MYSUESTORIES: Show Me The Funny!

MYSUESTORIES: Show Me The Funny!

Show Me The Funny!

Okay, okay. So I've been missing from this little space of mine for quite some time.......In the fast moving blogosphere, abscence for months can be a form of cosmic suicide......Not my intention, but some times? Suicide takes (on) a life (or blog) of its' own...

Okay...back story... you are entitled to that, oh dear, and faithful reader.....

I, mysuestories, queen of all that is important.....the most irreplacable, all omnipresent woman to have graced this earth: I have been cast aside from my "family"..... That's right....they who have purported to love, nurture, and support me through the years have turned a very cold shoulder to me......They have exiled me from those I was closest to, severed all bonds (and stocks, too!!!), and more importantly, cut me off financially.....all this, and with not so much as a reason, other than "this is unpleasant for all of us".....

Yeah, well, a little more unpleasant for ONE of us, I assure you.....

And, no, before my dear father thinks that my hubby and kids have given me the boot, and I am about to show up on his door step with my belongings shouting "I'm hommmme...." ala Jack Nicholson in The Shining.......I am NOT divorcing, seperating, or being shunned ala the Amish..... (ok, Dad, I get the leap.....it's not like it hasn't happened before.....---although to date? I have yet to be shunned.......but the day is still young....)

Nope....None of the above...I, mysuestories, have been canned from a job I have held (HAD held?) for over 20 years......Pink slipped...let go....tossed aside....kicked to the curb......or, my all time favorite.........."laid off due to down sizing"----- meaning exactly what? Had I been laid ON the sizing of the down would have occurred in a different position ( get it? laid...down.....position.....?- Yea, I know...it's been a while since I posted...I'm working out a few writer's kinks here....)

Anyway...so here I am....mysuestories, master of.......well, this little blog here, and quite frankly, you nine (ok, ok,....seven) followers are the only audience I've got......(besides one tired-of listening-to-me-hubby, and 3 kids who ignore me whenever possible----and a couple of really good friends (okay...ONE) One really good friend who is getting really tired of listening to me....(psst----friend? my phone number hasn't changed...just saying...)

Anyway, I am just putting this out there...do you twelve (ok, ok.....nine......what?....fine.....seven) followers care to continue the exploits of mysuestories in her new position as a stay at home mom? Granted, a stay at home mom for a family that is not home all day...(not a BAD gig if you can get it!!!!!)

Follow me through my new trials (not COURT trials...I hope.) But come along as I traverse this new world of no where to be at 6 am, no 2 hour daily commute in lousy weather, no kids that want me unoccupied enough to wonder what the f@*k they're doing all day, no hubby that needs me spending $$$ all day long, oh...and the vodka......Jeez....every day is Friday.......Yes......Join me in the search for my new niche.......Obamanomics? I don't know about that.....but since I've been laid off? Ive learned a little about the stock market.....right now? Invest in Three Olives...........That's all I Got to say about that......

Old Friend (Grey Goose) Meet the New Friend OR Where's Everybody Going?

The Mountain Man and I had the unique opportunity to spend a week with a collection of his friends that have the distinct pleasure of not knowing me all that well. (Read- that means they still like me. By default, maybe, but they like me! They really like me!)

Anyway, half way through our little getaway, we (ok, ok, mostly me...geez...) may have spent a few evenings indulging in adult liquid libations.....It was an all inclusive..and if you know my Mountain Man, you know how he enjoys getting his money's worth....So, this one evening, I may or may not have single handed cleaned out the Grey Goose supply at this one particular on-site bar....(Puh lease...I am sure I was not the only tourist trying to maintain good relations with France...)

Anyway, TGFA.. Thank God For Absolute........I can be very adaptable when necessary.....and our evening continued.

Fast forward next evening....Mountain Man and I arrive at the same Barrio de Alcohol Recreation (B.A.R.- for my non-espanol speaking -er, reading-amigos) and join our travel companions- IE: captive audience. I saunter up to the bar immediately...(hey, it's just a natural reflex- like chewing before swallowing---) and I request a large glass of ice water.....

Must be the humidity in those South American countries, 'cause for some reason? I was severely dehydrated all week long...go figure....

I am freshly greeted by one of my newly acquired BFF's (read- she STILL likes me, She really likes me!), and she tells me that the bar has just restocked and opened a brand new bottle of Grey Goose. I nod and say that yes, I am, in fact aware of this fact. ( I had just seen the barkeep open the fresh bottle...)

The bartender then hands me my LARGE glass of water on the rocks, and I grab it and down the entire glass (dehydration due to too much sun
fun)

New BFF looks at me in a whole new light (albeit: a dark light) and asks, " Was that Grey Goose?"
To which I, you know me..dear reader...having oh so many friends to begin with...haha...responds,
"Of course......Bar keep give me another...."


Okay...so maybe I need to work on my people skills.........

I did take the opportunity to inquire of new/soon to be ex? BFF that one nagging question that bloggers ad infinite have been dying to ask their public: Am I funny, as I surely intend to be....or do I fall on the annoying side of things....(so much for good intentions....)
To which she responded, (God Bless her honesty!), "You're funny..."she says...and my head swells considerably....And then she continues.....
"Most of the time......"

Hmmmmm....
Okay....I'll take it!


She LIKES me! She Really Likes me!

Gonna Get Myself Some Cheap Sun Glasses

It's summer time, and as dictated by the Gods of Any Reason to Party, the mountain man and I have been out and about quite a bit lately. We've found a great new (to us) summer time hang out on the waters of our lovely island, where the seafood is succulent, the music is jammin, Mon, and the atmosphere beckons those summer nights louder than a John Travolta/Olivia Newton-John duet.

Oh, did I mention this place has THREE bars? (Neither man, nor mysuestories, can live on food alone). We love this place, and have made it a regular mysuetsories dinner/after-dinner/late nite snack/drinks event this season.

One particular evening at the afore mentioned (ahem) social gathering establishment (our first visit there), we drank ate till our hearts content with the usual gathering of mountain man/mysuestories victims friends. After many STOLI and diet coke baked clams and dances that appear sexy only to the very lonely and the very inebriated, we departed for home. (Of COURSE we had a designated driver....We would never drink and drive. Besides, why else would we hang out with reformed alcoholics? It's not like they get my drunken hilarious sense of humor).

Anyway, upon arrival to mysuestories manor, I realized that I no longer had possession of my prized sunglasses. Now, don't be alarmed, constant reader, these lost glasses were not the $498.00 pair of Coach glasses, I love more than Russian vodka. (No. Definitely not that pair. As a matter of fact, there are laws that currently prevent me from wearing those glasses out of the Coach store without having paid for them. ---Mall security can be such kill joys).

Nope. The sunglasses I lost cost all of $12.99...Plastic, with leopard spots on a brown background, probably a Wal*Mart special. Yea...That's how I roll; mountain man spares no expense to spare my precious baby browns from the deadly UV rays...but, that's not what's important. Apparently.

So, I called the restaurant when we returned to mysuestories manor, and asked the hostess If they had found a pair of sunglasses, which she asked me to describe.

Mysuestories: Plastic with leopard spots on a brown background.

Hostess/Prissy Seating Demi God: No. Sorry. Like we only have a genuine designer pair with some rhinestones on them. Sorry, poor person who can't afford fancy shmancy glasses.

Click.

So, eyes be damned. I was out of luck.

About a week later, mountain man and I returned to said establishment with some friends for much needed late nite liquid nutritionsnacks.

I approached the hostess, who may or may not have been the same snooty hawty tawty hostess from the week before (I mean, when you've seen one gorgeous size 2, you've seen them all).


We requested an outside table for six, and
then I said,

"Oh, by the way, I was here last weekend, and lost a pair of sunglasses. I wonder if they turned up?"

To which Miss Snooty asked ," What kind were they?"

And without batting an eye, I said, "Designer. With rhinestones."

And that's how I am now sporting my new designer sunglasses!

Hey, that sun is harsh..... A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.


Oh, and the place? Harbor Crab Company and Marina in New York. Check it out.... It's worth the trip. And if you find a pair of plastic brown glasses with leopard spots? You can keep 'em. I don't think I'll be needing them any time soon!!



Disclaimer: I have not been compensated in any way for the writing of this post. Unless, of course, you count the designer sunglasses.

Nickles and Dimes

The mountain man and I have taken to sitting out on the front porch these last few weeks. (Yes, constant reader, in our matching rocking chairs. The excitement of summer in suburbia is overwhelming, isn’t it?)

Seeing as how we are usually back door people (to the YARD, people, the BACK yard-minds out of the gutter, please!), we now have a view of our neighborhood in motion we don’t usually see. Case in point: the neighbors diagonal to us have apparently gone on vacation. Without their children (jealous much? I am). The first sign of this came on Wednesday night at 1 a.m. Our dogs woke me up to incessant barking, not one of their usual annoying traits (not to worry-they have plenty of other annoying traits). I ran to the window, and what did I see? (No, dear reader, NOT eight tiny reindeer-no body likes a smart ass) Twenty teens milling about on the neighbor’s front lawn in various stages of inebriation. I sighed, threw each dog a fresh bone (why, yes, I do reward bad behaviour), and went to bed.

Thursday night found cars parked parked facing the wrong way up and down our quiet little block. Thankfully? It appeared the party had moved to the back yard.
Friday night? Fifty cars and tons of kids all over their yard. Saturday afternoon brought the lion's share of them back out to their cars, squinting in the bright sunlight. Mountain man and I sat perched on our porch and chuckled at these walking zombies.

Saturday night brought the block to new heights. Cars, kids, and fireworks rocked our neighbor's usually humble abode. The laughter, carousing, and partying continued well into Sunday morning. The mountain man and I? Took everything in from the porch. (Hell, we had been out until almost ten ourselves the night before. We were too tired to do anything but observe!)

Sunday evening found us rocking our private little party on the porch (read: me + mountain man + a couple of cold drinks = whoo hoo!)
Around five o'clock, the neighbor's house became a flurry of activity! Teens were scurrying every where, picking up debris in the yard, and I can only imagine, doing one hell of a spit shine inside.
A teen driven SUV backed up to the garage, and three over loaded garbage bags were spirited to the back of the vehicle, cans and bottles clanking all the way. The SUV, which must have stunk of stale beer -yech-pulled out and yurned into a strip mall at the end of our block. Even from our porch, you could hear those bottles and cans as each bag was pitched into a dumpster.
The same SUV pulled back into the driveway and re-loaded. Three more times. Rinse. Lather. Repeat. Back and forth to the dumpster.

Mountain man and I admired the teens savvy---to be smart enough not to just leave the trash with the household garbage. Or with their neighbor's trash. We drank. We applauded them. We laughed.

Then? I had an epiphany. How funny would it be, if the mountain man and I pulled our pick up truck (OK. OK. His pick up truck- I wouldn't dare soil my little sports car)--anyway, we could pull his pick up truck over to the dumpster in the strip mall parking lot, and then haul out all the bags of empty beer cans and bottles, and deposit them back on the neighbor's lawn after dark!

"Wouldn't that be a hoot, mountain man?"

**Crickets**

"Mountain man? Wouldn't that be funny?"

More **crickets**.

"mysuestories? Don't you think that might get them in trouble? Don't you remember when you were a young whippersnapper?"

Yeah. I totally did. But this? This would be funny. I told him as much.

Apparently? Mountain man and I have different views on funny.

However, mountain man was willing to participate in part of my plan.

"hey, mysuestories, you know, all those bottles and cans? There's got to be about thirty bucks in nickle deposits sitting in that dumpster..."

Yeah. Different ideas of funny. Me? I don't dumpster dive for cash. For laughs, yes. Cash? No.

Nobody Puts Baby in the Tar Pit

It must be Summer here at mysuestories manor. I know this because this past weekend brought our annual summer ritual....the repaving of the driveway. Yes, the mountain man, a man who could not care less if his shoes matched, has an affectation that requires our driveway to be relaid with burning hot tar annually. Apparently? That old adage of “once you go black top, you never go down the dirt drive again” ? It’s true.

Once a year, we subject ourselves to the inconvenience of not being able to cross our drive way. We park our cars in the back yard (Thank God for large properties and 2ND entrances!) We lose access to all the contents of our garage...stuff we don’t seem to need all year round until we can’t get to it....Why, did you know the mountain man was going to cut the grass, whack the weeds, power wash the house, AND trim the trees for the first time EVER this weekend? Yea. Unfortunately? All the
necessary equipment to accomplish the mountain man’s little list? In the garage.

This also meant that we could not get to the entrance of our dog run on the opposite side of the garage. Ever the girl scout, I made sure the gate to the run which is off the driveway was closed the night before. This way, we could just kind of pitch the dogs over the back of the fence (What? They're daschunds, for the love of Christ. They are practically shaped like footballs!)

Early Saturday morning, our paver showed up (Four a.m. early- the man must be part vampire!) He paved and laid and tared tarred painted our driveway black.
Three hours later, he was gone, and the mountain man went to toss carefully place the first of three dogs over the back fence.

I was on the side of the house when I heard the mountain man yell, "Sh!t!!(This is a family blog, no?) Sh!t! The gate is open!"

I took off at a pretty good run (if I do say so myself), knowing that two hundred little doggie prints tracking through the driveway would not be a great sight to greet the mountain man every morning for the next year. I came around the garage to the driveway, when I heard the love of my life yelling, "WALK ON THE DRIVEWAY! WALK ON THE DRIVEWAY!"

I was already in motion as I came up to the wet tar. (Note to self....flipflops are tread less). I slid with my right foot on the tar. The still very HOT tar. Thinking I was part jacka$$ bird, I leaped in the air, and for the briefest of moments I could fly!!!!!
This epiphany was followed by a much more realistic feeling of "Oh, f*ck. I can't fly".
I landed hard on my a$$, (And my leg. And my arm. And my shoulder. But mostly my a$$.) and skidded to a stop right in front of the open dog run gate. (Where, by the way, that stupid mutt who can usually run for miles before stopping? Was sitting and staring at me like I was a bowl of fruit loops minus the milk).

I peeled myself off the hot and oh so sticky tar, and I closed the gate triumphantly, ecstatic that I could move at all.

It was at this point that my beloved (and the sloth- did I mention that the sloth was not only awake at that ungodly hour, but also helping to straighten up the yard? Yeah, well, suffice it to say his efforts were well rewarded-I've never heard him laugh so long and loud!)-they came over to where I was limping away from the driveway to tell me that the mountain man had, in fact, yelled, "DON'T WALK ON THE DRIVEWAY! DON'T WALK ON THE DRIVEWAY!"

It only took thirty minutes to scrape the tar off of my skin. And clothes. And flipflops. And besides the six layers of skin I lost on my leg/thigh/foot/ass, the only severe injury was to my pride (yes, constant reader, I do still have some of that left. Or at least I did).

And now? There is a perfect implant of my ass embedded in our driveway. For a whole year. It's kind of like our own little Hollywood Walk of Fame. Kids from all over the county will come and put there butts in to the imprint of my ass to see how they measure up....

Hmmph. Well, at least now I know why it's called ASS FALLT. Sigh.

Oh, and not to worry. I was able to get the lawn mower, the weed wacker, the tree trimmer, AND the power washer out of the garage so that mountain man could make good on those promises. We'll see who laughs last.

It's Father's Day...not Knock Somebody up Day!

Anyone can father a child. Well, technically, I suppose, you have to be male...although with technology today,that may no longer prove true. It's
easy to roll in the hay and be a donor of the jizz of life (intentionally OR otherwise). And nothing can melt the heart of a man quicker than the first cry of a newborn. There's a life long relationship (whether voluntary or not) that has begun. That? Constitutes "fatherhood". Technically.

But what about the man who accepts to raise as well as his own the children "fathered" by another? The guy who came in after those precious first steps ? The step dad. He may not have been there for those baby steps, but you can bet he caught the foot-stomping-up-the stairs years. He missed out on those first words, but heard the rantings of an angry teen. He did not read the early fairy tales, but he was there to help shape the future dreams. The step dad.

They say it takes a village to raise a child. And some times? A village is what you need. For mysuestories manor? It takes a step dad to help raise a responsible, considerate kid (and sometimes a not so responsible, considerate kid). And for that? We are grateful to our mountain man.


(Unless of course those kids turn out to be axe murderers. Then? It's their dad's fault!)