Thursday, March 26, 2009

Mysuestories' Very First Contest!!!

OK, constant reader, I do believe there are millions, or thousands, hundreds (at least TWO?) of you reading this without commenting ( and most likely not admitting it to a soul, huh?) Me neither, and it's MY blog!

Well, I believe, I believe, I BELIEVE!!!!!! And now, I'm hoping to prove it....

My right hand man (no, not the Mountain OTHER right hand man), my trusty laptop, needs a name. So, you, constant reader, are invited to a christening of sorts.

I'm asking for appropriate names for dear lap top. Here at mysuestories manor, I've blog-labeled my husband (Mountain Man), my step son (most honorable son number one), my upper-teen (the three toed sloth), and the tween ager (the gaming addict). But one of my most precious dependants(Yes, I DID claim it on my taxes!!!!) is as nameless as a red headed step child!

Anyone can (and I hope ) WILL enter! Just leave a message in the comments section of this here blog, and (I will jump for joy, sing HALLELUJAH, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, and do cartwheels in the FRONT yard) on Wednesday, April 1, 2009, some time that evening, EST, I will pick and post the winning lap top name.

And, because I'm a gambling woman (NEVER let me loose with cash at a Chinese auction!!!!), there simply HAS to be prize for best lap top name.

Get ready, fans! Be still....
Here it is....
From Contests and Giveaways

That's right! It's a shower gel/body lotion/bath salt/loofah sponge extravaganza!!!!! And it's in the scent of Sweet Pomegranate! (ain't that the fruit that's supposed to be so healthy and cleansing to drink?--Well, just imagine sloshing your entire body in it!! I feel better already! pits!!!! Can the Real Pomegranate say that? Didn't think so!
(Couldn't ya just cry, it's so purty?)

Anyway, I know it ain't much, but it is F R E E! And it could be all yours!
Simply submit those lap top names and I will ship this beauty of a PRIZAPALOOZA off to YOUR home!!!
And...If you have a blog or web site or cause to promote or maybe a new friend with benefits you'd like to share with the entire blogosphere.....I will personally write a promotional blog.

And yes, doubting Thomas...I know April 1st is April Fool's Day. But not here at mysuestories manor, where quite frankly, EVERY day is April Fool's! April 1st is our first big giveaway day!!!!!

(pssstt-- PLEASE don't make me have to mail this SWAG BAG to myself...I will if I have to, but if I can't even BUY a comment? Well, this tee hee little site just might take a dark turn, ya know? )

Enter as often as you like...winner will be picked based on mysuestories distorted sense of humor, and all MY decisions are final....

And constant reader? Both lap top and I thank you for reading. AND for giving lappy a new moniker!!!!!

I HOPE the Mountain Man isn't the ONLY person that enters. Then I'd have to ask him for the $$$ to mail the PRIZAPALOOZA to him!!!! And while I'm all for self gratification.. that just seems so sad...Sigh.

Wednesday, March 25, 2009


We are officially a "connected" family here at mysuestories manor. Wirelessly connected, but held together by a very strong bond indeed!

First I log on Facebook. (Yes,dear interventionists, I am still using, however, I'm down to about two hits a day. Ok, ok, sometimes, three or six, but none of that all nighter stuff, I promise. Really.)

So, I pick up my drug of choice,er, I mean, I log on to Facebook and I start surfing my comments, catching up with my fellow 12 step dropouts. I go click on to "Show More Comments", and windows explorer tells me I am "Out of Memory at line 23".

Lines? Who was doing lines? And 23!?! Shit! Who even does that crap any more?

Furthermore, I was over thirty-five when my memory started to go, nowhere near 23.

Then, my facebook page movements slowed down to a crawl. I'm slamming keys and cursing the Gods of Bill Gates Brain, and nothing is going my way.

Then, Internet Explorer is experiencing a problem, and wants to shut down. Internet Explorer is having a goddamn problem? What about mysuestories issues?

The Mountain Man, the member of our family least likely to actually use electronics of any kind, heads to the dungeon beneath our house and tries to decipher a gaggle of thousands of wires. By some miracle of St. Gates, the patron saint of the internet, the Mountain Man shuts down our wireless service for a mere nano second before rebooting the system.

Within seconds, the waking dead are screeching their death call here at mysuestories mansion of maniacs.

Most honorable son number one:"Hey, who messed up my internet connection?!"
Son number three, our gaming addict, is frothing at the mouth as he sputters, "MY X BOX LIVE IS BROKEN!!!!!"
Um, yea, that and two window panes from the shrill sonic vibrations of his primal screams.
Mercifully, son number two was spared this excruciating agony by being at a friend's house with uninterrupted wireless service the day the music died.

And then there's mysuestories: "Uh, Mountain Man? Is it fixed yet? No? How about now? Not yet? Now? What about NOW?"

By the powers vested in LINKSYS ( and with three family members praying really hard together), the internet connection lights up once again on dear, dear, laptop (who, by the way, readers, needs a name---any suggestions? Perhaps I will run my first ever contest on mysuestories for the reader who can come up with the best "screen" name for my lap top---more on this tomorrow!!!)

Anyway, thankfully, we are all up and running within three minutes of family meltdown. Nothing like a major family crisis to pull us together here!

I hop on the mysuestories home page, and I see a notice saying this site will be under maintenance at four p.m. pdt. WTF? PDT? I live in EST ( and no, not the ohmm kind of EST)---
"Mountain Man? What time is it here when it's four pm EST?"
Right about now, I'm feeling a little PMS with a kicker of OCD, and a touch of "Go F-yourself" thrown in for good measure.
"Four pm PDT is seven PM EST, mysuestories," he answers with the patience of a man who deserves much more than the scowl I am giving him.
"But, Mountain Man, it's ten minutes till seven now, and I STILL haven't posted mysuestory today." I pout, as only I can do.
"Well, that I can't change, so stop yer bitchin' and get to typing," he replied.
And so I did. I quit my bitching and got to typing. And seconds later, I hear most honorable son number one:
"Hey, how come the phone in my room isn't working?"

And so, the member of OUR family least likely to use electronics is headed back to the underground hell hole that is our cellar to "fix" the phone line. (Which probably means the Mountain Man is going to be ripping out every single wire in the entire house in mere minutes!!)

Ain't modern living just grand?

Tuesday, March 24, 2009

Dancing With Scars

Dance class 101 tonight. We've decided that between the Mountain man and I, we have four left feet and SIX funny bones.

We can't dance worth a lick...(well, that maybe a little harsh---) HE can't dance worth a lick, and I don't do solo. So basically, we're toast on the dance floor.

We are learning(?heh?) to do the cha cha, and I just know all of Latin America and South America AND parts of North America are in tears tonight. A simple little step---(quick, quick, sloooooow...quick,quick, sloooooow) and we are completely inept.

I've got two college degrees, and the Mountain Man is a whiz at all things trivia and Jeopardy related-together , we are the epitome of walking useless intelligence,...
(Really, just ask me what the capital of Wisconsin is......Madison....)
Turn on the music, and we are truly f***ked!
Mysuestories? It looks like a weird bird's ritualistic mating dance. And the Mountain Man? His cha cha looks as if he is trying to stomp out the entire population of cockroaches in a two foot space.

AND his idea of placing his hand on my shoulder blade for gentle directional guidance is to propel me in whatever direction his two left feet are currently taking HIM (Usually LEFT!). However, when he uses that handle on my shoulder blade to guide me home when I'm drunk? Perfectly OK. On the dance floor? Not so much.

Hmmmm. Maybe if we drink when we dance......
Stay tuned, constant reader. I've got an idea that will either have us Dancing With The Stars or Drunk With The Hobos......

Monday, March 23, 2009

Happy Birthday, Mr. Mountain Man

Well, it's been another week of celebrating here at mysuestories manor. It was the Mountain Man's birthday, and of course we could only do that which he enjoys so much. We partied!
He started the weekend by splitting a huge 20 pound (well, nearly!) chocolate cake with our youngest household reveler. That cake never stood a chance!

The next night we went to a party at a local pubbery where a good friend was having a celebration for HER 50th birthday! Talk about details! The invitation alone was 12 pages long! That's not an invite!!! That's a manual!

Anyway, this dear and talented friend turned her celebration into a fundraiser for her favorite charity! What a great way to give a gift, huh? She raised A LOT of $$$$ for a great cause, AND she made/bought over fifty great gifts and prizes that were auctioned off to everyone!!!

It was a wonderfully selfless way to celebrate and we were really glad to have been a part of it! We came home with tons of prizes!!

And the best part? I told the Mountain Man it was HIS party! Heh!

Friday, March 20, 2009

Third Time's a Charm

It's not always easy being the "trophy wife", ie: "not the wife I married and intended to grow old and fat with".

This, dear reader. is NOT a choice. It's the reality that has become my life. I have been married three times (thus far---sorry, Mountain Man, I just HAD to add THAT in!!!)
Not ONCE out of three was I the first choice. Nope. Mysuestories must be in the bargain aisle, cause I am ALWAYS second (not yet third, thank you, Jesus!) choice.
I guess I should be thankful I am NOT the starter wife, although SHE generally makes out better with child support than subsequent families!---We here at the Dollar Store tend to be thankful for ANYTHING WE GET....and if we don't, well, we will go after that later!!!

But, dear reader, practice makes perfect! Third time IS a charm! And I wouldn't change the long and winding road that led me to the Mountain Man's door! Now I've just gotta convince him to change THAT door with a pretty stained glass one I've got all picked out. After all, I only said I wouldn't change the journey. The destination? THAT'S another story!

Thursday, March 19, 2009

Entertainment Brought to You by Rocket Scientists!

The Three-toed sloth in our home just finished filling out an on-line job application for the local movie theatre chain, where he hopes to fill popcorn buckets and rip tickets in half for most likely minimum wage (less than eight bucks an hour in our home state.)
For such an auspicious position, he had to fill out a twenty-five page questionnaire, not including five pages of personal information.
Most questions went like this:
When people annoy me, I react violently.
A) Strongly Agree
B) Agree
C) Disagree
D) Strongly Disagree
Or like this:
When I finish one job function, I tend to goof off.
A) Strongly Agree
B) Agree
C) Disagree
D) Strongly Disagree
Or my personal favorite:
People who move slowly really get me mad.
A) Strongly Agree
B) Agree
C) Disagree
D) Strongly Disagree

Why not just come right out and ask:
Are you so stupid that you cannot answer these questions in a favorable manor?
Or, how about:
Do you really want to work here, or is your momsuestories making you fill out the application, AND making sure you are not so stupid that you cannot answer these questions in a favorable manor?

After 25 grueling pages, the last page asked (voluntarily, of course) for his gender (male, we think, so far), and then for his ethnicity, with one choice each for Asian, black, and white, but with FOUR choices for Hispanic, Latino, Mexican, and mixed Hispanic-(Aren't they ALL Hispanic? And why does spell check insist on CAPITALIZING those choices, but black and white are simply lower case choices?) I must say, I was pushing for the sloth to put in African Asian, but unless he's got a real good tan and his eyes appear that he's smoked an ounce of premium mojo, I don't think he could pull it off.

I gotta tell ya, I've taken state police exams (Random mysuestories fact---Note: This MAY be on the mid-term!),anyway, the police ask less information than the movie theatre. Maybe that's why the police suicide/spousal abuse rate is so much higher than the local movie workers union! ( I can't say THIS is a fact, maybe the movie theatre workers DO beat up their wives and hang themselves after having too sit through too many Miley Cyrus movies, but I'm guessing, no.)

So, hopefully, the three toed sloth will be employed soon. Unless he fails the physical. They will probably have Olympic sprinting to the soda pop machine and back, and maybe fastest ticket ripping events. The finale? Probably who can squirt the liquid butter on the popcorn while still filling the bucket at a five foot distance.

Geez, maybe if he'd chosen a minority status, they would let him squirt the butter from three feet....

Wednesday, March 18, 2009

The Scene of The Crime

Top Of the morning To You, my fine readers!
As promised, (although a little late, thanks to me thieving Nephew!)...mysuestories brings you her St. Patrick's Day celebration, otherwise known as Why I Woke Up With a HUGE Headache!
We started with a traditional hometown parade, which wouldn't be complete without a least a few men wearing skirts (OK< they can CALL them kilts, but they are STILL men in skirts!

Hey, who IS the big guy with that adorable little lass?
And, of course, we had our share of leprechauns:

Even a few not so little leprechauns:

We had fire trucks decked out in green..


But I'll bet OURS was the only parade with one of these in it all decked out:

No parade would be complete without a decorated hearse complete with funereal flowers!
Oh, and while I KNOW those are my girls on the right, I'm not quite so sure who the other two belong to....I believe it was at THIS point that my dear camera changed hands!

Thank goodness it was NOT Girls Nite Out!!!

Hope your St. Patty's Day was just as fun!
And may the luck of the Irish be with you and yours this year!

Tuesday, March 17, 2009

I'm A Drinker, Not A Fighter!

Well, faithful reader(s), we can rest easy! Apparently the threat of my terror tactics as employed by this blog and the mysuestories maniacs (that would be YOU, dear followers!) has paid off!!!!!!
Our evil villain has crumbled under our demands (and One comment--- Thanks! Moe!), and my dear fifth limb, my camera, is back in my very incapable hands!!!!!!!

As soon as I sort out the photos taken of/for/and completely without my knowledge, I will post the St. Patrick's Day Events(from hereon known as the Day of the Great Camera Caper)!!! Tune in tomorrow.

But for now..... a promise is a promise...even if it IS in the form of a ransom demand....
Appearing now....mysuestories on St. Patty's Day:

Who knew I had three chins? (Shut up, Mountain Man! We're talking about my FACE here!)
And how about that shirt? It's actually the Mountain Man's. Looks new, right? No stains. And do you know WHY it looks new and has no stains? Because it's two sizes too small for him,, and it's never been worn before!!! ( Although it may have a few spills on it now... Sorry, babe!)
And the hat? Borrowed... Thanks, boardybabe! But why DO you have two of them, anyway? Kinda like my kister (sis with a kiss-if you're new around here). My kister once bought two butt-busters from the Only Sold On TV channel, once. Apparently, a butt buster is a plastic ass-shaped disk you put your, well, duh, butt in, and rock back and forth for a slimmer butt. Suzanne Somers did the commercial, and she must be one hell of a sales pitcher, 'cause my kister, who only has one keister? Well, she bought two butt busters, cause the second one was half price! (By the way? She's still the same ass I've always loved! No change, sorry Suzanne Somers!)

Anyway, my beloved camera's back, and I can't wait to share photos again.

Oh, and as long as I am publishing mysuestories photos not in my best moments, lest we should forget our villainous leprechaun:

I love ya, nephew, but pay back is a bitch!!!!!! And my faeries have yet to forget ya!

Monday, March 16, 2009

The Luck of the Irish!

Well, faithful reader, what you SHOULD be looking at here right now at mysuestories, are the beautiful photos I wanted to share with you of the Mountain man and my celebration of St Patrick's Day this past weekend.
See, in our little town, we start the partying a wee bit early, and we enjoyed a lovely small town parade and a small town pub crawl with our many fun friends (although many of them still don't subscribe to mysuestories....But enough about them. It's not like they're reading this anyway!
So, where, ask you (you were going to ask, weren't you?) are these fine, fine photos?
Well, it appears mysuestories, in a vulnerable moment (OK, so I was a wee bit over my two drink limit)relinquished control of my most prized pot 'o gold: The mysuestories coveted camera!
NO!!!!!!Say you. Say it isn't so, mysuestories! (exclaims the masses -or would an audience of one be just a mass?)
Tis true. It turns out my arch nemesis, the evil leprechaun

has misappropriated my most coveted treasure!!!!
And, I've since learned that many, let's just say, "candid" shots of mysuestories "doing" shots now appear in it's turncoat memory.
As for it's return, I have promised to publish said shots upon the return of me gold, and I will.
However, if the mischievous leprechaun has not returned that camera in good time, upon my Irish eyes a smiling, I do solemnly swear upon all that is green that I shall unleash the wrath that is mysuestories upon the villain with my most powerful of weapons: this blog.

Beware, you lecherous and me faeries are gunning for you!

What's that, constant, faithful reader? Who is this dastardly scoundrel?
Why it's none other than.......
From De Nephew


Hmmm...maybe her newest favorite cousin knows something
mysuestories does not!!!!!!
From De Nephew

So, denephew, cough up the camera, or perhaps your cell phone number goes public?!!!!
Let the readers decide....
Comments, anyone?

Friday, March 13, 2009

Treading Heavily

Not to discourage you, dear constant reader(s), but playing on a computer is not exactly conducive to a size 4 dress. Not that I actually have a size 4 dress, but if I did, I'd have to buy 2 more and patch them together. And so, I have finally been going back to the gym.
Where, you ask, (or I asked...somebody had to!)is the two ton treadmill the poor Mountain Man dragged into the living room? (see Working It Out Feb 5, 2009)-well, when I finally DID get on the damn thing, it didn't even work. You would think we would have plugged the damned thing in and made sure it was operable before the Mountain Man humped it 200 yards all by himself (of course, I WAS directing him on exactly how to maneuver said machine!). Well, YOU very well WOULD think first, but here at mysuestories manor, we pride ourselves on being persons of action. ACT first, think later. This particular mantra also lends itself to needing quick access to bail money as well.
Anyway, so I'm at the gym, really burning the body fat on a treadmill on which I am walking at about the pace of a spastic turtle. (OK, OK, so it's not quite a HIGH INTENSITY work out yet. I DID park two rows away from the door!)
My gym ( funny, I've only been there a dozen times in the last five years, but I do believe it is MY gym!)....MY gym has fourteen treadmills (I did count them tonight in order to authenticate this story!-Just call me Bob Woodward...Or Deep Throat. Just call me!)
So, I'm pumping up my cardio routine ever so slowwwwly, and the treadmill adjacent to mine opens up. Seconds later, an extremely youthful (read - anyone under 25!!!!This number keeps changing as I get older!!)..youthful, yes, youthful young whipper snapper jumps onto the treadmill.
Now, I know, constant reader, you have this vision of loveliness when you imagine mysuestories in tight spandex shorts and huge bouncing boobs as Brad Pitt leans over and offers his sweaty c... to my eager mouth.....ooops...wrong story...sorry!!!
Suffice it to say that I was a sweaty, grotesquely shaped mess when the gangly and way too young work out king jumped on the treadmill.

Now, when treading at a gym, I have a tendency to do the same thing I do on face book (and no, readers, it is NOT stealing friends!). I eavesdrop. Or maybe it is eavesreading. Or read dropping. I have to look and see how fast you are going, what is your incline (no, not sexual inclinations...inconveniently, they do not have such a window on treadmills) and how many calories you have burned.
So, I ever so non-chalantly, which as you can imagine, is not very non chalant at all, peer over at my new neighbor's stats.
Firstly, he is walking at a pace SLOWER than mysuestories. That immediately puts a superiority grin on my face, and I am now strutting my stuff as I walk the treadmill, (But ALWAYS keeping two hands on the handle bars...I'm not Evel Knievel, after all!)
Secondly, he has legs longer than my entire body. His arms also appear to be four feet in length, and he is just screaming geek gawk walking!!! But he's doing his thang, so I go back to staring at my time clock and wonder why it's barely moving.

Suddenly, the geekster starts rolling his arms and stabbing the air while walking the treadmills like John Travolta doing the hustle in the 70's.
From gym nite

He then starts puching the air ala Rocky Balboa sans punching bag
From gym nite

At this point, I pick up my sweat wiping towel and casually proceed to wipe sweat only from the right side of my face, so I can turn my head to my left and watch this debacle!
Our geekster next strips off his sweatshirt to reveal a bright orange under armour tank top, and he begins pumping the air like Bruce Springsteen punctuating "Born in the USA"
From gym nite

I notice people from the other side of the gym are now staring, and it is NOT my heaving bosom that is attracting all the attention. I have started to giggle, and I realize I never did perfect a silent laugh.
The Geekster looks over at me, and I can't turn away fast enough! He sees me trying (and not at all succeeding!) to suppress my laughter, and then it happens.

He. Misses. A. Step.

He doesn't exactly fall, but he does lose his footing, and grabs the handrails and goes down just for a second on one knee. The whole time, he is looking directly at me, as if this is MY fault!

In my most sympathetic manor, I do the only thing I can.

I laugh. Loudly. And for a lonnnng time.

My Richard Simmons workout geek jumped off the treadmill and left in a huff.

I continued to laugh out loud. For FIVE full minutes!
That was the end of THAT work out, but, boy, did my abs get a workout from keeling over with laughter!!!!

I went back to the gym again today, but I didn't see him. Sigh. Nothing to do but walk it off, I guess. I wonder if he's on facebook?

Wednesday, March 11, 2009

I'm A Dancing Fool

Well, we had our first ballroom dancing class. We also probably had our LAST ballroom dancing class. Lord only knows if they'll ever let us step (well dressed) foot in THAT class again.
It all started so smoothly. Some forty couples were lined up and we started to fox trot...quick,quick, slooooow...quick quick,sloooow.

Then came the Fancy foot work. Our instructor lined up all the men and demonstrated a simple little three step move that promised to make them look like Al Pacino in "Scent of a Woman". She showed them three times their easy steps and then led them in their performance.
At the end of this very simple three step, all the men were facing east. Except one. The Mountain Man was facing west.
And, He. Didn't. Even. Notice.
It was at this point that I think I blew our lifetime membership in beginner's ballroom dancing.
I very delicately (Yeah, right. The last delicate thing I ever did was give birth and curse out my husband, the doctor, and the godforsaken devil spawn clawing it's way out of me!)- Anyway, ever so lady like, I yelled, "HEY, RAINMAN! TURN AROUND!"

Well, the serious dancers, they eyeballed me like I was Jezebel(not since the '80s!).
The couples who were simply trying to reconnect with one another by partaking in an activity they would never use, ignored me.

Then there was the couples who just wanted to have fun. They laughed. REALLY LOUD!
Ten Minutes passed before class could resume, and we had now made a few new friends, and more than a couple of scornful enemies for life.

Oh well, one step forward, two steps back...THAT'S a lesson we have YET to be taught. Maybe next week?

Look out, Fred and Ginger! We WILL be back!
And just in case? We will bring bail money.

Tuesday, March 10, 2009

Dances with Wolves in Sheep's Clothing

As a kid I was never much of a dancer. As a matter of fact, I pretty much remember me having two left feet.
The sixth grade Sadie Hawkins dance at School #1 was pretty much an ordeal for me. I was nowhere near as pretty as most girls , and ions behind in the busting out of my training bra department. Just about, all of my sexual prowess was limited to playing spin the bottle or the screwdriver or the hammer or whatever other oblong instrument could be found in the dirt floored basement of one of my classmates wooden garage.
My date, or at least the one I chose to ask (it WAS Sadie Hawkins, after all) was in the band playing that night in the gymnasium, so needless to say that was also a bust as far as dates go.
And so it goes that dancing was never my forte.
Fast forward twenty (oh OK, already!) thirty years later, and I've managed to get by with a few slow dances and the occasional Electric Slide.
I've danced at a few weddings (mostly my own!), and I have not yet embarrassed myself off a dance floor (the same cannot be said about a karaoke microphone!)

And so tonight, for no real reason at all, the Mountain Man and I will be appearing at our local high school for our first ball room dancing lesson. Yep, Mrs. Two Left Feet and Mr. I Dance Like the Rain Man will be cutting a rug in less than thirty minutes.

I'd better bring scissors!

Monday, March 9, 2009

EEL Gotten Gains

I'm watching "Modern Marvels: Alaskan Fishing" on the History channel. (Obviously Mountain Man's night of CRC -Control of the Remote Control). Anyway, you'd think you'd have lots of burly men with fishing lines catching fish, no? Um. No.

What you have is huge boats with tremendous nets that literally scoop up 100 tons of pollack fish in one great swoop.
"Pollack?" asks you, oh constant reader.
Ever have a McDonald's Fish fillet or frozen fish sticks? That would be pollack.

Dangerous? Maybe, but this is summer fishing...No Deadliest Catch here. Heck, some of these guys aren't even wet!
Which reminds me of a mysuestories fishing tale.....
(Insert dream sequence harp music here)

Now, I had fished as a youngun, with my parents and sisters on a twenty(?) foot wooden outboard my dad had years ago. He would be all excited and load us all up on the boat on the weekends. And every weekend was pretty much the same. Complaining, bored kids, mom's notoriously sun poisoned nose, and very little fish in the pot.

But he was either a man with dire determination or just a glutton for punishment, because the trips continued for quite a while.
Now, as a seven year old, there ain't a whole lot of fun in waiting for anything, no less a possible nibble on a line by a fish.
And at seven? Every little wave made it feel as if I HAVE A BITE!!!!! And after every little rocking motion or wave, that's exactly what I would cry to my Dad, otherwise known as the patron Saint of Patience.
And with every little wave, I would reel in my line, ready to catch THE BIG ONE, only to find nothing but the original bait on the hook. Not to mention that my continuous casting and reeling in of the line probably scared away any half way decent fish within twenty miles!
Hours into one of these little "fun" family escapades, I was casting and reeling in nothing but seaweed every three minutes, each time screaming, "I got something! I got something!"

Is it any wonder my father had long since stopped even coming over to watch me reel in, no less maintained his restraint at throwing ME overboard. ( Did I mention I always was/still am the favorite? -Sorry, kisters, but it's not like you read this blog anyway!)

Anyway....the little girl who cried wolf. I'm screaming like only a panicked seven year old girl can:
Followed by parental murmurings that were probably the equivalent of "Geez, here we go again," or "Shit, Sue (no, not the dog-but for years, I did think they'd named a breed after me!) not again!"
But this time, there really was something on the other end of that fishing pole. Honest, I swear! And it wasn't letting go. But then, neither was I. I had waited hours, weeks, maybe even years(?) for this moment! I was gonna reel in Moby Dick if it killed me!
Hours(?), moments(?), seconds(?)....An eternity later, Dad's parental instincts (or fear of answering to Child Protective Services) must have kicked in as he saw his youngest ( and did I mention favorite?) daughter about to be pulled over board.
He leaped over one of the three wooden slats that passed for seating, and grabbed the pole from me. Picture, if you will, three gleefully screeching girls and my mom with her over sized, not helping the sun poisoned nose a bit hat, while my dad reeled in my Moby Dick!

OK. This is mysuestories, and in a perfect world, Ahab could have landed Moby Dick. Not so on the SS.Mysuestories.
My dad reeled into the boat, off of mysuestories little line that couldn't, a six foot long slithering eel!
Now, picture, if you will, three pre-pubescent girls and their hysterical mother all screaming and bouncing and leaping onto slats that double as seats as the very snake like eel slithers across the bottom of our very tiny vessel!
At some point, our Dad in shining armour manges to behead the evil dragon/eel, before we womenfolk overturned the boat. And all order is restored to the SS.Mysuestories.
Alas! A great and plentiful meal is served at the mysuestories castle of her youth that evening, in the form of eel (which mysuestories refused to eat, and so a McDonald's side trip was run- And NO, constant reader, it was NOT a Fish Filet Sandwich).

And from that day henceforth, whenever the fair maiden known as mysuestories uttered the ear splitting call of "I GOT SOMETHING!", somebody always checked her line.

She never caught another thing on that boat as a child.

But sometimes, well, sometimes, just the one time is enough!

Sunday, March 8, 2009

My Candle in The Wind

Another fundraiser. Every year the kids come home from school with brightly colored pamphlets urging family, friends, and neighbors alike to buy over priced gift wrap or chocolates or seeds.
The evening of my now seventeen year old's parent orientation to preschool at the Cult of the Resurrection, we, the parents, were handed fundraiser packets before the kid ever stepped foot in the school!

Every year for the next ten years, he brought home fundraising stuff. For five of those years, we obligatory ordered from two sons with usually the same exact catalogs.

We have spent more on wrapping paper some years than we have on gifts! We have paid exorbirant amounts of money on candy and chocolates we neither like nor needed on our hips! And the sunflower seeds! One year we spent $50. on ten bags of sunflower seeds, each, according to the package, containing 200 seeds. We dug, we planted, we sowed, we watered. How many plants did we reap? Not. A. Single. Damned. Plant! But, in all fairness, we did have the happiest squirrels in town!

Then, suddenly, after our last sixth grader headed to junior high, the sales pitches stopped. NOBODY was happier (and richer!) than me.

Imagine my surprise the other day when the twelve year old brought home a large, bulky white envelope.
"What's that?" mysuestories inquired.
"Oh, yeah. We're raising money for something. You gotta buy candles," says the child who shall one day teach dachshunds to dance.
"It's a real cool catalog, too. You can scratch and sniff some of the candles," he continued.
He then proceeded to scratch and have me sniff each sniffable page in the book.
He put the catalog down on the table, and I completely put the fundraiser out of mind by the time the magazine was out of hands.

Don't get me wrong. We here at mysuestories manor love candles, and we have loads of them everywhere (although I AM partial to vanilla scented, we have quite the variety of scents-usually determined by the color of the room in which it will be housed....hunter green in the bathroom, ocean blue for the kitchen....)
So, it's not really a question of whether we like candles. See for yourself:
From Goodbye Norma Jean

From Goodbye Norma Jean

So, you get the picture...get it? The picture, I mean.
From Goodbye Norma Jean

Anyway, the Mountain Man comes in later and notices the catalog. He picks it up and mutters something about another over priced fundraiser, but don't some of those candle scent names sound nice.
"And," mysuestories speaks, "you can scratch and sniff them."

Now, I should preface this by saying that the Mountain Man was in the paper printing business for many years before mysuestories came along---We call all those years B.M.
No, dear reader, it does not stand for Bowel Movement, although truth be told, life simply had to be shitty without me around, right? No, B.M. simply stands for life Before Mysuestories. And it ends there. It also does not continue as in life Before Myesuestories made it hell. (Nobody likes a wise ass, Mountain Man!)
Anyway...Mountain Man proceeds to pick up the magazine and he is making these great big sniffing noises.
From Goodbye Norma Jean

"That's funny, mysuestories," says the man who can answer EVERY question on Jeopardy correctly, "All I smell is rubber based ink(!?!) and clay coat paper."
I walked over to where the man of my dreams is sniffing this magazine like a dog licks his own balls, and immediately zoomed in on the problem.
"Um, Mountain Man? The only ones you can smell are the ones with the great big circle on the candle that says "Scented Page. Gently rub jar candle to experience Midnight Jasmine. The page you're snorting like a junkie? That page doesn't have any scratch and sniff circles on it."
Days like this make the Mountain Man go from this

to this:

But, boy is he so darned cute!
Oh, and those candles? $23.00 for a medium sized candle. Sigh.

Friday, March 6, 2009

Making Bread by Breaking Bad

So, tonight I am caught up in a first season marathon of Breaking Bad, the AMC mini series about a terminally ill high school chemistry teacher who delves into making crystal meth to create his own stimulus package for his family.
Now, the economy of this country is pretty damn well close to the crapper, so I just have to ask myself ( and of course you, oh lonely reader(s)...What would
you do to support your family in dire times?
Me? I would embarass my friends and family by posting a (near) daily blog about them and then support them with the oodles of $$$$ I make from the little adsense google ads that appear in the side bar. (You have been clicking on the ads to help feed my poor starving waifs, haven't you?)

And then I remembered, I've already sold out all those I love as described above. Oh yeah, with one small difference....I'm still waiting for the ca ching ca ching.....
Maybe that's why the Chem teacher turned to meth's easier than pimping out your story on a daily basis...
Ah, what the heck...embarassing the fam is so much more fun!!!!!

What about you, reader...What would you do? Or cook up? Or write about?

Thursday, March 5, 2009

Denephew is Deniece?

Well, constant reader, I think you've paid enough dues (and read more than a few stories that have left you wondering how you could have better spent your time!), and we (meaning me) here at mysuestories believe every good turn should be harshly punished, er, um, greatly rewarded.
And today's reward is Let's Meet The Family!
Our first willing (well, probably would be if I took a chance and asked !) contestant on Let's Meet The Family would be your favorite relative and certainly one of mine:
De Nephew
From De Nephew

(Psst...She's the one on the left!) Ain't she just beautiful?

What say you, oh faithful reader? Girls can't be nephews? Hah! You've obviously never followed the mysuestories family tree too closely!
It all began 23 years ago (or about seven months before the marriage of De Nephew's parents- which is a whole other post!)

(Insert dream like music here, dear reader, while we travel back to the 1980's--------)

The Mountain Man's brother and his not -mathematically-soon-enough-to-be bride were expecting a baby! As the first off spring to appear in this the next generation of the Mountain Man's Geneology Continues (and with a bride of no prior relations blood "we think!", to boot), the birth of said spawn was as greatly anticipated as that of the annual chasing of the bulls through Madrid!

And as with all things great and small in our clan, what's a soon to be uncle to do? Why he placed a bet with his cousin on the gender of said love child.

"A boy it shall be," declared my Mountain Man to the masses.

"Nope, it's sure to be a girl," taunted cousin Black Jack, who himself was the proud producer of a child of the female virility.

"I'm telling you," insisted Mountain Man,"We are born of virile male stock, and will reproduce just that!"

A proper wager was then decided upon, for money was not nearly of enough importance upon which to place such a bet. A prominent local saloon was chosen (probably the same one in which the original bet was made!) and it was determined by all of the toilers of the land (read fellow drunken bar buddies) that the loser of the aforementioned gender guessing would bare it all for all who could bear it in the front window of said distinguished establishment.

Well, the months went by, and the bun was abaking. Finally, the long awaited moment arrived. This child, the first of a new generation of Mountain Men heritage was ready to make it's appearance!

Unfortunately, this glorious occassion coincided with the wedding of another young couple in love (and one not of necessity), but just as coincidentally, the bride at this wedding is the aunt of the mother to be. ( Have ya got that, y'all?) Can I get a yee-haw?

Well, with Poppa Bear in a tuxedo, and Momma Bear doing the driving, (hey, we do abide by the DUI laws of the land--it's the laws of nature that we have a little trouble with...)

Well, lo and behold, and the first off spring arrives in the form of sugar and spice, and naked Mountain Man in public is defintely not nice!

So, when Black Jack came to the hospital bearing gifts to greet the new whippersnapper, the Mountain Man was there to meet him. They rode up in the elevator together to the nursery, and there, for all to see, the mountain man proclaimed, "Black Jack, I'd like you meet my nephew, Jen."

And upon reflection of the thought of Mountain Man baring it all, well, it was more than they could bear. And so, by the powers invested in the townfolk by the state of inebriation, it was decided that the only honorable way to keep the Mountain Man's loincloth in place was to indeed declare the newborn babe a nephew!

And she was beloved by all.
From De Nephew

Well, almost all. But then again, her newest, most favorite cousin may have been following in the family footsteps at the time.

From De Nephew

Well, thanks for stopping by. Come back next week when we discuss Aunt Bessie's bunions!

Y'all come back now, ya hear?

Tuesday, March 3, 2009

Open Wider, Clarice

I recently had an appointment with our local dental hygienist for a deep root (?) cleaning. I know, constant reader, the only thing worse than a dental appointment would be to read about one, but try to hang in there today, okay?

Anyway, it appears mysuestories was not in for the average cleaning (although I do pride myself on keeping up with my dental care!) The first indication that this was no ordinary cleaning was the appearance of a very long syringe filled with lidocaine or silocaine or some kind of caine other than the kind you might have paid exorberant amount of money for enjoyment in the seventies. ( You tend to stop listening and focus only on the hand wielding a humongous needle coming towards you!)

Six (yup, six!!) excruciating shots later, the right side of my face was as slack as a dead beat dad. At the dentist instruction, I rinsed out whatever caine like substance still wallowed in my mouth. Only, my rinsing into that little porcelain urinal looking thing at the left of my chair at chin height, well, it was more like a spit and drool out of the mouth that couldn't make a proper spitting pucker. Once I was done drooling and slapping at a cheek I could not feel with a Kleenex to catch spittle I could not possibly find without sensations, my dear dentist proclaimed me ready for the hygienist.

Then the fun began. Janet, my hygienist whom I suspect has direct ties to the family lineage of Jeffrey Dahmer, proceeded to attack my oral orifice with any number of pointed and hook ended instruments. (At this point, I'm simply ecstatic that she didn't go for ob-gyn!)

After a few minutes of her chatter to my grunts and groans , she suggested I rinse my mouth. When I asked her how to do so, (since the spittoon cup was now empty) her reply was to simply lift the cup and drink and spit.

Now, I have at this stage in my life thus far, managed a career, a husband or three, and raised two children who have as of this writing not murdered anyone or similarly disgraced me. I looked at dear Janet, who looked right at home with the remnants of my long lost tartar and my blood adorning her smock, and said,
"I know how to sip and spit, Hannibal. It is the filling of the cup that is as yet elusive to me."

She laughed her maniacal laugh, and filled the cup, and then proceeded to share with me the jollies she gets upon uprooting the chaos of hidden tartar. I can only liken it to the Yosemite Sam cartoons of my youth, in which he swings his trusty pick axe exclaiming "Thar's gold in them thar hills!" I am ever so grateful I am no longer a smoker with all that entails upon one's maw to unleash upon her!

That my mouth was in a state of suspended animation akin to cryogenics aside, the glee with which Janet Dahmer voraciously attacked the cooties that lie beneath my teeth was down right alarming. She snickered, and sneered, and more than once erupted in a euphoria worthy of Boris Karloff at his best.

Thirty pain free (her) and chock full of laughter (again, her) minutes later, she proclaimed the right half of my mouth cooties free.
Oh, then she had me make an appointment for the left side, more for her enjoyment I am sure, rather than my dental care. Whoo hoo. Can't wait for that one!

Not to worry, dear reader. I made her give me all tissue and towel remnants of MY mouth ridden tartar to be disposed of. No way was I having a raid on her house twenty years from now yield hundreds of little tartar statues with MY DNA attached!