of the store and found myself both times struck down by a smooth criminal. Other times I've fallen into the post mortem, had customers wander that way and then pause, thinking the offense had been committed by my hands, which leaves me aghast and wanting to clear my name through the unclear air. Stay in the aisle and own it, dammit it, or I will totally call you on it as I see you slinking around on the other side of the book shelves (I'm talking to you, Guy I Saw Peering Over The Top Of Reference Books Yet Who Refused To Make Eye Contact With Me While I Declared 'Jeeeeesus' At The Ass Of Your Undoing).

So should I go see Rick Springfield when he's here in town tonight? "Haven't you seen him enough already?" you ask. Well, sort of. I mean, sure, if you consider two times enough. But the thing is, the Jonas Brothers were less than two hours away from me Tuesday night and I'm convinced my Tool Man kept the boys away from home an additional night this week so they wouldn't be here to see me all twitchy and bitchy because he didn't get tickets for me, which would have been ideal gifts for the birthday and/or Mother's Day he completely blew off (not that I'm bitter)(I TOTALLY AM, btw). Rick Springfield is my original Joe Jonas (and at 59, he's entirely age appropriate), so I'm tempted to bite the bullet. I need a human touch because I think I'm this close to giving Tool Man a human punch (Sally had a hard time holding back). Actually, I just wanted a reason to link that video again.


I should have just shut up after the first portion of this post. You know what? Honestly, just go read the previous posts I linked to in here. They're much better. OK, maybe 'much' is a bit much. I think I really need to go see a movie.


Monday, July 06, 2009

guess who's back, back again. fadkog's back, tell a friend

In the immortal words of the poet David Lee Roth, I heard you missed me! I'm back!

At least I hope most of you missed me. I'm not so sure about a couple of you who apparently used my absence to sneak away from subscribing to my blog. I know, I know. It's not you, it's me, yada, yada, yada. Was it that time I mentioned my kick ass rack that did it for you? Or maybe it was when I alluded to Tool Man offing me to collect my life insurance policy? Suffice to say, Tool Man didn't off me at all last week, my rack is still intact, and, oh yes, I missed you all like the desert misses the rain.

You're probably wondering how I had so much time to miss you all during my marvelous brokecation (Which, wow, let me just say time really does fly when you're having fun! Science? Cross that theory off your list!). Well, let me give you a little tip. When you and your beloved are discussing vacations and you then subsequently put in your time off request at work, make sure your beloved is aware that he (or she, but in this case he) is ALSO supposed to request time off. Both of you being free and unconstrained by this thing called life over the same period of days is really going to make your vacation a heck of a lot more conducive to things like family bonding if, in fact, family bonding is on the list of sights you want to check out (after you've shot down things like explore caves and visit the world's most boring museum on the list of suggested activities).

Because let's just say I found out last Monday morning that my Tool Man didn't ask for time off last week after all and for a moment or twenty, in my mind, I was totally pawing through our files of important papers to see just how much life insurance we took out on him last year and starting to watch reruns of CSI:It's Everywhere to determine if there's such a thing as the perfect crime. Alas, rest assured, I discovered the answers to my questions were (1) probably not enough and (2) apparently not. It's a good thing I'm not much into nature because seriously, for a couple of days, I wasn't a happy camper!

So onto the next thing on your list, which is wondering what I did all last week with my fantastic boys while we enjoyed our brokecation. The following is just a sampling of the fun we had:
  • Enjoyed a delightful picnic and visited the zoo.
  • Considered beginning adoption proceedings for the neighbor boy whose at my house constantly.
  • Took the boys swimming most days. My favorite day was the one when a lady sat near me and pulled out her bible, bible study materials, bowed silently in a moment of prayer, then answered her cell phone and proceeded to scream obscenities to the person calling her. Amen.
  • The preceding priceless moment was topped, however, the following day when, as I was leaving the library, I bore witness to a man standing under a shade tree across the street who had stripped down to a jock strap, and, because it seemed so shockingly urban for such a thing to be occurring in the suburbs, I did a circle around the block to be sure my weary eyes hadn't deceived me. Answer? No, they had not. Jock. Strap.
  • Did craft projects with the boys. What can you do with a few empty Pringles cans, some cat litter, pipe cleaners, and paint? More than you could ever imagine!
  • Read three books. One was good, one was just another collection of the same old thing packaged in a pretty cover, and one was god awful.
  • Learned that Kevin Jonas got engaged. You'll be pleased to know I handled this news without rending of garments, gnashing of teeth, or pulling of hair. Much the same way I did when, back in the days when I wasn't a cougar and it seemed far more logical for me to be all agog about a boy band, I learned Nick Rhodes of Duran Duran was to marry a woman from near where I live. Kevin feels like the default Jonas. Would I have wept had I learned it was Joe who got engaged? I'll never say. Suffice to say, however, when Simon LeBon married, I was a wreck, so I think you know the answer.
  • Had a dream I had sex with Jon Gosselin, and I wish I was kidding, but alas, no, I'm not. Apparently, in my dream life, I find Ed Hardy wear and mid-life crisis ear piercings totally sexy, and also, while Jon may deny to the tabloids that he has ever used the word "babe" in his life, suffice to say that, in my dreams, he says it way too much. I also just shuddered (again) sharing this part of my life with you.

It was a busy week, and we were able to fit Tool Man into the action over the weekend when he was finally free, when we did decidedly 'boy things' like spent SIX HOURS AT AN ARCADE, which would have been tolerable had a trio of high school boys not taken the damn Dance Dance Revolution game hostage the entire time, busting their sweet dance moves while taking turns videotaping themselves for their MySpace pages and pretending I wasn't standing there wanting (nay - NEEDING!) to dance because let me repeat - we spent SIX HOURS AT AN ARCADE.

So now it's Monday and that means I'm back to the taxing task of my stressful work life. Four hours a night, three nights a week?! Don't ask me how I do it! It also means my Tool Man is on vacation for a few days, and that whole thing about crawling through caves? About an hour ago, he and the boys left to travel across the state to do just that. They'll also stay overnight in a hotel and enjoy a few more adventures tomorrow before making their way home. Fueled with a cocktail of powdered sugar donuts (which will later be infused with a variety of Lunchables, beef jerky, licorice, nuclear orange peanut butter crackers, salted nut rolls, and juice boxes)(because nothing gives you stamina for hiking and exploring in Iowa's armpit-like weather like unnatural food products), my youngest son sped around the house this morning looking for his sneakers and yelling about how ENSHOESIASTIC he was for the adventure.

I just realized that maybe there was something scarily prophetic about my 'Sex With Jon Gosselin' dream (can't wait for the Google searches that land here because of that) as Tool Man and I totally just pulled a Jon and Kate this week and will be living separate lives. Except, how exciting, I'll be doing his laundry while he's away! I'll bet Kate washed her hands of that task the first moment Jon came home drunk (allegedly) and excited at getting a young girl to smile at him. I would've the first time he showed me those Ed Hardy jeans, but whatever.

Anyway, this post is all over the place. Probably because I'm exhausted from the lack of sleep I got last night dwelling on how I have to stay alive through tonight while alone in the house, something I've only done twice before in all the time we've lived here, and I'm not so sure that second time wasn't just because an intruder or Bigfoot just took pity on me as I huddled up in bed with the covers up over my head and a bathroom light blazing in the hallway. I'd also find it acceptable to blame it on my head compensating for the utter (and yet surprisingly delightful) silence around here. Silence I must now go break up by turning on the washing machine. Assuming I survive this night, I'll be around to catch up with you as soon as possible. Let us never be away from each other this long ever again!