NAME GAME

Alright. I'll admit we already have a name picked out for the darling little one. It's a name we agreed upon before we got pregnant and we're not to be swayed.

However, that doesn't mean I'm not still interested in your suggestions (especially Michael's). In fact, I was prepared to lie to you all about our naming status just to get them. But I couldn't do that to you, dear interwebs, because we have history. And I have standards. Sub-par standards but my point is they EXIST. So I'm proposing a compromise. I want to hear the wicked, awful things you wish for us to name our preshus, widdle babe and I will pick my favorite to be her bloggy name up until she decides to forcefully and painfully makes her entrance into this world and I then decide to tell you her real name.

I may also reward you with cookies. Maybe.

THIS WILL COST HIM

(After watching a Kay diamond commercial)

"Did you realize that you can't be 'The One' unless you buy expensive and fancy gems and baubles?"

"That is what the diamond companies would love for you to believe but don't you fret. I'm a rebel so you don't have to worry about any of that."

"...Fantastic."

BONDING EXPERIENCE

"You know, you really should talk to the baby so she learns to recognize your voice. That way she'll find you comforting."

"She can't hear me over all your crazy loud gastrointestinal noises."

"Yes, she can! Shut up."

"Well, then what should I say to her?"

"Whatever you want."

"Fine. Hi, Baby! We're going to play broomball except your mommy can't play because you came along and ruined her season."

"Oh, you are just so (CENSORED) endearing."

AWESOME CONVERSATIONS YOU GET TO HAVE IF YOU'RE LUCKY ENOUGH TO LIVE WITH ME

"I've got bills! And I've got the skills to pay the bills. Booty bounce!" (Complete with real-life kung fu butt jiggle)

"You call those skills?"

(Pointed glare)

"I guess I'm just a hater."

"THAT'S RIGHT! Don't hate the player, hate the game."

"...You're weird."

"It's all a part of my charm."

BABY v. 1.0.5

Alright. I'll admit it. There are some amazingly wonderful side effects to being pregnant. I mean, for one, people are extra special nice to you. They carry things for you, to the extent you aren't required to life a danty, delicate finger to move your stuff into your baby daddy's house (now conveniently known as "your" house). They go get burn cream for you at 10 o'clock at night after you set your palm on a hot burner. They even give you not one but two homemade chocolate chip cookies at 8:30 in the morning because there were extra and they wanted to make sure you got some.

And, as if that were not enough, let us all not forget The Boobs. Oh sweet god, The Boobs. The voluptuous, undeniable swelling. The subtly heaving mass that makes men fall to their knees in a quivering pile. Not only are The Boobs memorizing to behold, they are a force to be reckoned with. An entity all their own that DEMANDS respect and immediate action and gets it.

I really like The Boobs. Like, really really.

But, despite all that, despite the glory and the power, all in all, I don't like being pregnant.

Tsk tsk me all you want. It's the truth.

I don't know if you've been told, but this gig can be miserable and I will freely admit that I am not the sort who finds any sort of enjoyment, miracle of life bullshit or no, in feeling like warmed over ass for three plus months. Warmed over ass that is still hungry but can't eat because.. um, yeah. Definitely going to throw up dinner but don't want to throw up dinner but knows resistance is futile and don't you tell me what calmed your stomach because I'll just throw that up too. Or worse, being far enough past dinner that when the incessant need to vomit does strike, I'm forced to drink just enough water so there is something in my stomach to vomit SO IT WON'T HURT AS BADLY.

And you want to know what else? The only way I sleep comfortably and, most importantly, SOUNDLY through the night is ON MY STOMACH. I don't do my side.

Guess who doesn't have any other option?

Guess who also hasn't slept the entire way through the night in four months? Same person who has to get up to pee at least once every night. Same person who has to suffer through throat clogging coughs and colds because I CAN'T TAKE ANY DAMN MEDICINE. I hate feeling enormous. I hate feeling that I'm just days away from the patented pregnancy waddle. I hate stretch marks and my achy back in the morning FROM SLEEPING ON MY SIDE, and I'll tell you what. I was never a big drinker but I'd kill for a beer.

And you know what? I know I'm not alone. I know I am not the only woman to ever suffer during pregnancy but I'm not going to tell you all I enjoy this time when I don't. About the only thing left for me then to look forward to are those pregnancy milestones, each of which I've yearned for in anticipation. Milestones like hearing the heartbeat for the very first time, like feeling the baby kick and then feeling the almost daily tap, tap, tap and then the complex acrobatic performances on the car ride home. Even more special to me was when I finally got to share the experience with Adam and he felt the light drumming of little hands and feet on his fingers.

And then. The coolest deal. The milestone I've been anxiously waiting for since I found out I was pregnant. The milestone that made a lot of the suffering worth while. Friday I finally got to see Lemon Baby (who is now roughly 10.5 inches long) for the first time. And, even more exciting, I got to see Baby v. 1.0.5's cash and prizes flashed across a screen for all the see.


Proportionate eyes and nose and mouth and cheeks crowned with a gigantic forehead.



Tummy and chest and head featuring a teensy nub of a nose and the outline of an ear. Also a disembodied hand.



Enormous kangaroo feet that like to press painfully into vital organs.



Grainy, blurry, female baby bits. (Also referred to as her first nudey picture because I'm nothing if not grossly inappropriate.)



Yes, Dear Interweb. Baby v. 1.0.5 is a girl.

I am currently preparing to lose my shit in a most indelicate and unattractive way.

A GLIMPSE INTO OUR PARENTING STYLE

"HE PEED ON THE FRICKIN' BED!"

"I know. I'm sorry."

"What? Why are you sorry?"

"I should have let him out before we came upstairs."

"I don't care! He P-E-E-D on the frickin' bed. I think we should crate him for the night.

"That's what I was thinking."

"If that little shit is going to act like a puppy, I'm going to treat him like a damn puppy."

(LATER)

"So wait... When exactly did the peeing start?"

"When I grabbed his collar to yank him off the bed."

"You mean when he whimpered?"

"Yeah."

"So he was scared at the time?"

"Possibly."

"... Okay, I feel guilty now because he did it submissively."

"It is not going to hurt him to spend the night in his crate."

"Right."

"..."

"You realize we're going to have these same sort of conversations about Kid-Thing?"

"And it won't hurt him to sleep in the crate either." (Okay. So he didn't really say that last part but I'm sure it was only because he didn't think of it at the time.)

DAMNIT

Dear my immune system,

I'm not sure if you remember back a mere few weeks ago but you and I? We just got over a head cold coupled with an excessively annoying cough that woke us up at night and made me (if not you as well) crabby.

Now. I don't know if you know this, but I just checked the calendar to confirm and it is in fact the holidays that are beginning promptly at 4 p.m. tomorrow. I don't want to be crabby for the holidays. But, you see, I'm scared. Scared, dear immune system, because this morning a coworker pointed out that I was sounding a little froggy. Then, coincidence, I developed a sore throat this afternoon.

Now, I don't mean to be pointing any fingers but it IS beginning to look (and feel) like one of us (and that would be you) is slacking on the duties around here. AND RIGHT BEFORE THE FRIGGIN' HOLIDAYS! Dear immune system, WTF? I mean, I realize I'm pregnant and all BUT IT'S THE HOLIDAYS! AND WE HAVE TO DRIVE! A LOT. I don't WANNA with the sicky!

Therefore, under penalty of sleep deprivation and irritable moodiness, I expect IMMEDIATE improvements. Meaning that twinge I just felt in my left ear? DAMN WELL BETTER BE NOTHING OR SO HELP ME GOD!

Sincerely,
The Management

* * * * * * * *

Dear Dog-Thing,

Do not EVER sit on my hand after you have just come inside from doing your business because IT WAS WET. And I don't know if it was from your butt or your wee doggy boy-bits but I know you did both BECAUSE I SAW YOU and that sort of behavior is just UTTERLY unacceptable.

Sincerely,
Yer Mama

PS: Stop trying to steal my yarn you annoying little shit.

PSS: Thank you for keeping my shoulders warm.

MAN BUTT

"Hey Adam. Do you want some moist towellettes for your delicate backside?"

"It's not delicate. It's a man butt. We use sandpaper."

"..."

"What?"

"I love you a lot."

A STORY ABOUT A DOG

And in particular, this dog:


For those of you unawares (which should be no one but I'll appreciate you playing along), this is Guinness, my corgi/terrier mix.

Why yes, he IS dressed like a chicken. Because he lost a bet. A bet that Adam and I couldn't restrain him long enough to get that costume on him. Fool.

Now, being a corgi/terrier mix, he has turned himself into an ever vigilant watch dog making sure that his nose prints on the living room window prevent any perp who may glance in from seeing anything but dry dog snot or telling the occasional neighbor, yeah that one, walking down the sidewalk. How DARE he pass by MY yard?! Does he not know who I am? I bet if I bark he'll learn his lesson. Yeah, yeah that's right. YOU WALK AWAY. Man, he better not come any closer. Else I may be forced to bark at him louder.

This sort of guarding technique isn't uncommon among the canine crowd, but Guinness has another "guarding" duty that he performs as if the fate of the world depended on it. See, Guinness likes to point out, through the use of pawing and especially licking, if Adam or I have a stray body part showing. One that may not be appropriate for public consumption. Like a nipple. Or certain boy parts. BECAUSE IT OFFENDS HIM.

And don't get me wrong. We've certainly tried to discourage this sort of behavior because I personally am not that fond of getting felt up by a dog tongue but we are starting to discover that it certainly does seem to have it's advantages. Like, hypothetically, when Adam throws water at my face, and as a brilliant, gleeful, only slightly evil form of retaliation, I may or may not have thrown his towel out into the hallway while he was still in the shower so he had to run the doggy gauntlet while wet and showing off body parts that Guinness is adamantly opposed to seeing all the while I giggled and cackled to my bitter, black heart's content.

Except, you know, hypothetically.

CHALLENGE

"Adam, do I embarrass you?"

"What? No. You're going to have to try harder than that."

"I accept your challenge."

TIS ONLY A FLESH WOUND

Today I made a damn fine attempt at cutting a large chunk of my thumb off, and now they're threatening to take my X-acto blades away.



But don't fret. Once we realized we couldn't stop the bleeding, my coworker took me to an Urgent Care and some charmingly smart-assish doctor glued it back together. And now I'm not allowed to get it wet for 48 hours.



Washing my hair might prove to be a bit of a challenge.



Adam would like it pointed out that this is not a case of domestic violence since he has a rather air-tight alibi. He was at work. As was I. I would like it to be pointed out that I managed to not bleed all over my sweater despite my thumb's rather valiant effort otherwise. Because I'm a professional. So kids, don't try this at home.

AT LEAST IT WAS HIS LAUNDRY

"I'm going to go upstairs and play video games."

"Alright. I'll be up in a minute. Would you mind taking up the (freshly clean and FOLDED) laundry?"

"Yup."

"Um. Adam. You are not going to carry that basket of (freshly clean and FOLDED) laundry with a cup hanging out of your mouth."

"Why not?"

"Because you're going to spill it."

"Mm naw gonna sill ih."

"You are and I'm going to have to hurt you."

"Nuuh... DAMNIT!"

"YOU DID NOT."

"I did."

"ADAM."

"What?! It was your negative energy! This is your fault."

"Because I was RATIONAL?"

"Negative."

"Rational!"

"GLASS HALF EMPTY!"

"IT IS NOW!"

HE'S A DIRTY ROTTEN LIAR

I was nothing but charming and TOTALLY NOT ANNOYING THIS WEEKEND. My mother on the other hand....

KIDDING!!! MOMMY COME HELP ME ORGANIZE MORE!!!

SAFE ASSUMPTIONS

"ADAM!!!"

"WHAT!"

"It isn't nice of you to destroy the bathroom when I have to pee! Now you need to hurry up so I can go at the grocery store!"

"Well, I didn't know you had to pee."

"I'm pregnant. YOU SHOULD JUST ASSUME."

BETTER THAN EVER (EXCEPT NOT REALLY)

I bet you're all pretty sick and tired of hearing about how sick and tired I've been feeling as of late, which is fine really because I'm pretty damn sick and tired of it myself. So, because I'm making an effort to be a better person - stronger, stoic, selfless - I'm not going to bitch and whine and moan (like I used to do, dear interwebs, you know, back before I was a better person) about the nauseous feeling that STILL, almost 14 weeks into this gig, seems to strike in the evening for no good reason that I can discern and leaves me writhing and moaning and, occasionally, crying and snotting my brains out because, for serious kid, I do not want to vomit again, do not make my vomit again, so help me God if you make me vomit again. And then the little bastard up and makes me vomit again and tosses in a headache and dehydration for good measure causing me to make idol threats about trading my wet, soggy pillow for Adam's clean, dry one and WHO THE HELL WOULD EVER DO THIS A SECOND TIME and you may never touch me again. And perhaps I cry a little more because damnit, I want to cry and it makes me feel better even while I still kinda feel badly about putting Adam through my irrational, frustrating tirade because of course he can't take over this burden for me and I'm being a huge, stupid sissy and oh my God woman. Just suck it up already. Pull yourself together before his patience runs out and you drive him insane with your brand of crazy and he leaves you alone with a baby to be with some video game character...

But I'm a better person now, so I won't mention all that.

PHOTOS TO FOLLOW

After much consideration and careful debate (and because we just happened upon that particular end cap at Target), Adam and I decided that since Guinness is our oldest and original "kid" and we don't have much time left with him as the one and only, we would do something special for him. Something that would create memories for years to come. Something that will involve pictures. And humiliation. And probably a lot of emotional scarring.

We're going to dress him up for Halloween.

And note when I say "we decided", what I really mean that I decided. And when I give you those flamboyant and silly excuses, I really mean I'm doing it because I'm mean. Very, very mean.

I'm not ashamed to admit that it was quite the long and drawn out process to pick out exactly which of the many, many costumes best represented the holy terror that is my dog, because, see, I wanted to dress him up like a skunk. But they didn't have his size. So then it became a debate between the hotdog, the pirate, or the chicken.

The hotdog was deemed inappropriate, not because he's not a wiener, but because it would be too easy for him to remove, thus ending our hilarity far too soon. The pirate outfit was then nixed because it was made of sub-par materials and didn't have a hat. (Guinness hates hats. This will be important later.) So, dear interwebs, we were left with the only logical choice. A chicken.

Now, I wasn't going to make any attempt to put him in said outfit until Halloween day when we would be handing out candy to the few ambitious trick-or-treaters that even bother to canvas Adam's neighborhood, but after work today Adam and I were both feeling a bit naughty and we decided to make Guinness try on the hat.

In case you missed it before, Guinness does not like hats. Or clothing at all for that matter.

I held him upright while Adam struggled to shove his ears through the tiny holes, his black body writhing about, teeth flaring idle threats, tossing his head.

Hehe. Halloween is gonna be awesome.

MOVING TO THE SOUTHER, WEST-ISH SIDE

This weekend began the long and arduous process of Adam and I moving in together. (Like real adults! Because being pregnant with his child just wasn't quite adult enough.) A process that began the delicate packing up and shifting of my life, and the savage culling of his. (I say culling because, let's be honest, my decor is far superior. (I kid! Kinda!) Also, Mr. Pack Rat doesn't throw ANYTHING away.)

Now, to be fair, at this point it really is a balancing act to fit everything, not so much because we both have that much stuff. No, the space issue is really only an issue because Adam's roommate is not moving out immediately. In fact, he may be living with us for quite a while.

This means, that room we're planning on storing my (not so superior) bed and turning into a guest room? Shawn's room. And the media room we want to create so Adam can have all his major electronics and MILLIONS of gaming systems all in one handy dandy location, as well as making room for my couch and leather recliner? Shawn's other room. And the dining room where my awesome espresso colored table would fit PERFECTLY?! So sorry. It doesn't fit with Shawn's country bumpkin table already in there. Oh! And how about the baby's room where our precious, darling lemon will lay his (or her) little head? Storage for my junk in the interim (and by "junk", I of course mean "superior decor." Also, clothes.) OH THE TRAGEDY.

I know we'll make it work and I know it will be an adjustment, I just really hope we don't end up with all of Shawn's shit after I go bezerk from all the clutter and end up burying him behind the garage. The same garage we would then end up having a garage sale out of. FYI.


PS - Anyone in need of a lovely matching sofa/love seat combo in a lush and beautiful sage? $250. You remove the dog hair.

RELAXING

Sunday afternoon, in a rare instance of calm (unless he's being physically retrained--so not even kidding about that one), Guinness was curled up with me on the baby's future rocking chair/recliner, his fuzzy body pressed against the length of my leg, his head resting on my thigh, all while not making any attempts to bite my hands as I scratched his ears. The sight was so unusual, in fact, that I quickly alerted Adam.

"Lookit! My dog is behaving."

Adam turned from his computer (where he was playing World of Warcraft... our child has NO CHANCE of ever being cool) to gaze at the splendor of a not spazzy Guinness before reaching for his camera.

He lifted it to his face, lined up the shot, and stopped.

"I can't take your picture."

"Why the hell not?"

"You don't have any pants on."

"... Ah."

WHEREIN I LOSE MY SHIT

So this morning, rather than do work (because work is for sissies), I spent a good 10-20 minutes talking with coworkers about Lemon Baby and in the course of said conversation I poked my belly and, dear interwebs, that shit is getting hard, like genuinely pregnant hard and THAT means that I really do have a thing inside my belly.

OH MY EFFING GOD, THERE IS A THING INSIDE MY BELLY!

::Lip quiver::

::Whimper::

And then I promptly lost my shit and may or may not have been on the verge of having my own tiny, precious panic attack because I don't know if you heard me, dear interwebs, BUT THERE IS A T-H-I-N-G (a living, eventually breathing thing) INSIDE MAH BELLY!!!!!!!

Must. Find. Paper. Bag.

BABY NOTES, PART 1

Dear Lemon Baby (so called because, according to this, you are now about the size of a lemon, which, I know. It's substantial. In fact, I believe the proper response would be that you're freaking enormous):

Anyway. Dear Lemon Baby. Hi. This would be your incubator talking and speaking of enormous, you and I? We have several things I think we need to be discussing. First and foremost, you're about 3 months old now, give or take a few days, and due in large part to wonky pregnancy math, which had me pregnant 2 to 3 WHOLE WEEKS before The Deed, you know, was actually did. That's right. According to the crazy ass doctors and nurses, I was actually pregnant BEFORE I got pregnant. WTF, right? (Also, Kid Thing, with regards to The Deed, just remember that, until you're old enough to support your own damn self, the opposite sex is yucky AND, when you ignore that advise, you be sure that you/she is taking the pill AND using a condom. I'm just sayin'. It never hurts to double up.)

Anyway, the point I'm really trying to get at is that I was under the impression, and not unjustifiably, that the nausea and the vomiting and the general, all-around misery that is the first trimester would, you know, be OVER by the beginning of the second trimester, that magical, delightful, mystical 3 month mark I've heard oh, so much about. You know, WHERE WE ARE NOW.

You, dear child, must have failed to receive THAT particular memo.

It would also seem, according to the rather violent goings on of last night, that you are ADAMANTLY opposed to cheetos. THAT WAS UNFORTUNATE FOR ME.

And another thing. While I have yet to gain any weight, due in large part, I'm sure, to all the dinner time vomiting (and not that I'm seriously complaining about no weight gain. HELLZ no. In fact, if we could continue to keep that little symptom to a minimum (while still maintaining a healthy baby weight) I might just make you my favorite kid so far), I do already have two, TWO new, tiny, red stretch marks around my belly button. What the hell?! Now, I realize you're just utilizing my incubator status to it's fullest and to do that you must move you and your people sack higher into my abdomen to make some room (all while displacing my lungs and stomach), but, but, but! Stretch marks?! I've already gotten to the point where only TWO of my non-pregnancy pants fit and even those are a little tight! (Which is why I'm sitting here typing this without any pants on. I am so sexy.) I'm not understanding why you really need to be adding insult to injury here. AND!! Chipotle?! You had to take away Chipotle? Other than chips and guac, any thoughts and daydreams of rice-stuffed burritos is met with stomach churning resistance AND YOUR FATHER IS NOT HAPPY ABOUT IT.

WHY? WHY DO YOU HATE YOUR MAMA?! Seriously. You damn well better show me a SINGLE, solitary, healthy, strong heartbeat on Thursday to make up for all this shit or, so help me god, I will never let you have candy EVER!

Hugs & Kisses,
The Incubator

FREE SAMPLES

"So along with my shit ton of paper work and reading material I also got a bunch of maternity magazines. Oh! And look! With this one I even got a free sample."

"Um. What is that?"

"Disposable nursing pads."

"Why?"

"So that I don't go leaking all over everything."

"Oh. So it's a boobie diaper."

"... Yes."

ONLY IF HE VOMITS AS MUCH AS I HAVE

"That crock of shit birthing class is $200 per 'birthing team.' That's right. You and I are a 'birthing team.'"

"I'm team captain!"

BEING STUPID

A few nights ago, after a Saturday night spent with Adam's friends, we were laying in bed and I was just fuming about something that had happened earlier, AND through my hot, angry tears I demanded to know if Adam thought I was being stupid.

He reached over silently, put his arms around me, and hugged me to him. I tolerated this for a few moments before turning to him and wailing, "That isn't 'you're not being stupid!' That's 'I'll support you WHILE you're being stupid!'"

"You aren't being stupid," he said affectionately, "just emotional."

I glared. "Men think that's the SAME THING."

TRAVELING FAST

Over the weekend, Adam and I traveled north with the express purpose of sharing some news with his parents, news I had already shared with my parents a whole damn month ago.

We arrived around 10:30 on Friday night after four hours of driving and traffic and boredom and had barely made it through the front door when Adam, without much introduction, draped his arm across his mother's shoulders and announced the the real reason we made the trip was because we had news.

His mother seemed apprehensive as she asked what that news might possibly be.

He told them I'm pregnant. (SURPRISE! Yeah, to us too!)

And the very first words out of his mother's mouth: "Whose is it?"

. . .

Now, I laughed because it was funny and because I'm about 60% sure she was kidding and because the woman has been in shock ever since but really?

Adam, ever the quick witted jester, told her we were waiting for Maury to find out. Because we're classy like that.

And while his parents are still coping with the idea, mine could not be more thrilled. Hell, even my grandparents are excited. My grandma never called me a hussy, not even once. I think she might be saving that one for Thanksgiving.

THE ROMANCE ISN'T DEAD, IT JUST NEEDS A KICK IN THE ASS

"Hey, Adam?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you remember that charming thing you used to do?"

"What was that?"

"The dishes."

PENNY & AGGIE: WHAT YOU CAN'T TEACH

SPIKE

Last week while jogging, Adam found a small miniature dachshund wondering around who was much the worse for wear. We believe his owners abandoned him some time ago because not only can you count ALL of his ribs, but (we believe) he has an infected anal gland because his butt is puffy and swollen o the point he will not sit down (only lay) and his little teeth are rotting out of his head.

He is certainly a pathetic case.

BUT! He is eating soggy food like it's a feast fit for a king, and even had a pee war with Guinness Friday night. In the house. While we were asleep.

Charming little bastards.

But it was while this potential new family member (who the vet told us is named Spike)(he had a vet tag on him and we've been trying to call the old owners for 5+ days) was curled up napping on Adam's lap that I decided to further inspect his various maladies.

I lifted his tail to inspect his butt. It was swollen.

I poked his puffy, swollen butt. It was squishy.

I then poked a lump on his still attached boy parts. Adam was irate.

"YOU DO NOT POKE THE TESTICLES!"

"But! I wanted to see if it was squishy like his butt."

"You do. not. poke. the testicles."

"But he has a lump!"

"No. I don't care. You don't poke his testicles and you don't poke my testicles."

"Wha?! I.. but.. I have NEVER poked your testicles!"

"But you would if given the chance!"

"... I.. no..."

"..."

"ALRIGHT! You're probably right."

"Damn right I am, woman."

Ed Note: Yes, I realize just how demented we both are. IT'S LIKE WE WERE MADE FOR EACH OTHER!! It's S-C-A-R-Y!

GULLIBLE

I will be leaving for Guatemala in a week.

I am not prepared.

BUT I am attempted to prepare and that included running to Walgreens for the THIRD FREAKING TIME (because they hadn't processed the prescription I had dropped off two hours prior and I'm sorry ma'am can you wait 15 more minutes? I couldn't. I went home for a few more hours to stew.. and watch Hairspray.. and I owe Adam an apology and probably a kidney for THAT little monstrosity). Ahem. Anyway, we ran to Walgreens to pick up my malaria medication. I paid. Adam picked up several other things. He paid. With a card. And felt the need to peck at the touchpad without the use of the styllus.

I pointed out this error.

"I don't need a styllus! I am a technological genius. I actually took a class in college on using a keypad without needing a styllus."

"You what? Really?"

"No! I can't believe you feel for that!"

We continued walking across the parking lot and the conversation naturally turned to my impending leaving and said lack of preparations (except, you know, the one.)

"You know, the bad thing about this malaria medication is it's a suppository."

"Oh my God. That's AWESOME! Is it really?"

"No. And by the way, you are a sick, sick bastard for being excited by that."

THWARTED (BUT I LOVE YOU MORE)

Adam, silly, crazy boy that he is, revealed to me last night that when I call him at work and end the phone conversation with an "I love you," he feels obligated to repeat it lest he deal with my wrath (DESPITE ME TELLING HIM A "YOU TOO" WOULD SUFFICE). This was unfortunate yesterday because a coworker overheard him and oh. The shit, it was copious (as well it should have been).

And because I am evil, this made me giggle.

Also because I'm evil and because I leave for lunch earlier than he does, I decided to call him as I was making my way to my car.

"Hello?"

"I was just calling to say I love you."

"Oh. Well in that case, I love you, too."

"You're not in the office, are you?"

"Nope!"

"DAMNIT!!!"

HERE I AM

Hi.

Look, I know i haven't written (or called or texted or IMd and I totally blew you off when I saw you in the grocery store the other day) but I've been busy! What with the stress! And the personal issues! And just a general lack of will to write or be entertaining and I AM NOT YOUR MONKEY!

But fret not, dear interwebs. We are back together again (for now), and my love for you grows stronger with each passing minute (now take off your pants). I won't soon leave your side again (except, you know, when I'm in a third world country and, let's be totally honest here, probably before that, too).

But I've come to a conclusion about you, dear interwebs, that you're sort of slutty and you'll get the attention you so desperately desire from anyone. Even from that guy over there if you've had a few, but your first choice (obviously) is me so I'll do what I can with my limited resources to be your everything, even if only for a little while (but if you give me the clap, so help me God, we're through).

XOXO,
The Management

IT'S GONNA BE A GOOD DAY, TATOR

This morning, I filled Guinness' water dish... and then spilt the majority of the contents down my pants leg.

This morning, as I walked Guinness, he lunged at a truck and as I attempted to calm him, I accidentally unhooked his leash. He started towards traffic and I yelled an explicit and started after him, and I'm pretty sure he smelled my fear because he sat his ass down and looked at me like he was very, very sorry.

And it isn't even 8 o'clock yet.

DON'T RUSH ME

Adam and I went home this weekend to attend my cousin's wedding and I'm a bit disappointed to report only one of my uncles put Adam on the spot by demanding to know what his intentions were with me.

Luckily, my aunts and my mother (mostly my mother) made up for it. Oh yes. They did. And while no one (to my knowledge) came right out and demanded to know a date, they each in their own way made inquiries... to the point where my mother felt obligated to apologize the next day and announced that what she may or may not have said was to in no way be interpreted as her trying to rush anyone.

And while I tease my mother (because it is my God-given right and duty as her daughter), I am thrilled to see Adam so accepted by the three matriarchs of the family, because you remember my snarky, snippy attitude from Friday?

I got that from my mother.

And you know how tact often suffers in my almost crippling drive to be blunt and honest?

I got that from her, too.

And do you know how anyone in my family celebrates any sort of accomplishment or event?

By drinking. In the case of this wedding, drinking heavily. I only bring this up to show just how much my mother must like Adam because I caught her not once but twice whispering conspiratorially with him (presumably about me because <- narcissistic), a drunken gleam in her eye. And she would not presume to be nice with that much alcohol in her system. (Case in point: my mother dropped and/or caused someone else to drop THREE different drinks that night.) So no, my mother was not doing well at hiding any sort of malice at that reception and when pressed about it, all Adam is willing to tell me about what transpired is, "drunk S is funny."

EXCUSES

Um... so yesterday I was all prepared to write you a brilliant and provocative and FUNNY post about the goings on over the weekend, including wedding! And... well, actually only the wedding. BUT THEN! 4 of the o'clock variety came about and the "ehh" I'd been feeling all day turned into "way worse than ehh." More like "cannot move lest I void my warranty." So I stoically texted Adam asking for soup and crackers and pity in general and, being the wonderful boyfriend that he is, he also brought tea and movies and walked my dog and did my dishes.

Because he is the Awesome.

Anyway, the stupid, neurotic receptionist has called off AGAIN, so chances are very good I'll write up a post for your delight and enjoyment for later tonight while I'm covering her phones.

PROBABLY NOT MONDAY EITHER

As bitter, snarky thoughts about one of my coworkers raced through my mind this morning, it occurred to me that recently (shut it), I've become far too judgmental of other people and it would probably do me good to suppress such thoughts and comments. I thought, maybe I should spend the weekend thinking only nice thoughts and leave the snarky in Cincinnati.

But then I remember that I would be home all weekend with my two bitchy, snarky, sarcastic sisters, and that shit just isn't going to cut it.

Maybe Monday.

BUT I AM!

Words that I have, in the past, used to describe myself: "Dainty" and "delicate".

Words that often times follow immediately upon me calling myself either "dainty" or "delicate": "Shut the hell up" and "asshole".

I CAN TELL THEY'RE RELATED

This weekend, Adam's youngest brother joined us for broomball. He'd never played before and, while he did a good job, it was certainly nice to not be the only one to crash and burn. Repeatedly. Afterward, we gathered around the day-old stink of fast food and discussed the game. It was about this time that Adam turned to me and announced, "We need to work on your backhand."

I retorted, "We need to work on my ball handling skills, period."

Adam's brother then collapsed into a fit of giggles. BECAUSE HE'S 12. Also, a boy BUT MOSTLY 12. (ED. NOTE: And by 12 I mean 22.)

PRESUMPTUOUS

"Oh, and he gave me a back massage without me even having to ask."

"You realize those are meant to lead to other things, don't you?"

"Why, whatever do you mean mother?"

"I take it you know exactly what I mean by "other things" then?"

AM NOT AMUSED

The city I live in, while not very big, has a downtown district that is undergoing revitalization. This has included the redesigning of an intersection to allow for traffic turning in all directions, updates to utility lines, sidewalk and road improvements, and a brand spanking new, brick-paved plaza that will only be utilized by skateboarders because this city refuses to invest in alternative means of youth entertainment (ie-a skate park).

I know all of this for several reasons, not the least of which being I LIVE "DOWNTOWN" (if you can seriously even call it that).

This week they began the final stages of paving the roadways they've had torn up for over a year. I understand that. I expect delays, but whoever is responsible for giving the go ahead to pave the main intersection THROUGH downtown during morning rush hour should be stripped down to his dingy, old tighty whiteys and PUBLICLY FLOGGED.

Also, I tore a hole in the back of my brown corduroy jacket that was hanging on the back of my chair when I sat down and yanked it (with my butt) across the corner of said chair.

I am unhappy about that as well. Must watch HGTV and stare at color chips to feel better (though I did promise Adam I would only make him paint the walls of the kitchen this weekend which will take us all of three hours tops, and that's if we move at a glacial pace. The cabinets I shall save for another day, though we did have a conversation last night that went something like this:

"Remember how I said the cabinets could stay white? I'm beginning to think they might look better in a soft cream."

"Of course you are."

THAT ISN'T A NO, AND IF YOU DON'T WANT TO HAVE WORK TO DO, DON'T TELL ME I CAN DO WHATEVER I WANT!)

BROOMBALL

Last night I played broomball for the third time ever. For those of you who were like me a few mere months ago and are unaware of exactly what broomball is, essentially, it's played on ice like hockey but with special shoes and a rubber ball instead of a puck. Granted, there are several other differences but for all intents and purposes, that pretty well describes it.

With that being said, I think now might be an appropriate time to remind you that I don't have good balance.

Oh sure. I know I fooled you what with all that delicate and dainty footwork I perform every time I trip over my own two feet just by walking down the street, the same fancy footwork that usually prevents me from falling flat on my ass, the same fancy footwork that does not work so well when on ice.

Yeah.

I fell. A lot. I fell so frequently people stopped bothering to ask if I was alright. That was until I slammed into the boards with my shoulder. They asked that time.

Adam suggested that I wouldn't slam into the boards if I stayed on my feet. But see, the flaw in that logic would be I WOULD NEED TO STAY ON MY FEET, which, if you've been following along AT ALL, you would know I'm not very good at doing. Because I fall. A lot.

But despite all that, I am having fun, so much so I told Adam I wish we could play more than once a week, and I am getting slightly better each time I play. Case in point, last night I had my very first assist (wherein I helped someone score a goal). It was for the other team, but I hold firm that, at this point, an assist is an assist and you just need to shut the hell up about.

This means you, Adam. Also: Tiff, Michael, Barnes, and anyone else who might make fun of me about it. I'M LEARNING BY DOING. Learning by doing.

ADDING INSULT TO INJURY

If you're leaving work and talking to your sister quite candidly on the phone, I recommend looking around to see if there are any other coworkers also leaving work that might hear you say something dirty (and.. monthly) out your open car window.

Something like: "It traversed my butt crack."

I HAVE HATE IN MY HEART

I may not have known, but I knew. I knew when I kept waking myself up 5 minutes before my alarm. I knew when I got up 10 minutes earlier than normal and, by the time I sat down to eat breakfast, was running 10 minutes late. And I knew when I spilled my entire glass of chocolate milk across my table, down the wall, under my computer, over my bills just as I was supposed to be leaving that I was going to cry today.

In the last two days, I have been surprised with two major, due-immediately projects dumped in my lap with no warning, not to mention the ad project I am currently working on that is due TODAY and I have ABSOLUTELY NO DIRECTION other than "Ehh. I'm not sure I like what your doing here. Why don't you try something else?" WHAT?! LIKE WHAT?! WHAT THE F*CK DO YOU WANT ME TO DO YOU CRAZY PSYCHO BITCH?! OH MY FREAKING GOD. I cannot read your mind! I can't! I am not capable.

I left for lunch today at 11:30 like I always do. By that time, I'd already cried in furious frustration. Twice. I'd already locked myself in the bathroom and silently screamed into the wall. I'd already taken one of my failed attempts, balled it up in my fists, and torn it into bitty bits while having a bloody f*cking conniption at my desk.

At this rate, they'll be lucky if I come back.

LIFE LESSONS

Last Thursday evening I took Guinness to his very first obedience lesson at PetsMart and here is what I learned:

• Just because they recommend squirt bottles as a method of discipline (a rather effective one given your dog is on a leash and can't scamper away when he sees you reaching for it), does not mean they carry squirt bottles. Which is stupid.



• If I show Guinn a treat and bring it up between my eyes to establish eye contact enough times, I will have dreams about doing the same thing to a human child. A blond, human child. A blond, human child who also happens to be named Guinness. And in my dream I will wonder how big of an asshole some parent had to be to name their blond, human child Guinness.

Then, Friday evening I had to drive down to Clifton for the second time in one week, which put me in a foul mood, to a meeting I didn't really want to attend because it was in Clifton and since I didn't want Guinn to be alone all night I asked Adam to puppysit. He was kind enough to oblige even though I turned out to be a snippy, snarky, PMS-y bitch who got mad and annoyed at something that I had no good reason to get mad and annoyed about, while the whole time he was calm and perfectly reasonable.

Because I'm a bitch.

But you got that part, I'm sure.

While I was gone at the meeting I didn't really want to be at, I texted Adam to ask if he would run to the store just up the street and pick me up some sweet tea. He agreed because, of course he agreed. I was being unreasonable. Why would he not agree? And I learned something:

• If I ask Adam to get me sweet tea after being snippy and snarky, he will go to two different stores and pick up four different kinds (if they don't have my favorite kind) which will then make me feel quite guilty for being unreasonable.



• He'll also pick up two squirt bottles for disciplining Guinness that I will later find sitting on the dining room table and his thoughtfulness will make me feel like a real asshole.



• When I then apologize and comment how I feel like aforementioned asshole, he'll grin wickedly at me and say, "that's the point." And then I'll call him a dirty name, which I won't feel the slightest bit guilty about.

BELMAS THE NEUROTIC

Tell me your viking name.

Do it now!

I HAVE AN ANNOUNCEMENT TO MAKE

Today, my wonderful, beautiful, delightful sister turned old.

Now, to be perfectly fair, she already was old, I'm just trying to be nice.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, TIFF!!!! LOVE YOU!!!! Check is in the mail!

Also, later, as a special birthday treat, I have Guinness stories (who just rolled over onto his squeak toy and scared the hell out of himself). And, if Adam gets off his butt and sends me those pictures like I requested, Guinness pictures.

* * * * *

This weekend was a weekend of introductions. Adam was introduced to my parents, I was introduced to his parents, Guinness was introduced to (not my) family farm.

Um, yeah.

Now, to his credit, Guinness was wonderfully well-behaved. So well behaved, in fact, that we decided to try letting him off leash while at Adam's parents so he could play and wrestle with Beau (Adam's brother's dog), something he did with gusto. And it was while he was off-leash that we tested him, see, by calling him and praising him when he came. We even attempted this feat at a local playground and he came to me every time he was called (if you count coming into the general vicinity, which I do).

I'm sure a number of you can see where this is going. Try not to ruin it for the slower members of the audience.

While at the family farm the following day, the dogs were again going at it, this time around the pond and we thought that since Guinn had done so well the previous day off-leash that we would reward him for such good behavior. And at first, all was well. And at first, he and Beau wrestled and splashed and Beau body-checked Guinn into the pond (hilarious). And then they started playing chase. And then Guinn got distracted.

I should also maybe mention at this point that Adam's grandpa, the proprietor of the family farm, raises horses. Horses that, while quite friendly (or maybe because they were so friendly) scared the shit out of Guinness.

It might also have been their size.

But here's the thing. Guinness, while certainly not purebred, is a herding breed, and he has show an affinity for such activities by attempting to herd certain things. Namely people, bicycles, and golf carts. So when Guinness saw those horses running, he decided he had to put a stop to it. So he ran, barking like a fool at the horse in front of the herd, who happened to be the largest of the four, who happened to slow down at the sight and sounds of the crazy barking dog.

It was about the time that Guinness reached the herd and the largest of the horses looked down at him while still running in a trot that Guinness realized them sumbitches are BIG.

So he did what came naturally to a yellow-bellied bully. He tucked his tail firmly between his legs and booked it into the barn.

Where the goose was. And the goose... he was a more manageable size.

To be fair, Guinness, apparently, is not the only dog to have ever chased this goose and he did only manage to sniff at it before one of the kids grabbed ahold of him, but needless to say, he is not allowed off-leash at the farm anymore.


And his is not amused.

SMARTASS

"Just so you know, I don't read your blog when I see it's just quotes."

"... Okay."

STUBBS

It looks as if Guinness is humiliated to even be associated with me. Little bastard.



Noooo. He'd much rather play with his best friend, Adam.


And apparently become demonic.

IN CASE I NEEDED MORE CONVINCING

Since I started my dating career, I've been in several (2) long-distance relationships, and by "long-distance" I mean "only on the weekend, more than an hours drive, filling my gas tank up at least twice just to make it through the weekend" sort of distance. In both of these relationships, for some reason, without fail, be it my charming disposition or my ever-present need to please (shut up), it always ended up that I became the one doing most of, if not all of, the driving, an event that often times totaled 6 to 8 hours in the car. Every weekend.

Now, I'm going to level with you, dear interwebs. I am only so nice and giving and willing to please without there being some sort of reciprocation, so, naturally, after a month or two of doing all of the damn driving, I would become quietly resentful and angry. And, being a girl and struggling with my need to please, I wouldn't mention it. No. Better to let it fester and wallow until it blew up into something big and ugly, all the while hoping he would GET IT and say, "You know what? You've been doing all this for me, let me willingly drive down there for you."

That never happened.

So you'll imagine my surprise, dear interwebs, when I asked Adam if he wanted me to drive down to his place this evening and his response back was that he would drive tonight. Because I drove all weekend. Because I'll be driving all this weekend, too. And I had steeled myself. I was already vaguely annoyed at the thought of even more driving after all the driving I've been doing, but had told myself that it was okay, just this week and then I would tell him to pick up the slack after this holiday weekend was over.

But I don't have to. Because he's doing it willingly, because he noticed, because he wants to be fair. And I know it's something small. And I know it's something silly. And I know it's not the end of the world, but that response back meant so very much to me.

BROOMBALL INTRODUCTION

This weekend I played broomball for the first time ever and I learned this: you use your inner thighs A LOT to remain standing on the ice, something I only did with varying degrees of success.

Also: thank God for hockey helmets, otherwise I might have had a black eye when meeting the parents for the first time. And I totally would have blamed it on Adam. Much like I'm blaming the bruise I got from running into the wall while chasing Guinness on Adam and that is only because he barely even looked up from his STUPID VIDEO GAME while I pissed and moaned about the stinging, my god the stinging.

Because he's a bastard. A nerdy, nerdy bastard.

FORK YOU

We were sitting side-by-side on the couch, starring aimlessly at the TV, each clutching a bowl of butter pecan ice cream, not speaking for the creamy goodness melting seductively on our tongues. Maybe it was the soft moaning of satisfaction as each succulent bite caressed our lips or the glazed over, dead look in our eyes from boring TV but something made Guinness believe that this time, this time we were going to let his filthy self (from digging with reckless abandon in Adam's flower bed) up onto the couch. This time, despite 10 previous no's to the contrary.

He leapt, grazing Adam's feeding arm and causing him to drop his fork* to the floor. Adam forcibly removed Guinness from the couch, again, then reached down, picked up the fork, AND POISED IT OVER HIS BOWL FOR ANOTHER BITE.

I quickly plucked the fork from his grasp, disgust splayed prominently across my face.

"You can't use a fork you just dropped on the floor," I sneered, walking briskly to the kitchen to discard of the offending item and fetching him a clean one.

He took the fork I offered and smirked up on me, "And why not?"

"It had fuzz on it!"

He sighed dramatically, shaking his head at me like I was some silly, naive child. "Yes, but it wouldn't have after I took a bite."

"Been a bachelor for a while, have you?"

"Shut up."


*Yes, the man really does eat ice cream with a fork. No, I don't know why. I suspect it's because he's odd.

ENDEARING WILL ONLY GET YOU SO FAR

Adam has this habit. And it's a cute habit, rather endearing, and it makes me grin every time he does it. Adam likes to comment on Guinness' choice of marking spots.

That's right. He critiques his peeing.

And because I find this habit cute and endearing, I've started to do this, too.

The general rule (I had thought) was grass or leaves are to be discouraged, while slightly more unique things, such as a poles, car tires, and rocks were prime. Apparently not.

"Good choice, Guinn. Very top notch."

"I disagree."

"You.. what? It's a ROCK! What is wrong with a rock?"

"I just think he could have done better."

"... Are you trying to be difficult?"

"Little bit."

"I will cut you."

FUN WITH TEXT MESSAGES

J to Adam: If you're actually interested in helping, we're working on the deck from 3:30 til dinner.

Adam to J: Just got your text. I was busy buying my woman knee pads*. Would have come to help.

J to Adam: Good god! Keep that shit to yourself next time!


*For the record, I bought the knee pads and they're for broomball. HOWEVER, should that fall through...

LESSONS LEARNED

This morning Guinness learned a very valuable lesson. Namely, to watch where he's going when walking. And he learned this lesson after walking face-first into my neighbor's car bumper.

He stumbled backwards, glared at the offending bumper, and barked indignantly.

And me? I couldn't breath for the laughing.

PAY-GRADE

(Ed. Note: For the record, Adam is not whipped, he's just a genuinely nice guy because you know the difference between whipped and nice? When you're whipped, you do things because you feel obligated or to stop the bitching. When you're nice, you do it just because you want to.

And we all know I never bitch.)



Dear Adam's Co-workers:

Let me start by saying I'm flattered, really I am, that you even think me capable of the caliber of whippage at which Adam currently resides. Because, can I be honest with you? Really truly honest? That sort of submission is just COMPLETELY out of my pay-grade. We're talking a lifetime of Jewish mother here (which I can't really explain seeing how Adam was raised Methodist, BUT I DIGRESS).

Now, while I wouldn't be shocked to find my sisters capable of grinding and then finely polishing their men down to that level given enough time and appropriate access to the boobage when positive reinforcement is necessary, frankly, I just don't have that kind of experience. I'm a bit ashamed to admit that I had to buy my man pre-whipped by someone else (or maybe my lovin's really are THAT good), though he is a model specimen, isn't he? I've already had him almost two months and he still has that new boyfriend smell. AND IT IS DELICIOUS.

So in closing, as much as I would like to be able to take credit for making him the fine, upstanding, accommodating boyfriend he is today, I am not to be held responsible for his actions.

At least, not just yet.

Sincerely,
SLRd

PANGS OF DISPLEASURE

Dear Adobe Illustrator Clipping Masks:



Sincerely,
The Management

Image unapologetically stolen from someone named Scandalous Candice.

QUOTES FROM THE WEEKEND*

"Hey buddy, please don't rub your wet junk on me, okay?"

* * *

"Uch, I never want to live in a village."

"Hey! I was born in a village."

"And it has since lost it's idiot."

"Touche."

* * *

C: "I was opening a checking account for this woman's daughter at the bank. She was born in 1980 and her daughter looked so old so finally I asked. She was 12! That means she was 16 when she had her! I know that shit happens but she's only a year older than me. I can't imagine having a 12-year-old."

J: "Hey! Watch it. We don't know if SLRd has a 15-year-old kid or something some where!"

Me: "Shut it, J. Adam doesn't know about it yet."

J: "Aww. You just ruined Adam's life."

* * *

"I wish someone would pay me to hang out with you."

"What?! You mean my parents aren't paying you for this? Boy, you got the shaft end of that deal."

* * *

"Talking about kids doesn't bother me. Now, if you were to say you wanted to make a baby tomorrow, that might bother me. If you were to say you wanted to practice making a kid tomorrow, I'd be okay with that."

*To be updated as I remember them.

RED GERBER DAISIES

I drove down to Montgomery to pick him up when his car broke.

He bought me flowers.

I think it was a pretty fair trade-off.

EARNING AT LEAST ONE OF HIS NICKNAMES

"So Adam is for sure coming home with me for Fourth of July weekend. I mentioned sleeping arrangements and he said if they were going to be an issue he could just stay at his parents."

"But you don't want him to do that, do you?"

"No."

"Well, we trust you. Besides, you're 25 years old. It isn't like your first time is going to be at our house... which could be taken one of two ways."

"Hehe. I promise you that our first time will not be at your house."

"Right."

"Besides, it isn't like anything could happen anyway. Guinness will be in the room."

"Of all the things you could have told me about abstinence and waiting until you were married that is the excuse I believe most."

"I know! Adam kisses me and Guin is all up in our faces like, 'Whatcha doin'? Huh huh? I bite your hand now, k?'"

"I pay that dog handsomely for that little trick."

"You're certainly getting your damn money's worth."

A LITTLE MORE THAN ANNOYED

Today, for no good reason other than, oh! I'm PART-TIME, I decided to go into work at 9 rather than 8.

You would have thought the world ended.

As I made my way up the steps to my cube of hatred and death, I passed one of the HR ladies, one who I know quite well.

She glanced at her watch.

"You aren't just getting in, are you?"

"I am," I say through a forced smile and gritted teeth.

She makes the face she ALWAYS MAKES when she thinks she needs to act like my mother. "Well," she says, her tone one of exasperation. "Better late then never, I guess."

I bristle but continue up the steps but not before calling back, "You people seem to forget that I'm part-time."

BECAUSE SERIOUSLY! I am! Part-time! As in NOT full-time! No benefits, no vacation, no sick leave, no holiday pay. It isn't like it costs you money if I walk in a little late AND HOW DO YOU KNOW I DIDN'T HAVE A DOCTOR'S APPOINTMENT? Or something wrong with Guinness? Shit, I thought we were past this little judgmental streak you've ALWAYS had, but have since seemed to let slide because, why? Did you finally get used to me? My sense of humor? For f*cks sake, I'm practically getting ass raped by you people. CUT ME A LITTLE SLACK. And maybe, just MAYBE, if you people chose to work on improving morale rather than asking us part-timers to bend the hell over and take it another time, I WOULD WANT TO BE THERE AT ALL.


(And then, to top it off, the designer at the magazine I really like working with got a new job and it took EVERY FIBER OF MY BEING to NOT ask about it when I was on the phone with her at work, but I'm looking that shit up tonight.)

I HATE THE SUBURBS

Tonight, as I was coming home from walking Guin, some guy who I was rude enough to make wait 10 whole seconds (TOPS!) while I crossed in a crosswalk WITH THE LIGHT, called me a fat ass.*

Must have been the same guy who dented my car at Wal-mart by letting a cart roll into it.

I repeat, I f*cking HATE the suburbs.


* To be honest, I'm actually must less upset about it than I was about the cart into the car, because MY CAR, YOU BASTARD! And besides, everyone who is anyone knows I am one smoking hot piece of ass.

Also modest. Let us not forget modest.

BROOMBALL

In case you didn't make it to the end of that long ass Adam post, he went to Miami University (and graduated in 2003. Or was it 2002? Damnit! I don't remember. EITHER WAY, HE IS OLD.) And, according to Adam, who may or may not be a reliable source, a popular sport to play at MU is broomball.

That's right. Those crazy Oxford snobs like to run around ON ICE and whack at an orange rubber ball.

And sometimes, they fall.

And other times, they tumble over one another.

And then some other times, if they are as dainty and graceful as Adam, they crash ass-first into the boards.

And after they crash ass-first into the boards, if they're really lucky and have an uber nice girlfriend like Adam does, the choking, snorting sound of her laughter can be heard echoing off the glass.

A FORMAL INTRODUCTION

Dear the Interwebs:


This is Adam.

I realize this picture is blurry and hard to see but I had to steal it off of Facebook because I got distracted Wednesday night, what with the naked, manly chest and all, and forgot to take another one.

You'll forgive me, I'm sure.

Now, I must admit that this little questionnaire took on a slightly different turn than I was expecting because... well.. I don't know if you've noticed, but I tend to be sarcastic and maybe even a little snarky on this here blog thing and my questions were certainly flavored in similar undertones.

His responses however, not so much. They ended up being far more cute and aww-y and, to be perfectly honest, a little bit barfy for anyone who may continue reading (which, of course means I totally melted and now want to have his babies. No, really. Ovaries are DEMANDING to be taken seriously here.)

All I'm saying is you've been warned.

And now to commence with what you've all been coming here MULTIPLE TIMES A DAY for. Enjoy.

My Questions: (Now with commentary!)

What are your Intentions with me?

When I think ‘intentions’, I think ulterior motives and pre-defined limitations of a relationship. I don’t have either of these. I want us to be ourselves and see where it takes us.

So you don't want to get in my pants? That's a little disappointing. (HI DAD!!)

What are you looking for in the opposite sex?

I looking for a woman that is happy being herself and isn’t pre-occupied with ‘Normal’. Someone with a sense of humor in line with my own. And of course, someone I’m physically attracted to.

Hey! No one has EVER accused me of being "normal."

What’s the most annoying thing that I do?

Making a reasonable request at inopportune times.

Followed closely by asking loaded questions.

So, what are you wearing?

Gym shorts… It’s hot.

I concur, though I took it a step further and just didn't wear pants. My neighbors LOVE ME.

What’s the most common phrase you hear come out of my mouth?

I think you know, and it corresponds with your most annoying thing.

Heh. You really should just obey.

Can I customize you to my exact specification?

I’m clay in the hands of a master artist.

Aww, he called me "Master." Boy's learning quick.

Do you respond better to positive or negative reinforcement?

I’m sensing a theme… I would say I respond equally to both.

I have NO IDEA what you're talking about.

What would you think if I told you my dad asked if you’d made it to second base yet?

That he was sorry he asked.

Oh, he was.

Wanna make out later?

Absolutely.

Damn right you do.

Am I really as awesome to date as everyone thinks/says?

I a little curious how everyone knows how awesome you are to date, but I’m definitely going to argue.

I get around.

Why do you think that I’m allergic to you?

It was just a hypothesis I was working on early on, you kept sneezing and coughing whenever I was close. You don’t seem to displaying the symptoms any longer but you could’ve built up immunity…

Aw, see I was beginning to agree with you.

What all you determined I’m using you for?

First off, you said it first. But here’s the list so far: my backyard, laundry, I make an excellent Guin chew toy, and I think there was something else…

See, this is where, if you were smart, you'd say things like, "Of course you can come over and use my washing machine. That just gives me a chance to spend more time with you. Hey, while you're at it and if it isn't too much to ask, could you throw some of my work shirts/jeans/underwear in with yours?" But see, now you've missed your chance because I'M ON TO YOU!

What are you going to be wearing in 10 minutes?

You’re right. These would’ve been more fun if I was answering this while you were here, too.

That's because I am ALWAYS right.

Do you like Guinness?

Of course!

You're the only one...

Your Questions: (followed by EVEN MORE commentary!!)

What do you do for a living?

I’m a computer programmer at a company called ((CENSORED, you know, just in case)) in Cincinnati. We make/import bath & window décor and sell it to all of the major retailers. I write software that support all the phases of business.

Oh my god, I want you.

Do you have any siblings?

Yes, 2 brothers and a sister. I am the oldest, then my sister who just graduated law school, then my brother who graduated from college a year ago and my final bro just finished his junior year in college.

I have yet to meet them so no comment yet.

Do you truly understand the sister dynamic? And to stay out of the line of fire?

I’ve been warned but in the line of fire is more fun than on the side lines, most of the time.

Ohh! Ohh, sweetie, no. I'll admit it's fun to watch and your best course of action would be to grab a beer and pull up a chair (while still ensuring room for a hasty retreat), but I would recommend you NEVER step into the line of fire. We can make grown men cry. I've seen us do it.

Do you like spicy food?

Yep.

He tastes like jalapeños.

Could you hold your own when drinking with Trini?

I’ve been told I wouldn’t stand a chance, and I’d have to agree.

Can anyone?

What's your Cornhole (the GAME PEOPLE!!) handicap?

I’m not sure how to calculate my handicap but I win more than I lose.

I'll show you cornhole.

The way I see it, there are 2 kinds of people: those who like Animaniacs and those who don't. So, which are you?

I like the Animaniacs, I haven’t seen it for a long time but I have multiple songs on my pc.

And he's zany to the max!

Who is your favorite Muppet?

When I was a young’n I would’ve said Animal but I’ve got some Swedish Chef clips on my pc.

It's a lie. He totally digs Miss Piggy.

If you could pick any nickname for yourself, what would it be and why?

Trabek, because I’ve been handing out so many answers to questions.

Favorite SNL sketch EVER.

If you could provide me with transportation, what would it be?

I have a Mazda, but I’m thinking of getting a Vespa… KIDDING

Son, please. You're going to be riding bitch on the back of my V*Star.

What is your nickname for me?

I don’t have one yet.

I would respond to "woman" but only if it were used in the form of a question. (ie - "Woman, where's my sammich?!")

Angelina or Jen?

They’re both crazy, but if I had to choose, Angelina.

The man has a thing for sexy lips.

Do you cook? Better yet, do you cook well?

I don’t actively cook for myself. I have in the past but I don’t take the time anymore. I can definitely follow a recipe.

Feed me?

Where did you go to school?

Miami University

This makes him better than you.

What did you major in?

System Analysis (Computer Science)

Be still my beating heart.

What was you GPA?

I’m not entirely sure, between 2.6 and 2.8 I think, but closer to 3.5 within my major.

HOW DO YOU NOT KNOW?! My entire self-worth REVOLVED around my GPA. I realize now I had issues and I'll appreciate you shutting it.

What is you best quality?

I think Shannon would be better to answer this but I’ll say I’m very easy going and rational.

His butt. HANDS DOWN.

What is you favorite thing about me?

I love to make her laugh.

D'aww. How cute is that?! Also, he's lying. It's my smokin' rack.

SURPRISE BONUS QUESTION!!!

What do I owe you for doing this?

I take all forms of currency.

Why are you always grinning when you say that?

THE END.

WHILE WE WAIT (PATIENTLY) FOR OUR REGULARLY SCHEDULED PROGRAMMING..

... I thought I might embarrass someone else for a little while and share with you a conversation I had with the Distraction this morning.

And scene:

"No, you'll give him a key at some point so he can 'help you' by letting Guinness out and, if he's smart AT ALL, he'll use that key to break into your apartment and have a nice candle-lit dinner and some flowers waiting for you when you get home."

"Sounds like you're talking from experience?"

"Hell, yeah. I did that for Ex-girlfriend. I parked around the block so she didn't know I was there and put flowers in front of her garage door so she had to bend down to pick them up. Then she walked into the front door and I was there waiting with dinner set out and candles lit. It was perfect."

"Did you get laid that night?"

"That night?! I got laid that instant. Let me tell you, skirts are the way to go."

AND I LIKED IT

"I just downloaded a new song, 'I Kissed a Girl.' It's sung by a girl. It makes me giggle."

"Yeah, I've heard of that one, too."

"You know, I've kissed a girl before. New Years Eve for example."

"There's a difference between kissing a girl and kissing a girl. I mean, I've kissed a guy."

"Experimenting, were we?"

"No. We were playing a drinking game. There were rules. We lost."

"I'm pretty sure that is about the best way to tell a story EVER. Short, sweet, to the point, and hilarious."

SEND ME YOUR QUESTIONS

In the last few days, it's become rather evident that I'm going to be keeping #9 around for some time and, having seen Nick's introduction to Sarah Cool's blog, I thought it might be fun to blatantly steal her idea and do the same for my new guy (despite the fact that he has yet to meet the fam-damn-ly.)

Last night I sat down all prepared to create the list to end all lists, filled to the brim with teasing and embarrassing questions designed purely to test the poor man's mettle. The onslaught (or barrage if you will) was to be glorious and maybe even a little bit painful (because that is how I roll). Only... I can't really think of what to ask him. Oh, don't get me wrong. I have thought up a few zingers that might soon send him scurrying under the table to hide and sob and rock and ask himself why? oh god, why?, but the glory that was to be is not so much glorious as it is pitiful.

Therefore, I am again turning to you, dear interwebs. What do you want to know about the yet-to-be-renamed-#9? NO QUESTION WILL GO UNANSWERED!! NOTHING IS TOO TABOO!! All shall be answered (maybe not satisfactorily, because, come on. My dad reads this here blog thing, but ANSWERED THEY SHALL BE NONETHELESS!)

So come one and come all. If you read my blog with any amount of regularity, you are REQUIRED to post a question. Any question. Pretty please? And if you don't, I shall be muy sad. So play along DAMNIT!

Do it now!

OPEN MOUTH, INSERT FOOT

"I don't really have a favorite sports team. I usually tend to root against the team everyone else likes and boy, have I gotten screamed at. Like when I rooted for John Cena. Not because I wanted him to win, but because he was my number and there was money on the line. 'Your future children will have hooves for this.'"

"Yeah, I remember you telling me about that. Good thing to know about my future children."

"..."

"I MEAN, should I ever NEED to know about that. In the future. Umm..."

"Ahahahahaha!"

"Damnit."

* * *

"So I have bad knees, bad ankles, bad wrists, bad fingers..."

"So how are you expecting to be able to make me... um..."

"Make you what?"

"Nothing! Nevermind! It's inappropriate."

"Hasn't stopped you before."

REASSURANCES

"So you're basically implying that you might like me. Is it just that you like me or do you like like me?"

"Hah! Fine! I like like you. Is that what you wanted to hear?"

"Yeah, pretty much."

THE INNER WORKINGS OF THE FEMALE MIND

Dear Interwebs,
Hi. I don't know if you've noticed or not but I am a girl.

If you're shocked, you're an ass.

Anyway! As a girl, I have this awful tendency to over analyze things. Things such as the global impact I'm having should my morning shower last over 10 minutes, or how wasteful I'm being by not eating the heel of the loaf of bread, or the sheer extravagance it now seems to drive to Clifton on the weekends to see my friends, or how guilty I feel for leaving my dog every day all by himself and placating him with food and OMG! He's going to be a fat, sausage dog because I only walked him 3 miles today instead of 4 or 5 and he definitely had more than his fair share of treats, AM BAD DOG MOMMY, or how exactly this relationship with a certain person of other-gender is going to work out. Because you notice? That right there? I CARE. I have a somewhat vested interest in whether or not this guy will pan out, something I had yet to feel with any of the others.

Which... shit.

Because tonight? Is only our fifth date, and my imagination is running H-A-V-O-C and I CANNOT READ THIS GUY. Which... is not entirely true, otherwise I would not have this previously mentioned gut instinct. So what that means is it isn't so much that I can't read him, I just don't trust myself to do it, because, what if I'm wrong?! What if he's just pretending to be interested in hanging out with me for some malicious reason? (Okay. I know. I KNOW! I am perfectly aware of how dumb that sounds, honest to god, I am, but as previously mentioned, I am a girl and therefore cannot be held accountable when logic and common sense take an OCCASIONAL vacation because I'm just a little bit more than slightly interested in a guy. A guy who happens to be smart and funny and successful and the brand new love of my preshus puppy's life.)

But, then again, tonight IS our third date in a week's time.

I'm pretty sure he's interested.

(The hell, though? What do I need, a freaking neon sign and his head firmly lodged up my ass? Um.. actually... that sounds like exactly what I want. Is that really too much to ask?!)

IN NEED OF A NEW NICKNAME

After a wonderful third date Thursday evening of dinner and pool and questions and flirting and him (finally) kissing me, I had a pretty strong gut feeling this weekend that Bachelor #9 would be sticking around for some time.

Last night confirmed it.

Not only did he not call Guinness annoying ONCE (even though he deserved it a few times), he let him chew on his hand for a solid five minutes and LAUGHED about it and played with him and pet him and showed him a general fondness. And Guinness seemed to take a liking to him as well, going so far as to lay himself across his chest and tuck his head under his chin, a maneuver he typically only reserves for me.

HUGE points in his favor. I mean... huge.

AND! He respects my boundaries. I know! Who knew, right? Also, really cute.

Last night, as a matter of course, I informed him of my intent to keep him around for a while, adding in a warning that for exactly how long was up to him (ie - annoying, needy, and domineering behavior would land his ass right out on the curb.) He laughed and asked how I felt about high maintenance.

So here is the thing. I need a new nickname for lucky Bachelor #9. Because "#9" sounds... what? Tacky? Nondescript? Boring? Slutty? Therefore, if he is to spend any amount of time around me and thus, any amount of time on this hear blog, then I need a new name to call him.

Help?

LOVE LETTERS

Dear Guinness,
I'm very sorry about kicking you in the head on our walk this evening. There must have been something incredibly interesting in the path of my foot and I just couldn't react in time.

Love,
Mama



Dear Mommy,
Is okay. Only minor concushun. I is tuff and haz hard head. Didn't even whimper like lil sissy dog cousin.

I can haz yer foods now though, right?

Paws,
Guin



Dear Guinness,
No, you can not "haz" my food.

XOXO,
Mama



Dear Female,
Bitch.

G

COMMON COURTESY IS, APPARENTLY, NOT SO COMMON

Dear Bachelor #2:

First off, don't text message me when you've been drinking. Because you're an idiot and it results in me telling you to f*ck off. And really, really meaning it.

Secondly (um, is that even a word?), don't be late. And stop cancelling on me. I realize you have a house you're trying to move into but there is a LOT to be said for making a girl feel special, and not being up to going out with me because you've been working on your house all day is not it.

Thirdly, if you ARE going to take me out, don't do it just to tell me an hour later, after I've already had a beer and can no longer drive anywhere (Why, yes. I am aware I'm a light weight. You want to make something of it BECAUSE I WILL CUT YOU.), that you are too tired to hang out anymore and are going to go home to bed. IT IS NOT EVEN TEN O'CLOCK, YOU ARROGENT JACKASS. What? You think you are the ONLY person I have to hang out with? You weren't even willing to come in and veg out on the couch.

I would have rathered you cancelled.

So I'm going to go back to my previous statement from last night. F*ck off.

SLAP-HAPPY

I am exhausted.

I have spent WAY too many nights this week (see: all of them) up late talking to various people. Now, it is generally assumed that when I'm tired, I'm cranky, and while this is true, there is one stage we reach before the cranky begins.

This stage has many names. Slap-happy. Goofy. Weird. Mostly weird.

Because you know what I did this morning? I sent an email out to my entire department, an email that anyone can walk in and request to see, and I used that email to all but declare war on a neighboring department.

All while giggling maniacally.

A LETTER FOR THE LADIES

My dear fellow womanly interwebers one and all! BEHOLD! For I have found the secret required to attract the men folk from near and far to your gracious and lovely forms.

Decide you don't want one.

Oh, it's easy enough to SAY you don't want on but that just won't cut it. You really need to mean it. You really have to believe it in order for this type of magic to occur, because it really does work like magic. In nigh on 24 hours OR LESS, the air will be ignited with sparks causing planets to reform and align into a giant, flashing, cosmic neon sign pointing right at your pretty little head and announcing to the whole of the male populous that you are frustrated and disinterested, a clear sign to back off and leave you alone, right? WRONG! These men will instead translate your disinterest into a seeming unattainability of sorts which will then SKYROCKET your apparent hotness exponentially. AND THEN! those bastards wil be coming out of the everloving woodwork.

But fear not. There is still one surefire cure to send them scurrying back to their little black holes.

The sweet, sweet reek of desperation.

THE REAL TRAGEDY OF IT ALL

Dear, sweet Interwebs, did you know I was fallible? Human? Prone to fits of stupidity and naivety? BECAUSE I SURE AS HELL DIDN'T. Why didn't anyone TELL ME?!

And now here I sit, shocked and dismayed. Appalled even. Because Bachelor #10? Did you know he was a player? Because he is. Oh hardcore he is AND I FELL FOR IT. But worse yet, I didn't REALIZE UNTIL THIS M-O-R-N-I-N-G that I fell for it.

But! But! But! Get this! He's a NERD! A genuine nerd! The man is a professional BAND GEEK for crying out loud! He used to be into D&D! He had a mullet in high school! (His defense on that one was it was the early 90s. Yes, he's that much older than me.) Geeks are not SUPPOSED to be smooth or charming or gut-wrenchingly funny! HE CHEATED!!!! I was not properly warned! And it is one thing, Dear Interwebs, to be duped and fall for a line in the moment but to not REALIZE it was a line until 36 hours later?!

I... am ashamed.

And the real tragedy of it all and the one thing that should have been the clearest indicator that I was maybe dealing with a professional? He is a really, really, REALLY good kisser. Like, good enough that if he DOES call back (which, like I said yesterday, I'm not really expecting) I might be seriously tempted to hang out with him again just FOR the kissing.

HELLO, INTERWEBS. I AM 25 FREAKING YEARS OLD AND I STILL NEED A CHAPERONE.

At least the second time around I'll be more skeptical, right? Right? Hello??? F*ck.

MEN OF HONOR

Bachelor #2 now holds the distinct honor of being the first person, with the help of Guinness, to spill something on the Patriot.

And it just so happens it was RED FREAKING WINE.

Jackass.

A BREAK BORE OF FRUSTRATION

Uch. I am done. DEE YOU ENN. Done.

It's gotten to the point where this just isn't fun anymore so what I'm going to do? I'm going to let the few remaining of the initial ten (oh, yes, Dear Interwebs, we're up to Bachelor #10) peter out into nothingness like they are all so bound to do and then I'm going to take a nice long break because I'm tired and I'm drained and, worst yet, I'm frustrated.

Because, you know? Out of all of this mess, I really found out that I have stronger feelings for the Distraction than I thought I did. And, because he and I have always been clear and upfront about our feelings and expectations, I told him that I was interested in more from of him.

Bottom line, he isn't ready. Not with me, not with anyone.

And then there is Bachelor #2 of the Piss-Me-Off persuasion who I really should just get rid of because I know it isn't going to work out and who, as a matter of fact, I probably will kick to the curb tonight when he comes over but for whatever reason I haven't done that yet.

Which brings us to Bachelor #9 who is still in the picture seeing how we've gone on two dates now but I'm not really sure of his interest level either despite him telling me he would call me again this week, but who, after date number two, isn't exactly someone I could see myself with long term.

And finally, Bachelor #10 who I met last night. I really rather like Bachelor #10. I like him the best out of the remaining three. He made me laugh until I cried. Alas, I remain unconvinced he'll call.

And that is just frustrating.

COUGAR

Two of my coworkers were standing around my desk, one threatening me with the possibility of maiming my eye if I didn't start a project for her, the other laughing uncomfortably and eyeing her suspiciously, when a fine looking guy walked by with one of the HR reps.

Let's just say he had a nice behind.

As he left, we mentioned to the HR rep that I thought he was attractive and inquired if she knew his age. She didn't know, but she went to go check. (YEAH! Because I have ins with HR 'round my joint!)

He was born in 1988.

HR: "Is that too young for you?"

Me: "I was born in '82! Let's just say if he can't buy beer, he's too young for me."

HR: "Are you sure? You could be a cougar."

Me: "!!! Don't you have to be a certain age to be considered a cougar? Like 40? 45?"

HR: "Alright. That's fine. You can be a baby courgar."

The Eye Maimer: "A whore baby cougar."

Bitches.

THE NEW AMERICAN DREAM

OMFG, you guys!!! Do any of you remember my fake internet boyfriend? Well, he just friended me on Facebook which means I am THAT much closer to having cheap, meaningless, and disappointing sex with an internet quasi-celebrity of questionable reputation!

Dreams really DO come true!

A FITTING TAGLINE IT WOULD SEEM

Tompkins: "It's okay. My wife is tough. She can take it."

Me: "Whereas I am a delicate flower."

Everyone else: "Damnit."

WHEREIN I ADMIT I'M AN IDIOT

So... um... we may not be kicking Bachelor #2 to the curb so soon after all. He managed not to piss me off once all night long and took me to see Iron Man and he cleans up nice and his butt looked really good in those pants and he killed bugs for me in my apartment and he drives a nice car and he has a house with a fenced in back yard and he's going to get a girl dog that Guinness can play with and if I keep him around long enough he might build me stuff or, better yet, teach me to build stuff.

I know, I KNOW! Quelled rage a mere 24 hours ago but STOP JUDGING ME! I mean, no, this guy is not The One (and should I ever be silly enough to say to you dear interwebs that I want to marry him, STOP ME) but he's fun for right now.

Besides, if I kicked him to the curb, my other boy issues (which I have yet to complain about, but oh... fret not, dear interwebs because I will) would be a bit less complicated. AND WHO WOULD WANT THAT?


Ed. Note: Ohh. He also likes Chuck Palahniuk who I am a complete and utter geek over because I have read nearly everything he has written* and oh, do I heart him so very, very, very much and want to have his demented little babies.

*There are a mere three books of his I am missing from my collection: Stranger Than Fiction: True Stories, Rant, and Fugitives and Refugees, any of which would make a great birthday, Christmas, belated housewarming, or just because present for the sick and twisted mind that is me. GET ON IT!

A BLOG ABOUT MY FEELINGS... AND BOYS... AND MY FEELINGS ABOUT BOYS

Dear Reader(s), I have a bit of a conundrum on my hands. I am going to a coworker's wedding this afternoon with Bachelor #2, who, at this point and if I was smart, I would drop like a bad, bad habit. Because he pissed me off something awful last night.

Twice.

You see, Bachelor #2? He was in Texas on business, and apparently his business is MUCH different from my business because he called me Tuesday night a little worse for wear in the beverage department, which he obtained for free. I took this as an opportunity to give him a little good-natured ribbing because we'd been on three dates to this point and the guy has not attempted to touch me. Open my car door? Yes. Pay for me? Yes. Ask me out again and again? Yes. A hug, a kiss, a cordial handshake? Sorry about your luck.

So I called him out on it by merely suggesting that if he were interested at all in making a move, I M-I-G-H-T be receptive (EXACT FREAKING WORDS HERE PEOPLE).

He took that to mean that our line of conversation could jump from first to fifth gear WITHOUT ANY TRANSITION WHATSOEVER. And I'll admit, I did not do the best of jobs reining him in once it went down hill. And holy god, what a hill.

But it was in that course of conversation that he all but invited himself along to this wedding because I was not yet with date. (This was BEFORE he turned all smarmy on me and yes, that is my only defense. What? You want to make something of it?)

Then last night he decided to stretch his perverted reach once again and demand something inappropriate in exchange for going to this wedding and after I shot his ass down he called later to SEE IF HE COULD GET OUT OF GOING. His excuse was that his dad was mad at him that he'd been doing all this work on his house while Bachelor #2 was gone on business and he really needed to spend the day helping out so his dad didn't ditch him completely.

Also, I was apparently wound a bit tight because I didn't find his "jokes" nearly as funny as I had on Tuesday.

Lucky for him, he grew up with three sisters and knows that the uncomfortable silences equal TRYING TO QUELL THE RAGE.

And really? At this point, I don't want him to go with me but he still is for a number of not very good reasons which I will list for you now:

• I had already turned in my RSVP with just little ole me listed on it but the coworker in question said it was still okay and, in fact, encouraged me to bring somebody.


• Once I told her I really was bringing someone, she had to rearrange her seating arrangements to accommodate him. (I did not know this until it was in the midst of happening and it also moves my ass from sitting near a coworker I dislike greatly.)


• It would be embarrassing at this point to show up dateless.


• I cannot get ahold of the Distraction to try to get him to take his place.

And now I get to spend the evening babysitting a date I don't really want to have while trying not to fall over in my three-inch heels and remaining appropriate yet sociable with people I have to work with every day who are gunning for me to do something stupid so they can HOLD IT OVER MY HEAD FOREVER AND EVER, AMEN.

BUT, SO HELP ME GOD, I WILL HAVE FUN AT THIS FECKING THING!

And then I'll throw his ass to the curb.