Wednesday, December 30, 2009


Shit! What do you mean I have a blog? And I haven't posted anything in twenty days?????

Mea culpa.... My only defense is......a little too much holiday cheering, perhaps....

Anyway....a glimpse into the spirits that invade our holiday house:

My 26 year old neice showed up at the annual Holiday Hoe-down with a new man in tow... He looks about 14 years old...Think Harry Potter in the first movie!!!!!... Our little Harry even had the glasses to match!

He (the new boy toy, not the real Harry Potter) came over to me and asked ,""Do you mind if I make myself a drink?"

I said, "No," as I led him to the expansive bar that is my kitchen island in the off season....."What would you like?" I inquired....

But apparently Harry Potter the second? He must have forgotten his hearing aid, ' cause he heard "When were you born? " I hope....

Because when I asked "What would you like?"

He totally yelled out, "December 22, 1988!" Making him 21 legal drinking years old for all of four days!!!!!!!


Thursday, December 10, 2009

Stuff This In Your Stocking

Ah, that Christmas spirit!

***Note to our kids---This post involves your parents AND sex- --read at your own risk or risk stabbing your eyes out with a dull knife in an attempt to rid yourself of the images to follow :

Who am I kidding? They don't even read this!

It's time to stuff those stockings for the spawn of our loins, and quite frankly, what do you get for boys aged 13 to 22 that fits in an over sized fur lined sock? Now, step daughters (when I had some) were easy- lipstick, nail polish, emery boards....the list was endless. Boys? Not so much.

So I came back to what works best in our little clan....lottery tickets!!!!
I sprung my brilliant idea on the mountain man...

"I can get each of them a stack of lottery scratch offs, they don't even have to be wrapped! And I can shop at that little smoke filled cigar/lotto store where the people look like they haven't moved from in front of that Quick Pick machine in years! And it's right next to the liquor store! I can do our shopping too! Win! Win!"

"I don't know if lottery tickets is ideal for a thirteen year old, mysuestories", speaks the voice of Christmas Scrooge.

"Why ever not?" After all, I grew up doing my home work in bingo halls and bowling alleys. By the age of six, we all knew you couldn't yell "BINGO" yourself, but had to discreetly whisper to Mom that "Hey, MOM!!!!!I HAVE BINGO!!!!!!!" -Have you ever even heard a six year old whisper? Not possible!
Anyway, why not indeed? I turned out just fine, didn't I? Hmmm, maybe that's not the best selling point..

"Mountain man, is it because (((shudder))) you have suddenly developed an inner moral compass and think lottery tickets could lead our cherub to a future life of gambling?" Acquiring a moral compass at this point in our marriage would not be a good thing for mysuestories.

"Hell, no, mysuestories. It's not the gambling that bothers me. Can you imagine if he won millions of dollars? We'd never live it down. And we'd be at his mercy!!"

It's true. The only thing that keeps the gamester in line is that he depends on us, you know, for food, for shelter, to feed his video game addiction. If he were the one with all the cash.....
The gamester: "Mom, I'm taking the limo to Disneyland. See ya next week. And if you can't get the new video system for me while I'm away, I can always buy a mom who can...."


Mountain man: "Gamester, that grass needs to be cut."
The gamester: "I know. Mom's doing it for me. She needed some extra cash for a new pair of shoes, so I hired her."


mysuestories: "Gamester, did you shovel out your room yet?"
Gamester: "It's covered. My new maid will be in on Tuesday. Oh, and there's a homework guy coming in on Monday to finish that book report...."


Oh, the horror that would be this household! I guess I'll just stuff his stocking with fireworks instead. Less mayhem that way!

Oh, and that parental sex scene you were waiting for, oh faithful reader? That's one way to get my kids not read a Christmas spoiler!!!!

Tuesday, December 1, 2009

World Aids Day- Or Ouch! Don't Stick Me With That Needle!

A mysuestories first, constant reader....I bring to you today a Public Service Announcement:

insert Law & Order theme music here-

Today, December 1st, is .

Now, we here at mysuestories manor are not crusaders (at least not in the blogosphere), nor do we(me) preach, protest, persuade, or beg for money. (OK, OK, I may beg for money on occasion. Sadly? It's not working so far-- If ever there is a particular chant or rant that inspires you in any way to actually send cash this way? Please do not hesitate to let me know. 'Cause I can be bought- and cheap, too.....Just sayin')

Anyway, back to World Aids Day....I find it a little sad that I had to learn of this day through blog reading at (Constant reader? She's real good...not mysuestories good, don't let her 1,500 plus readers sway you.....Just make sure you come back here when you're done clicking on her link...OK? Promise? I'll wait. Go ahead. Don't be afraid. Of course I am afraid. Afraid you'll flat leave me for her. Like the third friend at a fifth grade sleepover. But I am willing to take that chance. After all, hers is a good message.......But you will be back, won't you?- God, I hated the fifth grade)

Anyway, hopefully you came back to me. Otherwise, I may as well be typing on air here....Oh, well, it's not like I've ever stopped talked when people have clearly stopped listening, now is it?

Anyway, I felt I had to get that out there. Although I am still not sure if it is a good thing that Aids has moved off the front pages of mainstream media or not. I'd like to think we have just about stamped this disease out, but after reading I am afraid that is just my own wishful thinking out loud.

And then I got depressed. And then I did what I always do when things get too deep and emotionally charged. I try to lighten the mood.

So, dear reader (if you are still with me), dear no one (if not)- here is mysuestories Aids Day story:

About fifteen years ago, the exes' (husband and step-children of the decade- some decades are better left forgotten, no?) and I all took a ride upstate to visit Great Uncle Hank. Now Hank was 97, his bride Gertie was a spry 89 (and she took great joy in sharing her youthful age with you!). They lived alone in the home in which they had raised their three Irish sons(good drinkers, all of them- twas a fine Irish parenting job, it was).

There had been some talk of moving them closer to their kids, and removing what independence they had left, but Hank and Gertie would hear none of it. We visited them in their home, and after pre-dinner cordials (hey, they were Irish, dammit!) we went out to dinner, where Hank and Gertie entertained us with tales of the past week:

The day before we had arrived, Hank woke up and couldn't find his car keys. He was a little upset, thinking that perhaps his kids and their constant badgering on about their folks needing more help as they aged might actually be right. He shrugged off such foolishness, and did what any individual looking for their keys would do...he retraced his steps...and lo and behold, he found them, right where he left them...In the ignition of his car, which he had left running all night long the night before!
Gas prices be damned! At least he had found the keys, and his kids would never be the wiser!!!!

Over the course of dinner (and three more calls of "Whiskey- Neat!" for Uncle Hank - He was Irish, remember? This was not elder-abuse!) Aunt Gertie was recounting a recent doctor's visit for Uncle Hank, in which he was pronounced "fit as a fiddle". Great news, we agreed, but Gertie also let on that Hank refused to allow the physician to draw routine blood samples.

"Why ever not?", we inquired diligently.
"Because, " Uncle Hank informed us, at his ripe old age of 97....He was not going to take a chance on being infected by a contaminated needle with the HIV virus, a virus that in the 1980's took twenty years to kill you..... Yep, old Uncle Hank wasn't taking any chances of befalling an ill fate at the hands of his physicians at the impossible age of one hundred and seventeen!!! just had to love Uncle Hank's optimism, if not his medical ignorance!

Well, that's the best I can do. Besides make a donation at .
Because my stories may not cure much of anything, other than a bad day, but a donation to a good cause? Priceless!

Tuesday, November 24, 2009

NaNoWriMo is susiese for Ho

It is day 24 of the 30 day writeathon that is somebody kill me please National Novel Writing Month. Of course, if you started 3 days late like I did, it's only day 21. At 1700 words a day, I should be at a grand tally of some where around 40,000 words. Forty thousand. Just a hop, skip, and a jump, no?

Well, er, no. I, mysuestories, who decided to hang her artistic novel writing career on the dim hopes of competing in a contest in which some body who is actually some body may chance upon my superior writing skills and say , "hey..this shit is the shit!", and would then live happily ever after in my castle with servants who would post to this blog daily.....

Yep, it's day 23. I have a total word count of ...wait for it..... 4,180 words. Total. Somewhere I can hear Rambo's Colonel Crenshaw uttering, "It's over, Johnny".

Oh, it's not that the storyline wasn't good. It had affairs of the heart and flesh. There was the floozy girlfriend, the heartless husband, the sexless wife. And yet, the more I wrote, the more they all shared one thing in common: they were whores. Every which way I turned them, they were promiscuous little sluts served with a side of deviant behavior. My sympathetic heroine was a sleeze, for the love of God. I added in a child to tone things down a bit---next thing I know, she's giving hand jobs in the school parking lot! I was afraid to give her a younger brother...I couldn't bear to spawn a child gigolo sucking d*ck to support his playstation addiction. I mean, really, mysuestories? This is the best you could do?

My only defense is that the pressure of having to pump out words on a schedule AND the lack of time for actual real life sex sleep left me wide open and vulnerable to sleeze (Oh great! Now I sound like one of my own fictional harlots....)

Well, there is always next year...maybe I could work on a nice little children's book. You know, something that can only be found in the XXX rated book store. Now that'll make my parents proud!

Wednesday, November 18, 2009

Pennies From Heaven, My Ass-

I'm not big on credit cards...And I kinda pride myself on not having an lot of credit card debt. (That's not to say my mountain man doesn't have A LOT of credit debt that I may or may not have had something to do with)--In any event, I don't really do the charging thing...

I actually only have three cards, one of which is linked to our checking account and which I've been threatened advised to not ever use, since I always fail to mention that tiny $300.00 purchase two days before the mortgage is due...(hey, it was one time, and it was for shoes, fortheloveofChrist----Let ye not judge till you've walked a mile in my new Jessica Simpson pumps!)

Anyway, that one card? Sits in my wallet, at the ready, should I ever get double proofed for buying beer, smokes, gin baby formula at the local 7-11.
It is strictly for identification purposes only. When my murdered corpse is found under an over pass (would that just be in the street, then, if I was under an over pass? -What if I was found on top of the over pass? Would that make me over the over pass Would 2 overs negate one another, and then I'd just be in the gutter? See- dear reader- this is the shit that keeps me from writing the World's Greatest F*cking Novel---Sometimes? I get stuck in stupid.)
Anyhow, when Lenny Briscoe from Law & Order shows up and finds my body, it will be solely because of my unused debit banking card that I am identified....(Yeh, I know Jerry Orbach is dead, but this is my episode--and no, I do not know how or why I was murdered----I haven't gotten to that part in the script yet!!!!)
So, back to my credit card finesse...or lack thereof......In addition to the card I am not allowed to touch I do not use, we have a For Emergency Use Only credit card that I have personally never had an emergency to use for yet. I am thinking it is to be used in case of an untimely death (for mountain man, not me)and I need to hurry up and bury the body-probably before an autopsy linking me to the crime...oh, nevermind....

Suffice it to say, that's another piece of plastic collecting a lot of dust.
I also share a third shiny credit card with the mountain man..."Share" meaning I use it, he pays it, mostly! Sharing is good!
Now, generally, I use this card for every day errands; shopping, dry cleaners, gas...What mountain man charges? I've no idea. The bill comes in, he pays it, and life is good.

So, last week? I go to get gas one day, and I cannot locate the card I am allowed to touch I need. It is not in my wallet next to old stand by card (see above), it is not in the cavernous abyss that is my pocket book...I am at a loss...
I very carefully extract my Do Not Touch card, and pay for the gas. I recall the last time I used the card I Am Allowed to Touch am missing, and it was at the dry cleaners two days earlier.
I tell the mountain man as soon as I get home that
A) I had to use the card of Do Not Touch legends, and
B) The crisis is about to be solved because I know where I left the Card I Can touch!

Immediately, there is a wrinkle in the mountain man's brow--Have I mentioned how incessantly precise and anal he is when it comes to anything to do with finances? Seriously? He won't even round out a $9.99 purchase in the checking register. Heaven forbid we end up with seven or eight errant pennies at the end of the month!

I ignore mountain man's rumblings and "tsk"ing and call the dry cleaners...
After explaining my plight, the owner of the cleaners tells me that "Yes, we find card outside store two day ago." (Obviously not a french cleaner, m'kay?)
Great, I am half way out the door to pick up my lost misplaced card, when Mr. Miyagi tells me.."oh, but we no have card any moe. You no called back (yes, he had left a message the day before, but mountain man doesn't return dry cleaner calls -nor does he tell me about them either-sigh)...."You no call back. I call cledit company. They say to destoy cald. I destoyed cald."
Shit! So much for improved relations with China.

Mountain man sees me sit at the table with a pout. I can actually hear his
eyes rolling over me. Of course, having been a champion eye roller my entire youth, I merely deflect them with a "Who me?" smile, and set about calling the credit card company where I will be able to realign the planets as well as mountain man's eyes!

The credit card company agreed, that they had told my own version of Mr Miyagi to "destoy cald", and that as a * Bonus *, they had rendered mountain man's card useless as well!!!!!!! Never fear....they cards were being issued and mailed as we spoke....

Three days (and a hellofa lot of dirty looks a la mountain man) later...the cards have still not arrived, and I've had to resort to using the Do Not Touch card for everyday purchases *gasp* I know, I know...Mountain man's eyes are bucking and rolling more than a hooker at Mardi Gras. He's grilling me every night for the exact amount of purchase. to. the. f*cking. penny. Have I mentioned I don't even pennies? It's a wonder we are both still

alive at this point, no less still married....But that just may come to an end today.

Today, the travel agent called my mountain man. Apparently there's been a change in flights for our long awaited upcoming vacation. Without children. (Did I mention there are no kids going? Just checking.) The agent cancelled one flight and booked another, but there was a problem charging the second flight to the original card. Er, no sh*t. That's the one that is MIA thanks to Mr. No Tickee No Shirtee.

Mountain man called to tell me the dilemma.
"So uses the For Emergency Use Only card," I told him.
" This is a vacation, mysuestories. It's really not an "Emergency", he replied.

At which point I told him that if he did not give up that sacred f*cking card to the travel agent Right. This. Minute., I would be using that very same card for a "real" emergency. His funeral. After which I, the bereaved widow? Was gonna take a nice quiet vacation. With all three cards.
Who needs Calgon to take me away, when I have American Express?

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

Write a Book in A Month Update

What the f*ck could I have possibly been thinking? Fifty THOUSAND words in a month? That's over 1600 words per day. Did I mention I started on Day 2? I'm already 1600 words behind. Shit.

I mean, who enters these friggin' things anyway? Don't these people have jobs? Families? Hungry goddamn dogs? I am three days in, and heaven forbid I have to actually go to the super market or something. Jesus H Christ! I am so afraid to waste time on anything not writing that damned novel, I have decided to only eat binding foods for the month of November. I can't afford weak constitution right now!

And what if I want to have a night out? Or a Thanksgiving dinner with all the trimmings? Do I just buy the family Boston Market take out and hope they don't notice? (Hmmmm-note to self- check out Boston Market holiday hours).....

I am at 4000 words.... a mere 1600 words behind schedule on Day 4.

Shit. It's gonna be a long month.

And damnit! I just wasted 197 words here. Fuck!

Tuesday, November 3, 2009

Sexless Tuesday

I've been missing from this little space of mine ours, and it just may get worse before it gets better. You see, in all of my infinite wisdom, I've decided to commit to NaNoWriMo..which stands for something like I must be an asshole National Novel Writing Month...Anyway, I signed myself up for a 30 day crash exercise course in attempting to write a semi-coherent little tiny 50, 000 word novel in 30 days---OK...28 days. I blew off Day 1, and Day 2 (yesterday) was actually my Day 1.

As, you, dear reader, probably know already, writing is something that I enjoy. It is fun and I get to be funny. And even if you don't show up, I still get to write and pretend my nine massive following is hanging on my every word. So why wouldn't I take the one activity I savor simply for the pure enjoyment of it and turn it into the New York Marathon for one legged sprinters?

Now? I must punch out over 1700 words a night (did I mention EVERY NITE). I have to vomit write without any real thought as to plot and story line, 'because between working full time, commuting two hours. Every. Day. , cleaning, cooking, eating, having sex.........(What's that, constant reader? Oh, you caught that, did you? I just figured I could slip that one by. Boy, you are sharp) OK, OK... I don't actually cook.....but amongst all those other things I do, I figured, what's just a littlemorepressure!!!!!!!!

So, If I am sparse here, please be patient. But of course if you know anything about my commitment level (just ask my divorce attorneys) combined with my attention span (ohhh, twinkly lights!) I will most likely have scrapped the whole friggin idea, and I should probably see you Back here by Wednesday. This Wednesday. As in tomorrow.

Hey, a girl can only go so long without sex eating!

Tuesday, October 27, 2009

Christmas in July

Okay! Okay! Confession time! I finally did it. I jumped on the bandwagon I hate most. I have disgraced myself beyond belief. I. Have. Failed. Big time!

I bought our Christmas cards yesterday. In October. Before November. Shit. Before f*cking Halloween! I abhor those who jump on the Hallmark bandwagon, the CVS gravy train, the Walgreen's woody- where all holidays (and even non-holidays- What the f*ck is National Care Giver's Day, anyway?) must be pimped out months before their time.

I know how they play their game.....put out the bright sparkly lights and fake velvet bows with green (Hey- they could at least use RED f*cking twist ties on the red bows, no? I'm no art student, but give a non-crafty mom a break here, huh?) plastic twist ties affixed to the back. Place the pretty garland around the store in early October. This way? When I, the belated shopper, peruse the aisles frantically on Halloween Eve for something!!!! Anything, that could be used for a costume for a belligerent child!

But, nooooooo. Instead? Let this frantic, full time working, slightly neurotic, full time laundromatic, (did I mention non-craft-matic?!) mother of the perfectionist child find herself aimlessly wandering your stores, amidst the twinkly flashing icicle lites, babbling somewhat incoherently about Scream costumes of holidays past ( and perhaps -most likely - drooling a little on the left).

THAT, my faithful readers? Was the year I dressed my child, the boy I labored 26 hours for and promised God and all who were holy that I would from that day of birth forward to treat as if he were a true prince of this Earth- That was the year I sent him out trick or treating as a reindeer, with some awful set of light up furry antlers, and wiry garland wrapped around his legs and arms-his torso (God have mercy on my soul!) wrapped in a green felt Christmas tree skirt-

And that sweet child of mine---the one I swore would live better than Britney Spear's dog?- he turned his little cherub face to me and he said, "Momma? Momma? What am I supposed to be?"

And I turned to this child who I once swore would be treated as well as a prophet, and I said to him.."Why, sweetie? YOU are a reindeer."

And this prophet child turned to me again, and with a quivering voice said.."Momma? But I am green! Reindeer are not green."

And so I once again looked into the eyes of this precious gift of God, this one being whom I, and I alone (OK, so here, I boast!--it couldv'e been immaculate conception...It could have happened) created...And I looked him square in the eye, and I said, "Son? You know Rudolph was the most famous reindeer of all, don't you? "

And his little angelic cherub face nodded up and down.

"Well," I told him as I leaned in closer.."You just tell the other little trick or treaters that you are Prancer the Reindeer. And the reason why you are green, and not nutmeg brown like the other reindeer? You are jealous of that show off, Rudolph and his f*cking shiny nose."

And that, constant reader? Is why I had my Halloween costumes and decorations done in July. AND my Christmas cards bought before Halloween.
'Cause that kid? Can't lie worth a crap. He told everyone he was dressed like CVS in October because his mom was too late to the game.

Wednesday, October 21, 2009

The Occidental Jurist

Well, just like the locust, it came. I got my bi-decade (?) invite to Jury Duty!!!! Yea, me! Most people abhor the idea of being summoned inconveniently to sit in a jury waiting room for hours, only to be called to sit in a panelist room, where all types of people make up all types of excuses to get the hell out of there.

Perhaps you've noticed, constant reader? I am not your average people. Shocking, no? I love jury duty. The whole court room drama, the getting the inside scoop on other peoples' lives...and the ultimate power of me deciding whether they live or die!!! (OK, OK, so there is no death penalty in my state -- which by the way? Big mistake.....Talk about getting a lot more people to pony up for jury duty. I mean who could resist the urge to yell, "Fry the bastard!"? Just me? Oh well, nevermind.)

So, I got all dressed up in my courtroom finest....Jeans and a tee shirt- After all, it was a day off from work! I arrived promptly and smiling, ready to serve my country in it's hour of need. All right, so it was just my county I was serving, but damnit, there's a civic duty void that needed to be filled, and by golly, I was gonna answer that call!!!!

Forms were filled out. Basic information. Name, address, occupation, interests....and then I sat and waited with about 150 of my fellow compatriots in a room with several t.v.s and free wi fi. They even threw in a couple of public access computers for those who chose to use them. To say I was in heaven would be an understatement.

Finally, I and 35 specially chosen servants of our justice system....(Trust me, we were a raggedy looking bunch!) we were led into an impaneling room where they choose amongst us 8 people to sit on this trial. Which, sadly? Did not have a life hanging in the balance. Hell, it wasn't even one where you could shout out, "Guilty as charged, your honor," should I have won my campaign as jury forewoman (Oh, yes, I was so gonna campaign, with signs and homemade cookies, and I'd even buy lunch for those who voted for me!).

But alas, this case was to determine monetary damages to be awarded to someone who had already been deemed "Guilty as charged, your honor", in a separate proceeding.

Oh well, at least I could determine what amount of punishment in the form of cash would satiate justice. Eagerly I awaited my turn to be questioned. Six at a time, we prospective jurist were called to the front row of seats to be questioned about our homes, neighborly disputes, gardening...all things which would apparently be connected to the big CASE -of which we had thus far been told very little.

One of the attorneys addressed the room and asked if we as a group could refrain from using the Internet for the next few days to look up any prior details relating to this case. I felt myself get woozy. I mean, geez, how could you not use the Internet to sponge up more information? Lives (OK, dollars, not lives) hang in the balance here. I managed a small nod (not so much a lie, but rather an untested truth at this point) and the questioning continued.

A lawyer for the defendant (whom had already been found guilty as the day is long) read over my information sheet and looked over to me.
"Mysuestories?" he asked.
I nodded enthusiastically! Here was my big chance to whip out the campaign smile!
"Under hobbies and interests, you wrote here that you "blog"? What exactly is a "blog"?"
Geez, for an educated man, he wasn't very educated.
"Well, Mr Attorney for the guilty man, a blog is for me to share my highly valued opinions and lowly aimed for achievements and daily doings with the anonymous public at large."
He raised a quizzical eyebrow.
"I write about ALL the stuff that happens to me. for me, about me. It's like True-TV, 'cept it's more like "mysuestories IT", because, you know, no one has exactly been beating my door down with a TV show offer. Yet."
"So mysuestories,", he began. " You mean to say that you blab about everything in your personal life to people you don't even know?"

Well, gee, it doesn't sound quite so nice when you put it like that.
"No, sir. I don't blab about everything in my personal life. I blog about everything in my personal life. Oh, and also about the personal lives of everyone I have ever come in to contact with, in real life and on the web."

At this point, Mr. Attorney #1 looked at Mr. Attorney #2, and then turned back to me and said, "Thank you, mysuestories.... you are excused from jury service today."

Excused? But I hadn't even began my campaign yet. "But, wait, Mr Attorney....How about if I just leave some of the names blank? And I could even poll my readers on the amount of money to awarded...This way you could get the opinions of all (2) of my readers for the price of just me?"

At this point, a security guard came to escort me out of the impaneling room. As I clung to the door on the way out, shouting "I could make you an Internet Star, you fools!!!!!!", I realized there would be no forewoman election night victory party in my honor any time soon.

Deposited (rather harshly, I might add) in to the court parking lot, I dejectedly put my tail between my legs and drove home.

"How was your first day in court, Perry Mason?" The mountain man asked upon my return to our humble abode.
"Apparently, our justice system only wants jurors who are completely unconnected to today's technological world and have no desire to communicate juicy trial gossip with anyone. I mean, what kind of people do they think this world is made up of?" I lamented.
"I don't know, mysuestories. But while you were at the courthouse today? I got my own Jury Summons in the mail today. I hope I get picked for an exciting case."

Bastrd!!!! Not only will he probably not share any juicy tidbits about the trial with me ("mysuestories, I am under oath and cannot discuss the case outside the court room! EVEN if you throw yourself at me, I can not talk to you about this!!!!!") -They'll probably make him foreman of the jury. Shit!

Friday, October 16, 2009

Guess What? I'm An Idiot. Go Figure!

Hey! It's Our Annual SAW Fright Fest at mysuestories manor this month!!!!!! For the last few years, I gather up my devil spawn as well as those of a few friends, and we settle in to watch each SAW movie (usually one per nite), finishing up with the new SAW IV on opening nite. (Thanks Pammy, for the flicks, and Trisha for the snacks!!!)
We've been doing this a few years, and we are at the point where it is more comical than scary. Still. it is OUR little bit of Halloween tradition.
Scary movies? Don't scare me. Life scares me. Terrorists scare me. Hilary Clinton running for President scares me. But the indestructible, uncatchable killer? Not so much. Hell, CSI's Grisshom wouldv'e had him locked up within an hour. With commercials included!

Anyway, as I was preparing to put my 12 year old in front of this "horror flick" for the third consecutive year, I stumbled on this blog ...specifically the post titled "What Kind of Idiot Thinks This is Okay?"

And I'm sure you know me. I keep my loud mouth offerings thoughtful opinions to myself. Except this time....This is a day of new revelations, isn't it?

Anyway, that "What Kind of Idiot Thinks This is Okay?
Apparently, that idiot is me. Make sure you click on the comments section. Especially Comment #1 (Yes, I AM Number 1, even if that means I'm a #1 Idiot).....

Oh well.. I'd love to chat, but I gotta think of a Halloween getup for the gamester. I'm thinking maybe a Jeffrey Dahmer (pre- institutional shower murder)..and I have to find an Asian/zombie willing to walk around the neighborhood with the kid Halloween nite..... Or maybe he could go as the current state of the US Health care system....Anyone know how to make a kid look non-existent?

Wednesday, October 14, 2009

You Can Keep Your Sugar and Spice..I Like Dirt

I was reading my usual hundred or so blogs, and I came across one that was trying to explore that which is the mother and son bond, and it was all puppy dog tails and the sweet rambunctiousness of little mop haired boys with devilish ways and pockets full of marbles...

And it led me to reflect upon my relationship with my sons.

And there wasn't a damned happy puppy dog tail memory in sight. ( No easy feat, I assure you, as we actually have had 3 puppy dog tails in our lives, only they have grown to become the mangy pack animals of confused sexuality found here: MYSUESTORIES: That Doggy has Style )

But there is a special bond between those future farting champs I call my sons, that I don't believe I would ever share were I cursed enough to bear daughters. ( Besides, belching, farting girls? Never leave home.

That mother/son bond? Oh it's there, all right. How else could I ever explain my ability to capture and provide housing for any assorted varieties of reptiles, amphibians, and (((shudder))) spiders? Not only have I played a ridiculous version of Steve Irwin procuring various vermin from the wilds of our backyard, I have then been blessed with laying out oodles of $$$$ to buy insects and creepy crawlies of all types with which to feed those little f*ckers. The vermin, dear reader, not the boys....although technically, ...oh nevermind.

Not only have I had to buy and transport these bugs, I then had to bring them into my home! These are the same creatures that, had I spied them crawling across my floor under normal circumstances? I would happily smash them with a well heeled shoe, all the while screaming my trademark battle cry of "Die, M@therf*cker!"

Puppy dog tails? I say NAY NAY. True motherly love is snatching an eight inch garden snake who has been AWOL for a week out of the heating element, all the while yelling "I've got you now, you little b*st*rd! " (Again, to the vermin, not the boys.....not that there haven't been days.....nevermind.)

Yeah, show me a mom with a cute, clean young man with manners and a pet rock and I'll show you a woman afraid to venture into the wilds with her off spring. Me and my devil spawn? Get us an old sauce jar (preferably with some sauce still coating the bottom!) and we'll take that brat's little pet rock and find us some creepy crawlies underneath it. 'Cause that's how we roll here at mysuestories manor.
Why, that cute, clean little well behaved boy? I bet he doesn't even make it the burping playoffs!! Heh!

Friday, October 9, 2009

When The F*ck Will I Learn.........

I just don't know when to stop. Really. I don't. That is why it usually ends so badly for me here at mysuestories manor.

Yesterday, I decided to play a little game of naming the five words I hoped my children would use to describe me here: MYSUESTORIES: STOP!!! THIEF!!!!!

But that wasn't enough. I had to then go ahead and name the five words my children would probably use to describe me.

Still not enough.

I went ahead and actually asked my eighteen year old sloth what five words he would actually use to describe me.

These are his answers.

1. Naggy. I prefer to think he meant to say "inspiring", as in "Mom, stop "inspiring" me to clean my room.

2. Lovable. Meaning? I still haven't killed him yet for puking all over the den twelve years ago.
Or my bed eight years ago. Or the bathroom floor two weeks ago.

3. Old. As in more than 25, but less than 75, at which point he would probably classify me as ancient.

4. Happy. Apparently he was not looking at me and my reaction to #3 when he blurted this one out.

5. Awesome. This one came out when he finally registered my look from answer #3. But that I can live with.

And apparently I have raised a child with a very useful life skill. He can bullshit his way out of a paper bag when necessary.

And that, dear reader? Is Awesome. In a naggy, lovable, old, yet happy kinda way.

Thursday, October 8, 2009

STOP!!! THIEF!!!!!

Okay, let me fess up right up front here: This idea started over at , so by all means, take a moment to check out the original. Then come on back to my side of the trailer park and this is what you'll find:

In his post, Sci Fi Dad ponders what five words he thinks his kids would use to describe him in the future. It's a well written post with some shining parenting examples. Actually, his whole blog is a prime example of How To Parent a Future Harvard Grad. If that's what you like, you'd better head back on over to The Dad Side, 'cause homey don't roll like that, yo. Here at mysuestories manor? We are all about teaching our younguns the proper way to say, "Would you like fries with that?"

But I thought I'd go with the 5 Words I HOPE My Children Would Use to Describe Me

1. Motivational ---All that yelling and screaming to get their asses to school on time had to impart something positive on the little buggers, no?

2. Organized --Hey, there's a reason I am the Queen of All Things Lost. I simply put shit back in it's rightful place. Really. No higher education needed.

3. Nurturing. This one I OWN. Those little somb*tches have been sponging off of me for years. Who else's rugrats go through a week's worth of groceries within ten minutes of carrying it all through the door (by myself?) And here's the kicker......I also have to supply the toilet paper. You know...For when it exits the little f*ckers.

Word number 4-
4. Life teaching. Yep, I calls 'em like I see 'em. For instance, it isn't easy imparting the brutal honesty of "If you break your neck on that sled/skateboard/ski/car/etc., I'm gonna kill you!" In our house? That is a viable threat. And no, I am not kidding.

5. Loving. It's true. See #4. Only a mom filled with love would be willing to take away the very life she created and nurtured and then entrusted to them. I'd rather they go out my way. At least they'd have clean matching clothes on at the time!

That's' what I HOPE they would say when describing me. But I'm no fool. This is what they'd probably say.

1. Cheap. Everything is too much money to buy something so useless. And who would call a 54" flat screen HDTV for the new XBox360 useless?

2. Poor. See #1. Cheap.

3. Unfashionably fashionable. Is it really that important to wear colors that match? And why in the world do we have to separate winter clothes from summer clothes? Did it ever kill a kid to wear long sleeves in August?

4. Neat Freak. Does a bed have to be made? And sheets on those beds? Totally overrated.

5. Tardy. Maybe if she got up a little earlier in the morning, we wouldn't always be running around late to everything. She could use an extra ten minutes to get our stuff together for us.

Sigh. Hope is such a big word...

And as for #3? No, dear reader. Little Johnny did not die from wearing a long sleeve shirt in the summer (probably with clashing corduroy pants). It was his mother who died. Of embarrassment.

Friday, October 2, 2009

Almost Cut My Hair...

Well, constant reader, fall is definitely approaching here at mysuestories manor in northeastern America.
"Gee," you may be thinking, " How is it you know this, oh great wise one, mysuestories? Is it the changing colors of the leaves? The blustery blowing of the wind? Perhaps it's the fact that your body "head lights" are on as you dash to the car in the pitch black mornings? What is your personal Fall Is Coming indicator, mysuestories?"

Why, dear follower, it is nothing as common as any of the aforementioned publicly approved signs of fall. A sure sign that colder times are upon us? Why, it's my personal coat of hair on my hyde coming in thicker.

It's true. Sad, yes. But true, nevertheless. And because I speak the truth here at mysuestories, (at least when it's a funny truth)- I am compelled to share this with you.

I used to get my eyebrows waxed religiously every two weeks.....When it comes to pulling the little f*ckers one painful hair at a time, I am a wuss. Not to mention, I am not in the least bit artistic, so that I always end up with one eyebrow going flat over one eye, while the other is raised dramatically, creating an "I am always freaking surprised" look that just doesn't work for me!

So, I guess I somehow lost my due diligence lately in taming the nests above my eye lids, and I dragged myself into the spa. Okay, my "spa" consists of twelve Asian girls lined up like hookers, in a strip mall store abutting Dollar Tree. This is as luxurious as I get some days.

So, here I am, an exiled patriot in my own country, where I just know all that cute little foreign language banter is directed at the Sasquatch that is me that just entered their little piece of Chinatown.
Without even having to ask, the size 0, lanky dark haired flawlessly waxed maiden at the door says, " You here for eyebrow wax?"
Gee, ya think? Actually, by this point I'm thinking, f*ck it, I'll just braid them....But my balls are bigger in my head than out loud, so I smile meekly and nod.

I'm now laying on my back in a back room where Buddha only knows what goes on after hours, and I am in the midst of having my eyebrows painted with mother f*cking HOT wax and then r-i-i-i-p-p-p-e-d off of my face. (Ain't womanhood grand? First I get to internally bleed externally seven days a month, and now this. Hey, God? While we're at it, let's make the females of the species push eight pound watermelons out of an opening the size of an apple.....(He's not completely cruel, ya know. At least the whole hemorrhaging to death every frickin month stops in preparation for the upcoming birth of the Great Pumpkin through the Pea Opening!)
Any how, after ten minutes of plowing the field that is my eyebrow hair, this (dare I say) woman proceeds to take out a scissors (!!!!) and starts to trim my eyebrows. I mean, lordy, how long were those suckers, any way?

And that ain't the only thickening of the outer coat I am experiencing, folks.

My hair (ATOP my pretty little head- just to be clear, 'cause I know what kind of people I generally attract!) has become so thick and full bodied that I can barely force a comb through it. Lately, I can't even get it to fully dry, even with the four-and-a-half minutes I allot myself for just that procedure every morning. Naturally, by the time I get to work (at the ungodly hour of 5:30 am, need I remind you!) I look like I've been playing with electrical sockets. I've been using more hair grease to tame this do than an entire Mexican dance troupe!
So I sucked up my pride and finally made an appointment for a hair cut. For tomorrow. Don't you know my hair came out perfect today? Not a split end or frizz in sight. It's like its friggin' scared to be cut.....
Who knows, maybe it hurts to be a hair when it's cut....Now look! I'm feeling sorry for my frigging hair....and the only reason I'm cutting it in the first place is because it won't behave to begin with!!!!....Do ya think hair has feelings? Oh, yeah...this is how my sick mind works....
I almost called off the whole hair cut thing...And then I remembered the pain of the eye brow wax.......

Screw it.....I hope it hurts the little buggers like hell!!!!

Next week, we tackle the woolly mammoth limbs I call my legs!!!!!

Wednesday, September 30, 2009

If This Machine's Rockin', Don't Come a Knockin'

So, I find myself laying prone on top of the washing machine. The mountain man is standing behind me, my spotter, if you will. I've got a twisted wire hanger (hello, Joan Crawford!), and I am trying to spear paper towel rolls encased in plastic that have fallen behind the washing machine...when suddenly? The wash cycle switches into a high spin. (What? Like this never happened to you?)

I search out for the mountain man behind me. I am precariously dangling over the back of the washing machine, a mere ten inches from the wall, two and a half feet from hurtling head first to the tile floor below.

I glance behind me. Actually, it was more of an upward glance, what with my head being behind the washing machine and all. The mountain man, all 260 lovable pounds of him, is gone.

I am quickly being agitated to a grim demise. "How ironic," I can hear him at my funeral, "It was the laundry that did her in."

He? In my hour of need? Is in the bedroom searching frantically for the camera. 'Cause what the good people of the Internet really need is a final departing shot of my size 10 ass in the air, legs a-flailing.

Ya just gotta love that kind of loyalty in a husband.

Oh and the picture? He never got the shot. There's good reason why I keep that camera locked up tighter than a virgin's....Well, never mind. You get the picture, and more importantly, for my dignity and your mental health, he didn't!

Saturday, September 26, 2009

Ya Caught Me

Well, the three toed sloth is STILL working----granted- all those little "career" jokes the mountain man and I may have spouted (Would you like fries with that order?) have returned to bite us in our collective proverbial ass- but he's working and happy. Oh, and did I mention he now has his own money?

'Tis a blessing, him having his own cash to squander. Then again, it could be a curse.....

Years ago (cue dream sequence music here) mysuestories had a brain storm. I opened up custodial bank accounts for the kids, custodial meaning the little buggers couldn't get their grubby little hands on that moola without the almighty, omnipresent ME present. (Why, yes, I do have control issues. Why do you ask?)

Anyway, for years deposits were made (by moi) and withdrawals were transacted with my consent by them. And so the banking world turned on it's mighty axis.

Fast forward to present day times:

The three-toed sloth is over the age of eighteen, thereby rendering the need for a custodial savings useless in the eyes of banks every where. I may have neglected in revealing this little tidbit of information to the sloth, in the hopes of actually keeping some of his savings in...the (you guessed it) savings account.
Back to yesterday. Friday. The sloth's payday. He, having the luxury of not having to arise at the ass crack of dawn and drive 32 miles whilst still sleeping, called me around noon, wondering when I could get him to the bank to cash that almighty (seventy-five large ones, yo) paycheck for which he (hah) slaved at a drive through window for.

mysuestories: "Well, I could be home by five (if I break most state driving regulations)"

sloth: "But I have to be at work by four!!!!"

mysuestories(to myself): You, sonny, are f*cked. Out loud? I said, "Well, gee, sweetie,
maybe we could go tomorrow.."

sloth: "I need to go today!!!"

mysuestories: "Hmmmn...well, since you just want to cash this huge check, I think you
can probably go to the bank by yourself and cash it against your account. That means they will hold the same (pitiful) amount of money for a few
days until the check actually clears, but they should cash the check."

Who am I kidding...I lost him at you can cash it.

Flash forward ten minutes. That kids must have run to the bank.

sloth: "Mom! They won't cash it. They say they need you here. Why would you tell me to go all the way to the bank if you knew they wouldn't cash the check??
How could you do this to me?"

?!? WTF? I did this? Why that little f*cker.....And so I replied to my first born, he of the twenty six hour excruciating labor..each pain returning to me as I began to answer, my voice a little louder and dripping with more than a little sarcasm:

mysuestories: "You caught me!" I told him, " For eighteen years, and nine months before you were even born, I have been plotting and planning this very exact moment
knowing you would call with a banking problem. I've dreamed about doing this
to you ! So that I could sit here at work busting my ass to feed and clothe you
and then, then, after all that time of carrying you and birthing you and raising
you- then, this day finally arrived so I could make you go all four blocks to
the bank for absolutely no reason! You got me! The gig is up! I. Am. Busted!"

I may, or may not have been maniacally laughing by this point.

sloth: "um, okay, Mom, I'll talk to you later." click

And then I look up from my desk at the faces of my three co workers, who have all stopped performing their assorted tasks, the better to stare at me, mouths agape. And then they , each and every one of them a mother, started to laugh. And cry. And laugh some more.

So much for that mother of the year nomination this year. Sigh.

Wednesday, September 23, 2009

I Just Called to Say I Got Nothing to Say

Okay. Fine. Dammit. So I've been absent from this here little space we share(there is a we, isn't there? Otherwise, this would be an awkward little note to myself, no?- well, here's to counting on somebody being out there).

I simply have nothing funny to say. It's a lot like Richard Gere in An Officer and a Gentleman, except he had no place else to go. I've got some places to go, and any number of mysuestories' acquaintances are happy to suggest more without provocation. Helpful little buggers, ain't they? Well, lately, not so much.

Truth be told, the reason for my lack of postings here lies entirely with my family and friends. That's right, constant reader. The folks I count on the most are just not doing anything funny enough to recount in this lil' blog of mine (ours? Yeah, blog of ours -again- I'm relying on that assumption that you're actually out there!)

Anyway, rest assured, oh faithful one(s), that I am putting all family and friends and passer-bys on notice. Either bring on the funny or replacements will be made! Did a funny thing happen to you on the way to work? Share it. Car accident with a humorous little ER story on the side? I need to know. Get arrested after being mistaken for a prostitute-seeking John? (no, granny, please not you on that one!)

So, my small, but distinguished audience....I am still here. Just waiting for someone (anyone, really) to show me the funny. Otherwise, I will be holding auditions to fill the soon to be vacant spots left by my former family and friends!

Thursday, September 17, 2009

The Last Dance

While it may be true that "Nobody puts Baby in a corner", apparently pancreatic cancer is the last dance.

Farewell, Patrick Swayze. And thanks for showing men the world over that real men CAN dance, ( and look damned good doing it!)

Wednesday, September 9, 2009

Call Waiting

It's the gamester's return to all that is hell (ie: school) today. We went over his schedule (on top of the backpack), the outfit( shorts and tee), the notebook (just one, black) , cell phone(not taking it)...finishing with the "what time to be outside for the bus" (10 minutes early just in case). You know, us working moms tend to be overachievers in the let's get our shit together the night before department.....

I thought we had covered it all till I got a call on my cell phone this morning. "Mom, the bus just went by the house and forgot to stop."
Strange..That would be 15 minutes earlier than expected on the first day. "Gamester, that was probably the high school bus going by. Grab your cell phone and wait outside. Call me if it's not there, and your brother can give you a ride if the bus doesn't show."
"Where's my cell phone?" He implored.
"On the kitchen counter where we put it last nite when you decided you didn't want to take it." I replied.

"It's not here. I only see your cell phone."
Really? The one he's calling me on?

Oh boy......And the school year is off and running. Again.

And the bus? Arrived 10 minutes later. On time. Pfffft.

Wednesday, September 2, 2009

Little Johnny Said WHAT?

How do you guarantee a visit from Child Protective Services?

When Officer Friendly comes to your third grader's classroom to talk about the perils of alcohol and drugs, make sure little Johnny raises his hand and asks,

"If the person driving has been drinking, is it safer to sit in the front seat or the back seat?"

True story!!! And no, constant reader (and/or Child Protective Services worker who may or may not be reading this-I AM AN EXCELLENT PARENT) it was NOT MY third grader in question! In fact, this particular child's parent? Works for Child Protective Services!

Ah, the things kids say!

Tuesday, August 18, 2009

Sweet Child Of Mine

There came a time in my life...perhaps a time in every mother's life....for me, it was born at the time I learned I was pregnant with my first child.

Long before I birthed that first child, I found myself consumed with the health and well being of that child that I , and only I, was responsible for. I quit smoking (mostly). I ate healthier (usually). I exercised and ate my veggies (OK, OK, let's not get into fairy tales here). But he was mine to take care of, and I took that responsibility to heart.

Lo, and behold, a healthy son was born. And I continued to rule supreme over the well being of this SON. I fed him wholesome foods (mostly). I taught him to look both ways when crossing the street. He learned to ride a two wheeler while always wearing a helmet.

He cried when getting immunizations, and I cried silently along with him in my heart. He got bit by a dog, and it was all I could do not to bite the dog back. He learned to drive, adding more than a few grey hairs to my growing collection.

Every scar, every scraped knee, every wound on his body was a personal injury to me. I spent years cleaning, bandaging, healing each and every blemish this cruel world left upon that body. I cried oceans of unshed tears for every single pain that coursed through this body I had given life too (very God like, no, dear reader? No wonder women keep having babies. The power angle is awesome!).

Yes. I, and I alone (well, almost alone) took this little zygote and cherished and protected and loved and nurtured it into, well, a person, dammit! Yes! I had grown me an adult (again, mostly). I had taken the ultimate challenge of what to do with this thing growing inside me, and I had (presto, magicko) turned it into a person. An adult. A young adult. An adult now entrusted with his own well being.

And this is how he came home:

From Graduation Day june 2009

The little b@stard! It doesn't even say "MOM". (Although if you look closely, it does kinda look like me when I'm pissed at him-which would be now!)

Thursday, August 6, 2009

And So they Gathered At the Summit

When deciding to join forces with the mountain man, I realized that as a blended family (yep, from mudslides to margaritas to step kids!) there was certain to be a fair amount of family traditions exchanged and shared as we created our own future memories (Oxymoron? Perhaps, but hey, one man's oxymoron is our theme song!)

Any who, there is a tradition in the history of the mountain man that goes back to his childhood (And seeing how he was a personal friend of Jesus, we're talking waaaaaay back!)

Ooh, constant reader? Obscure mysuestories fact. Did you know that Jesus' middle name is Horatio? No? Me neither, but when I was 6 years old, I asked my Dad (while he was fixing something-2ND obscure mysuestories fact- Daddy was not happy about fixing shit- anyway, while attempting some home repair, I kindly asked what the "H" stood for in my dad's every other minute exclamation of "Jesus H. Christ"--to which he simply replied "Horatio." Your welcome, dear reader, for such invaluable information.

Anyway, this particular tradition of mountain man was,well a trek, if you will. A five and a half hour trek only to be covered in a car filled with way too many kids/camping gear/pillows/books/ AND comfortably secured in it's own seat belt, Lappy Toppy! (even though there was not one iota of Internet access where we were going, and I knew this fully well before ever packing precious Lappy in the first place. I can only claim deep denial, readers).

So, mountain man, mysuestories, and our shaggy entourage of kids headed to (where else?) the mountain. As tradition dictates, we gathered with forty five of our nearest and dearest who also heeded the call to pilgrimage to the summit of what can only be known as Mount Back in Time.

Upon arrival to this most sacred of summits, many rituals had to be adhered to. Clearly, the most popular was the initiation of the "utes" into sloppy drunken adulthood, which took place after most of the previous inductees and those under 4 feet tall were asleep.

In order to call upon the favors of the gods for a successful mission, tribal music is played throughout the ceremony. While it is entirely up to those to be inducted to choose what hymns shall resonate, it is apparently imperative that whatever is chosen must be loud enough to vibrate the entire mountain.

In this particular ceremony, those about to cross the threshold into oblivion divide into sets of two, with two teams juxtaposed across a given altar (in our case, these altars were erected from long tables from the plasticene era). Gifts are made to the deities in the form of 10 plastic chalices precisely aligned in the shape of a triangular form. The chalices are then carefully filled with nectar of the gods. (Apparently, some of our congregants were weight conscious, for the nectar chosen was of the Lite variety).

Once the alter is set, the opposing apostolic teams faced off against one another, each trying to sink the Orb of the Almighty (read: ping pong ball) into the oppositions chalices. Upon orbic destiny, or the sinking of the ball, the other team was to consume the nectar-Lite. This ritual is repeated until each participant is either hurling up the coveted nectar (-Lite), or there is no longer anyone able to toss the orb in the vicinity of the chalices.

As mysuestories is well slightly over the age of orb tossing, I was one of the unlucky pilgrims who had gone to bed before the ceremony began. Some hours later (no clue how many!) I was awakened to the throbbing of the tribal drums.

Upon investigation, I noticed that all of our apostles were snoring loudly. I climbed over the mountain man, stepping atop one of our apostles (who let out a swoosh of air as I bounced off of him!) and crawled out of our camper (another day, another post, constant reader).

Outside, across the field in which the ceremony was held ( which judging by the dozens of empty Lite cans, was quite successful!), not a soul was standing. I staggered two hundred yards in the pitch black of night without benefit of street lights and set out to find the damned stereo to turn it off. I (who can barely see with benefit of daylight and eyeglasses) had absolutely no luck.

I staggered two hundred yards back to the camper, stepped on the sleeping apostle, (another swoosh of air), and over the mountain man. I closed my eyes and tried to ignore the pounding beat of the music. No. Such. Luck.

I whispered to the mountain man, which immediately woke him up. (Have I mentioned mysuestories does not have an indoor voice? Or a whispering voice?) I told the man of my dreams, the one I have forsaken all others for, of my dilemma of the music that would not let me sleep. I may have cursed along the way six or twenty times. Surely he would rescue me in the form of turning off the blasted stereo, no?

Apparently, no. The man who once promised to love, honor and cherish me did not believe this included allowing me to get a decent night's sleep. He did, however, tell me to just go shut off the stereo. Gee, what a novel idea. When I told him I could neither find the stereo, or see anything out there!!!!, he very wisely advised me to simply follow the music.

I must have still been half drunk asleep, because that sounded like a good idea at the time. Once again, I climbed over the mountain man, stepped on the snoring apostle (swoosh again- at least he was still breathing!), crawled out of the camper and back into the pitch dark. I (again) staggered two hundred yards toward the offensive music, and following it's vibrations on the ground beneath my bare feet, located not one, but two speakers. However, the offending stereo? Nowhere in sight. Damnit!

Back two hundred yards to the camper, over the apostle (yes, another swoosh!), over the mountain man, and back into bed.
"Mountain man!!!!" I whispered as loudly as the music. " I followed the music!!!! I can't find anything but the damned speakers!!!"

Finally, by the grace of the gods of peace and quiet, mountain man calmly arose ( okay, so not so calmly). He stepped on the apostle (swoosh!). I followed (swoosh again!). He crawled out of the camper. I crawled behind him. He stomped across two hundred yards. I tiptoed. Hey, no sense in waking the rest of the tribe, right?

Mountain man, my hero, finds the speakers. "See?" I told him. " Speakers but no stereo." Duh. Hadn't I been saying that all along?

In a move worthy of Brad Pitt in Troy, my mountain man reached down to each speaker and grabbed every wire attached. He pulled them out. Hard. The music died.

In that instant, I saw the man I have come to adore. He is so cute!!!!!!

He stomped back to the camper, over the apostle (swoosh!) , and back to bed. I followed.

The next evening, well before the nightly ceremonies commenced, I noticed the speakers were not where they had been the previous evening.

Where did they go? Well, it appears our many time stepped upon apostle was not asleep the night prior. And, he thought it would be great fun to have me looking all over the mountain for the damned music again.

I showed him, though. The next night I wore high heels to bed!!!!

Swoosh, my ass!

Wednesday, August 5, 2009

Till Cell Phone Battery Death Do We Part

There comes a time in every relationship when a decision is made to either discontinue the union, or to consummate it in the most permanent way possible. The mountain man and I decided to bound one another (no, dear reader, not with duct tape---this time!), for each of us to be bound to the other in the most legally binding way available today; I added him to my existing phone plan. For a two year contract.-- A contract Houdini would have trouble escaping from if a) he had a cell phone and b) he hadn't destroyed it while submerged in a tank upside down while in a straight jacket.

So, I agreed, in a moment of drunkeness unrequited lust, to love, honor, and obey all laws of said cell phone contract, till ungodly early termination fees do we part.
Since this penultimate decision to co-phonitat, much has happened to facilitate the progression of the mountain man/mysuestories collaboration. We have out of necessity, as many such newly joined couples, raised our sharing plan minutes. We have chosen together our "Special 10" - those "friends" who dare to have service out of our network, and who now by the grace of Verizon Wireless Deities are not counted against our allotted precious minutes.
We have even ventured together to the evil inferno that is the Verizon Wireless phone store to secure an updated cell phone for the mountain man. Note to reader: Any phone not requiring a third party operator to connect your call Ala Lily Tomlin and smaller than a bread box would qualify as an update.
So, I take the mountain man into the land of all that is glittery and geeky, and we peruse the aisles upon aisles of available phones. To say he is bewildered is akin to saying Michael Phelps can doggy paddle.
We examine flip phones, sliders, and blackberrys of endless shapes, sizes, and colors. What we cannot locate is one with a rotary dial. A salesman, who has no idea he is about to honestly earn whatever pittance of a salary he is being paid, steps into the Twilight Zone that is our humble lives.
Our salesman is excited that we are looking to expand our phone lines by one (Oh the joy!) and that we are looking for new hardware (Can I get a hallelujah!)
He brings us full circle to the front of the store, where, once again, we examine flip phones, sliders, and blackberrys of endless shapes, sizes, and colors. Our personal geek gleefully explains every whistle and bell available. On. Every. Single. Phone.
We have literally handled every individual demo available, and still mountain man looks like the rain man five minutes before Judge Wopner. Our sales geek's enthusiasm is starting to wane.
"Mountain man," I inquire, "which one do you like?"
"I don't know, mysuestories. They are all just so small."
"Um, yes, mountain man. It is a portable phone. So you can carry it with you," I explain.
At this point our sales geek is looking for the little yellow school bus parked outside.
"Mountain man, just pick one. Any one. For the love of maryjesusandjoseph. Just. Pick. One."
The mountain man turns from me to our geek and asks, "Do you have one with real big numbers on it?"
Geek looks at me. I shrug, and he turns to the mountain man and speaks slowly, as if addressing a child on the theory of quantum physics. "Er, sir, if we made them BIG, then they wouldn't fit on the little phones."
"Why are the phones so small, anyway?" mountain man asks geek boy, who by now is wondering if maybe he should rethink that college brochure his father keeps shoving at him at the dinner table.
"Sir, small is good. Everybody wants small. Nobody wants big any more."
Mountain man turns to me. "But, mysuestories, I
like big."
I patted him gently on the arm. I grabbed the nearest little phone with the biggest numbers available and told the geek we'd take it.
"You've got to compromise, mountain man, It's the 21st century, you know."
He grumbled, but agreed.
Our geek couldn't get us to the register fast enough.
"Accessories?" he asked warily?
"What kind of accessories could I possibly need with a tiny phone?" mountain man quirked.
And that's when it all went bad.
The geek said it.
He did.
He said, "Would you like a blue tooth with that phone?"
And honest to fucking Betsy, the mountain man replied," How would
you like a black eye?"

Oh, and the compromise? The mountain man now has a cell phone that rings exactly like the phone on "The I Love Lucy" show. You know. From a hundred years ago. Sigh.

Wait till I tell ya about trying to get the man out of black dress socks with sneakers and shorts....

Wednesday, July 22, 2009

On the Road Again

If you know mysuestories at all (and by now, you should, dear reader), you know that I prance to the beat of a different oboe...I just don't like to be doing what the rest of the world is doing. In the movie "Midnight Express"? I am the only person cheering Billy Jack on as he walks around the pole counter clockwise. I do live on the edge, huh?

Anyway..while most of the blogging world is heading to Chicago to attend Blog Her (even the Hims that blog are all going!), where everyone will trade all the latest in techno secrets as they text each other on their gadgety new fangled phones while sipping mojitos.....I shall be heading to the land of no. As in no t.v., no cable, no cell phone service, and (gak) no Internet connection.

A nice cushy childLESS stay in a suite hotel was a bit much to ask for. Oh, no, not me. I opted (Options? I had options?) to camp in the mountains (Lions and Tigers and Bears oh MY!) with the family and forty of our nearest and dearest.
(a.k.a. - AmIoutofmyf@ckingmind?!!!)

Whats' five hours smushed in a car with complete strangers humping all my shit so I can unpack it in a rustic setting and sleep on rocks for the love of Christ?

But THIS is when I realized just how long this weekend was really gonna be.

mysuestories: "Er, mountain man? Who ARE all those strangers in the back seat?"
mountain man: "mysuestories, I'd like to REintroduce you to our kids."
mysuestories: "Even the short one with the game stick thingy growing out of his hands?"
mountain man: "Gamester, say hello to your mother."
gamester: "Hi mother. "
mysuestories: to mountain man "Are you sure he's one of ours?"
mountain man: sighs heavily...."This week will be good for all of us."

Yeh. Nothing like sleeping in the great outdoors worrying about bear attacks and falling rock territory. I don't think I could out run a bear in the sorry shape I'm in these days.

mysuestories: "Er, mountain man? Did you pack any snacks and chips and dip?"
mountain man: "Of course. I know what you like." He sure does, and it usually comes wrapped in foi with a fat content label of over 30%, protein 0%. No sense dieting now. Too late to train to run from that bear.
mysuestories: "Er, mountain man? Did you pack any honey?"
He nods.
Great!!! If I can't out run the bear, I'll just coat one of those strangers in the backseat with honey. Then I only have to out run that one kid......Genius. Pure genius.

See ya in a few days. Hopefully. Sigh.

Friday, July 17, 2009

You Take My Breath Away

Woe, faithful reader. As in woe is me.
I have been missing amongst the blogosphere, and I have returned to you all with the requisite doctor's note.

"Dear Constant Reader(s),
Please forgive mysuestories' abscence from the blogiverse of late. She has been doing a lot
of breathing lately.
The Doctor who Nearly Killed Her With Her Own Breath

Yeh. It's been that kind of week.

It all started last week, when I started waking up in the middle of the night with a little cough and a throat tickle.

"Mountain man? Are you awake?" I scooted over to his side of the bed, carefully placing my icy cold feet on his back. The desired effect has occurred. Mountain man half leaps off the bed, unaware why.
"Huh? Whassamatta?" he manages.
"I can't sleep. Did you hear me coughing?" I then cough for effect. It comes out more as a throat clear than a cough, but hey, he's still half asleep.
" I didn't hear anything. I was sleeping."
That's another thing about mysuestories manor. When I can't sleep? Neither can he. It just seems selfish on his behalf, no?

"Well, I was coughing. And there's tickle in my throat..." I complain continue.
At his non-responsive, once again snoring form while I am awake(!!!) I half nudge him toward the edge of the bed.
"Huh? Whassamatta?" he grumbles again.
" I was telling you how I can't sleep. You know, 'cause of this *cough* cough."
" Why don't you just go back to sleep?"
Seriously? Now why didn't I think of that? Oh. Yeh. "CAUSE THE COUGHING IS KEEPING ME AWAKE!!!!"

Not to worry, oh loyal reader. The mountain man proceeded to get plenty of rest that night, as he went right the f*ck back to sleep! I, on the other hand, spent the next three nights catching a lot of late night infomercials between coughs. (Side note- have ya ever noticed that EVERY SINGLE item sold solely on t.v. -before it gets to the "As Seen On T.V. " section of Walgreens- every item has the same shipping and handling fee of just $6.95. Yep. Just $6.95 to have anything from the latest in Ginsu Knives technology to a new mattress delivered to your door--Be dialing, people!!!!)
After three nights of coughing, (and subsequently waking the mountain man each. and. every. time.), he became concerened over his inability to get a good night's sleep my health.
"Mysuestories, it's time to see a doctor."
"Doctor? Why would I need a doctor?" I replied.
"Because you're sick and I care about you deeply! I can't get any sleep!"
" That's not true, mountain man. I know this because I have had the dubious job of watching you sleep while I am up all night coughing."
"AND you're coughing because YOU ARE SICK!! " Now, I ask you, constant reader, what kind of loving man yells at his beloved when she is obviously sleep depived and denying she is sick to begin with?

Two days (and long Billy Mays filled nights) later, mountain man calls me at work to tell me he has made an appointment for me, to see our doctor that evening at 4:15 p.m.
"But, mountain man, I am not sick!!!"
"Good. Then that's what the doctor (whom I haven't seen in over four years!) will tell you!"
" But, mountain man," I whined. Yeh. I whine. So shoot me. I even whine while I wine. Then again, most wine drinkers do. "I can't possibly make a 4:15 appointment. I won't be home from work tioll at least 4:30..." because at this point? Yeh. No way I was leaving work fifteen minutes early to get to some doctor's appointment I didn't even need!
"I, saviour of the New World and all things Holy, shall go to the doctor's office and sign you in and wait for YOUR appointment . Then YOU can casually show up 20 minutes later as they are ready to call your name." he stated.

Apparently I was not to wiggle out of this too easily.
"Fine. I'll be there," I conceded. But come the end of the day? I left work fifteen minutes later than usual...making me 30 minutes late for the appointment, and hopefully edged out of my time slot!
I arrived at 4:45 for my 4:15 appointment and found the mountain man dutifully sitting in a chair in the waiting room for me. Along with FIVE other patients. Four of whom had been there BEFORE the moutain man arrived at 4:00. (He's a stickler for punctuality, my man, he is!)

Fifteen minutes later, 3 Emergency Medical Technicians come bursting through the outer door, trailing a mobile cot and half of our local volunteer fire department. (It must have been a slow fire day.)
It appears the patient who was holding up the rest of us went into anaphylactic shock from taking someone else's antibiotics inside one of the exam rooms! I mean, just how inconsiderate can one person be? He could have just gone to the emergency room....or suffered silently at home...but no, let's inconvenience all us sick people (Yeh. Once I've already gone to the inconvenience of going to the doctor, I am officially sick).

At SIX O'CLOCK, I am finally called in to see the doctor for my appointment. You know, the appointment that was for 4:15.

Breathe in, breathe out...Blow in to this machine...Suck on this inhaler. Breathe again. Deeply. one more time. By the time I left there, I was all out of breaths. Shit, couldn't they see I was sickly? Jeez.

One chest X ray, a breathing treatment, a steriod prescription, an inhaler, and a script for cough medicine with coedine (SCORE!!!) and I was on my way home.

At 7 pm, I was resting comfortably on my couch, having downed a good couple of swigs from the cough medicine. Yep, it may take me a whole week of just sitting on this couch *cough*cough*, letting the mountain man wait on me...*cough*cough* "I'm so thirsty." "Gee, I could use another pillow..."
I'll teach him to tell me I'm sick!!!!

Friday, July 10, 2009

It Shoulda Been A Drive In

I must apologize for my lack of posting lately, however, mysuestories has been robbed. Yes, faithful reader, I have been assaulted as severely as any cashew at the Planter's factory. I, constant follower, have been raped, if you will. F*cked, really. Without benefit of alcohol or lubricant, either.

The dirty scoundrel responsible for this bestial attack? Female, punk-cut pink short hair, aged 16 -18, and smirking with indifference. Her weapon of choice? A cash register at the local cinema. Her ransom? Movie tickets to Ice Age 3-D.

Yeh. I got screwed at the movies. And not only did I have a child with me, I wasn't even sitting in the balcony!

The mountain man and I decided to take the gaming addict to a movie after work this evening, since Camp Mountain Man seems to consist of doing laundry and shooting at the neighbor's chickens with a BB gun. (Archery- the art of shooting arrows at the neighbor's chickens begins next week- We are thatwell rounded here!)

So, I unsuspectingly skip up to the movie counter and kindly ask for two adult and one child ticket. I was gonna ask for a senior ticket for the mountain man, but I kinda figured that might put the kibbutz on the pretzels and spicy cheese sauce I was hoping he'd spring for!

So the pink haired rebel without paws asks for $23.00, and hands me some movie stubs and send us to the red velvet rope police standing just four feet away. (Really. Little Miss I Hate My Life and Having to Serve Mere Mortals for A Living could have just waved us through eliminating the need for that extra salaried Keeper of The Red Velvet Rope.

Anyway, we approach the Keeper of the Red Velvet rope, who informs me that we; mountain man, gamester, and mysuestories; are a party of three. Rocket scientists, here, huh? Red Velvet Rope Keeper, who now looks like she should be wielding a scythe informs me that I am holding only TWO tickets.

I look down. The crypt keeper's twin is right. We retreat four feet back to Little Miss Sunshine Before Adolescence Set In, and I point to the two ticket stubs, and say
"Excuse me, Miss My Parents Hate Me, but you only gave me TWO tickets. We, (as the Red Velvet Rope Protector has pointed out), are a party of THREE."

To which this spawn of the devil and all things frugal states," That will be another $13.50."
"But I already paid $23.00!" mysuestories exclaimed!!!!!
To which Little Miss I'd Rather Slice Layers Of Skin Off of My Body Rather than Have to Talk to Idiots Like You says, " That was for one adult and one child ticket."
Yeh. Even though we are clearly THREE. And the sign on the counter states that adult tickets are only $10.50.
I show Little Miss I Would Rather Massacre You Than look At You One More Time the sign. "But adult tickets are only $10.50", I squeak. I am now positive this Emo/Slasher is scamming three bucks off each ticket sale to buy the latest mercenary gear from the back pages of Soldier of Fortune magazine, and I, mysuestories, in my pursuit for liberty and justice for all in the name of three dollars have just put my family on the top of her to do list.
"Ma'am," she croaks out with a draeaded eye roll (Note to reader: There is nothing I hate more than being called "Ma'am", except for being called "Ma'am" with na accompanying eyeroll!) "Ma'am, $10.50 is for regular movies. It's $13.50 for "3-D" movies." And she proceeds to point to the same sign that I had used to correct her.

And there, right under the $10.50 for adults, it read $13.50 for "3-D".
I coughed up (quite literally) another $13.50 and we were than granted access to the theatre beyond the Red Velvet Rope Taker.

"Geez, mysuestories," spoke the love of my life, the yin to my yang," isn't $36.50 an awful lot of money for you to pay for a movie?"
Yeh, thanks mountain man. It is. I could spend a lot less than that in a bar and have my way with him in the bedroom after. And at least I (and he) would know what was in store. And none of it would involve androgenous pink haired punks with authority issues.

Instead, I said something akin to, "Not to worry, mountain man. Just spending quality time with you and the kid is priceless."
He smiled, all lovey dovey like.

Then I led him to the snack counter and proceeded to order $40.00 worth of munchies and pretzels with spicy cheese sauce. His treat. 'Cause I'm thoughtful like that!

Tuesday, July 7, 2009

Scratch This Itch!!!!!!

We are a "big box store" family. We buy, eat , and shit in bulk. (Why else would any store sell toilet paper rolls in sets of 62?) With three boys (men? Man childs? At what age do they become adults in their own right?) plus the mountain man and myself, big lot stores are definitely a big part of our shopping experience. Why buy one pound of ravioli when you can purchase seven pounds all in one bag?

Point being, there is good justification for shopping for detergents by the barrel full. Many a family makes good use of reduced pricing in exchange for using that extra bedroom as a storage closet. I mean, where the hell am I supposed to store eight packages of 1000 count napkins, anyway?

On the flip side of my own little argument here (Argument? Who was arguing? - I was, dammit, now shut up and slink back into the far reaches of my mind, you meddling disorder, you!)----- Sorry, I digress....

As beneficial as buying rice by the ton is for families such as ours, there ought to be some rules to accompany membership into the gluttony purchasing club. For example, if you are single and over the age of seventy, it ought to be considered elder abuse for management to cash that $50.00 membership fee.

Case in point... This past weekend, the mysuestories clan were fortunate enough to have been invited to revel in the gloriousness of the Fourth of July at a dear friend's house. Said friend, Joe, is approaching ninety and lives alone.(And he throws a helluva party!-Again, irrelevant but we did have a great time! Nobody can party like a bunch of retired seniors with no where to go for, oh say, about six months-)

At one point, (some where between five Bud lights and two Bahama Mama's -hey, I'm patriotic- I was celebrating--- Not to mention helping to stimulate the economy of our local neighborhood liquor outlet!---Hey, don't judge. ) I excused myself to the bathroom. While in the bathroom, I did what gracious guests every where do, I sized up the room. And was I rewarded with a tidbit upon which to ponder while I was, um, er, pondering? I was. Upon the sink's counter I spied this:
From New Window

(And yes, I do take my camera with me every where, even the loo.- Hey, one never knows when something blog picture worthy will occur!)
Yep. A brand spanking new 10 pack of toothbrushes. For a ninety year old. At 1 new brush every six months? Shit, he and his pearly whites will probably be brushing right up at the pearly gates! With a few to spare!!!! Ya gotta love the optimism, though.

So, later that evening, as I share the adventures of my trip, trip, trip to the loo with the mountain man---yeh, I know. It doesn't get any better than that, friends- Isn't love just grand?!- I share my photographic prowess with him, and we come upon the pack of toothbrushes for every occasion.

"Imagine, mountain man, " I marveled, " It says a lot about a person when you're buying a long lasting item like toothbrushes in bulk at that age!"

"Yeh, mysuestories. It speaks volumes. About Joe. And senility. He's had false teeth since for at least 30 years. He doesn't brush them. He soaks them. Like in a cup. Over night. Must be like a phantom pain," my hunk of too much information continues, " You know, like if some one's had a limb removed but it still itches...They say ( And, NO, dear reader, do NOT ask who they is!) that if a person truly believes the limb is there, they really do feel that itch, and can even "see" it there! You CAN actually wish an appendage to life!"

Hmmm. I wonder if I should have mentioned the 1,000 pack of individually wrapped Trojans I just slipped in the mountain man's night stand drawer. Size XXL.