Tuesday, August 10, 2010

Gonna Get Myself Some Cheap Sun Glasses

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mysuestories: Plastic with leopard spots on a brown background.

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tuesday, July 20, 2010

Nickles and Dimes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

More **crickets**.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Monday, June 28, 2010

Nobody Puts Baby in the Tar Pit

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Monday, June 21, 2010

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

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

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

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

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

Monday, June 14, 2010

Yo, Ho, Yogurt?

A desire to eat healthy and once again be a size 8 (dare I say 6) attacks me about once a month ---okay, maybe daily, but I usually cannot hear that little voice inside my head over the crunch of ridged potato chips.

But at least once a month I embark on the "I will eat healthier and be skinny again" band wagon.

My first act? To buy yogurt while food shopping. The super market, with all it's sugary goodness, is the place where such attacks usually occur for me. I will look down at my little cart filled with Hot Pockets and Spaghetti O's and declare war in the dairy aisle. I will spend oodles of time studying the healthy fruit filled yogurt selections. I will inevitably buy several different brands and flavors....Vanilla, Chocolate Chip, Key Lime Pie.....I will get them home where they will continue to culture their little bacteria infested containers in my fridge. I will eventually feel bad about wasting good money on sh!t I know I won't eat, and I will open one, take one spoonful, gag....and then throw them all out.

This week's shopping trip was no exception. The mountain man caught me eyeing the yogurts in their compact little containers...Pre-made breakfast AND regularity! Whoo hoo...I mean really? What's not to love....Besides the taste, I mean.

So the mountain man chooses a new variety for this week's ongoing yogurt tossing., er, tasting ...He picks up a CHOBANI....It's Greek yogurt...he insists the ladies where he work absolutely love it....I can only hope they stopped before discussing their regularity (or lack thereof)...

I like Greek yogurt dressing. Hummus and Tahini have made nice dips for me in the past.. How bad could it be?

Fast forward Monday morning at work. I will eat healthy, live healthy, be healthy....Breakfast time..I break out my little CHOBANI, ignoring the pleas of my Ham and Cheese Hot Pockets in the Freezer (Hey, they ARE LEAN Pockets...don't judge...).

I peel back the container and dig in to 130 calories of......it's not quite Greek yogurt dressing.....closer to sour cream, but not. More like a sourer sour cream...(is that a double negative?) I persevere. 2 spoonfuls.....4 spoonfuls... I am drinking large glasses of water with every spoonful.....I get three quarters through.....I. Just. Can't. Do. It.

I throw it out. Sigh.

Next week? I will try again...I am nothing if not determined.....only this time? I will add onion dip mix and some chips into the mix......Health be damned...This? Is personal......

Needless to say? This is not a paid advertisement. I have not been compensated in any way, shape, or form for this post. I mean, really, would you pay me to say this about your product? I didn't think so.

Saturday, June 12, 2010

Smooth Sailing? Not MY Couch Potatoes!

So today's headlines are just filled with reports of Abby Sunderland's dramatic rescue from the Indian Ocean after her failed attempt to be the youngest person, at 16, to sail around the world. Solo. All by herself. Did I mention she is just 16?

Much of the debate circulating lays blame at the door of her parents for allowing their child to embark on such an adventure to begin with. Well, you won't find me passing such judgement. Hell no. I'm still trying to figure out how to get my kids to actually hit the hamper with their dirty socks, instead of just landing a circle of missed rim shots around the basket. Which must cause blindness, by the way, because once those filthy little socks leave their hands? They become invisible to the creatures I call my offspring.

A solo trip around the world? I suppose the sloth would first have to conquer arranging his own transportation to a job less than three blocks from our humble little abode. And exactly how did Abby eat without her mother within shouting range to "get me a snack, puh-lease,,,,Mom"? And unless there are enough hot pockets aboard to sink the Titanic, I know of three little mysustories manor inhabitants who are never going to make it through the first meal.

Now, our gamester might be first to sign up for an adventure that starts with three weeks of school left! Wait till he finds out that God does not provide WIFI in the middle of the ocean. Nope. He'll be wandering off only as far as his XBOX signal allows.

And while I'm willing to bet Abby's parents didn't stock her up with anything stronger than Coke Zero, I know of one particular inhabitant of our lovely little abode that isn't setting sail any where without Captain Morgan at the helm.

So, I say kudos to Abby Sunderland for at least dreaming that the world (and all of it's vast oceans) are her playground. Hey, at least she's not curled up in the fetal position staring at a computer screen (present company excluded) and is actually out there Just Doing It, like Nike says. (Apparently? Nike was not just talking to Tiger with that one).

And Mr and Mrs Sunderland? Please tell me she at least came home with a filthy boat with dirty socks strewn from one end to the other. Thank you.

Monday, May 24, 2010

Life on the Farm

Things I Learned Gardening This Weekend:

Love is...watching the mountain man plant 110 vegetable plants for our garden, knowing that his not-so-young knees will be screaming at him later.

If you buy 110 vegetable plants for your garden, someone has to dig 110 holes for those plants.

If you buy 46 tomato plants in 6 different stages of growth, you will be making sauce until Thanksgiving.

If the mountain man must use two stakes and string to perfectly align his crops, he really shouldn't assume I will plant those crops in that same straight line.

Matter of fact, just about the only straight line I can be assured of making will be the bee line to the fridge come lunch time.

That the 200 corn seeds we planted will yield exactly 4 stunted ears of corn (we are a family of five -ya better grab your veggies quick that nite!), but the corn stalks will save us $40.00 in fall house decorations!!!!

That our pumpkins have never grown in the four years we have been co-planting together, But I still insist that we plant them, 'cause this will be the year!

We planted four different kinds of peppers, and yet no one in our house eats them. (Except the sloth- and then only the jalapenos and habaneros).

Did you know that a very effective way to keep chickens out of your garden (other than staking out your garden with dachshunds)
is to use a fence made out of, well, chicken wire? Go figure!

Turns out there is a cure for the ache in the mountain man's knees. Unfortunately? It involves making my knees ache. Sigh.

Wednesday, May 19, 2010

Movin' Out. Wait. You're Going In the Wrong Direction!

Many years ago, when the three-toed sloth was just a pre-teen sloth, he looked up into my all knowing eyes and asked me (back when I was still the smartest, most intelligent being in his world---amazing how stupid mothers become as kids age, huh?)...Anyway, my pre-pubescent sloth asked me:

"mysuestories-mama? Was the day I was born the happiest day of your life?"

Ahhh, a question to melt any mom across the universe. Of course, I may not be one of those moms.

My answer? "No, my little sloth. The day of your joyous brith was the second happiest day of my life."

"What was the first happiest day of your life, mysuestories-mama?"

"Why, the day you move out." I answered.

And it was. Many, many, many years later, as the sloth sprouted wings in some weird mystical mythological fantasy, and tested his wings and soared right out of our home. No mother was ever more proud. Or happy.

Then there was the yet another day of happiness. I got to clean his old bedroom. Proper, with bleach and rug cleaners, and sweet smelling sprays, in all the ways I had always wanted to, but had been inhibited by mountains of teen-boy paraphernaila and all it's accompanying odors.

And then? Then he came back home. Happiness? Yeh. But that room I cleaned and scoured for weeks? Pig sty in ten minutes. Sigh. Welcome home, indeed, dear sloth.

Saturday, May 15, 2010

Stop! Thief!

I received a letter in the mail from a national shipping company thanking me for having recently opened an account with them. That was nice of them. Unfortunately? I have nothing to ship nor receive, and I never opened any account.

I called the company and they verified that I did, in fact, open an account earlier this week with my very own credit card. Hmmm.... I will admit to late night impulsive shoe shopping, and Victoria does know all my dirty little secrets. I will even fess up to the occasional drunk dialing (Hi, Jeannie! I wuv youuuuu somush!), but signing up for a shipping service? Nah...not unless there were shoes in it for me (and? there weren't).

Turns out? Someone borrowed my card number and opened this account. Swine. And after a few more calls I learned he charged $15.00 in iTunes. The bastard.

Cancelled cards. Cancelled transactions. Hours on the phone with credit reporting agencies. Notifying everyone. Major time suck.

But I got him back in the end, the little f@cker! Apparently his attempt to buy $900 worth of electronics? DENIED!!!! Next time the little sh*t should pick on someone with a better credit line!!! Hah!

Oh, and Mr. M@therf#cker who stole my identity (however, short lived as it was)? Next time don't leave your own e mail address and cell phone number with that shipping company. Turns out the police fraud department was able to track you down real easy!

If stupidity was a crime? This guy would be doing life.

Oh, and one of the iTunes he downloaded? The Beatles, I'm A Loser.

Yes. Indeed you are!

Wednesday, May 12, 2010

What's in a Name...Or.. There But For a Slip of the Click Goes Another Reader...

Okay, okay...so I've been negligent on this here blog.....but can anyone, for the love of Christ (are you supposed to capitalize His name if you're taking it in vain?), can any body out there please tell me why, when I type in a Yahoo or Google search for my very own blog, mysuestories, the first three found searches are for My Gay Stories?

I suppose I should probably turn down the heat on the sordid misadventures of the mountain man.......


Thursday, April 8, 2010

Addicted to Addiction?

I have a new addiction. It's this reality show I keep catching on t.v. It' s called Intervention, and ironically? It features people with addictions!!!!! (Only theirs are to drugs and alcohol...And we sooooo know I do not have a problem with alcohol......OK, maybe just a bit of a stalker like relationship with my favorite potato product...but it's not the same thing--I can quit any time I want to...I just don't want to).

Anyway, the premise of this show (which incidentally, airs I don't know exactly when or on which channel- hey, this isn't your local TV Guide, ya know)...the premise is that the production crew films the addicted person's struggle with addiction. They actually accompany and film the person buying drugs. Is it just me, but wouldn't you think your local drug dealer might be just a teensy bit unnerved by an addict showing up to score with a f@#king camera crew? And, then, they veryupcloseandpersonal show the addict smoking/snorting/drinking/injecting the actual drugs right up to the point where the person is usually so messed up they go into an incoherent babble and then nod off/pass out. I'm guessing the episode in which someone eventually overdoses and dies right there on t.v. is being saved for sweeps week.

And the reason why on earth this totally shitfaced person allows themselves and their often desperate (not to mention illegal) acts to be filmed? The addict is told he is being filmed as part of a documentary on (wait for it ... )Addiction.......???????!!!!!!!! After half an hour of watching said person degrade himself (peppered in with horror stories provided by key family members who have the pleasure of living with our star of the week), an interventionist corners the addict, along with all their family members, and a tearful plea is issued along with the chance of the addict going off to some very expensive-paid for by the show- rehab versus complete tough love-the addict being cut off by all family members, emotionally and financially.

While I find the concept of helping those in need of help admirable, it all seems a little too Maury Povitch for me ("you're a special little girl with Turrets, aren't you? And I bet it hurts you when people laugh and make fun of you publicly, kind of like how I am exploiting you right now.")

And how is it that although every single show follows the exact same course, these addicts never have any f@#king clue that this ain't no documentary, yo. Do they not watch t.v. in their stoned states? I went to college and there may have been some students (why, no, dear reader, of course not myself!)involoved with certain questionable smoked substances in those early years. Trust me, dude. We, I mean they, they watched a lot of t.v. ( And bonbons. They ate tons of bonbons. But this isn't about me, er, them...this time).

I threw the whole "how could the addict not realize this is that Stop the Addict from Partying Show, and not the "Your addicted life is so fascinating we want to film you, open sores and all" question to the mountain man. (He just loves when I start stimulating, educated conversations!)
After his perfunctionary eye roll that conveys something to the effect of "you went to college, and this is what we talk about?", the mountain man, in his infinite wisdom, explained exactly how this happens, week after week, addict after addict.

"mysustories, he began, " don't you realize that in a world of addiction, the t.v. is probably the first thing you sell to buy more crack?"

Hmmm..... okay. so he had me there.

And one day, should you find mysuestories on that god forsaken show, as my family tries to get between me and my unnatural addiction to bad reality t.v. shows, all while filming one, I will stand up and shout for all reality t.v. show addicts everywhere and say, "HELL NO, I WON'T GO!!!!"

And trust me, I'lll see their little interventionist coming. 'Cause there ain't no way in hell I'm selling my t.v. Not as long as there are train wrecks like Intervention still being aired!

Tuesday, April 6, 2010

The Lament of the Second Born Child

Our three toed sloth turned nineteen this past week, and, yes, dear reader, even at that age a big to - do must be made. Part of our festivities included lunch out on the big day. Over dessert, the sloth inquired,
"mysuestories, what time of day was I born?"
To which I replied without even glancing up, "4:51 p.m.", 'cause I'm quick like that. And when you experience pain like child birth? You tend to remember preciselely!

The converstaion continued with our 13 yr old gamester chiming in with,
" And what time was I born?"

Again, without missing a beat, I said, "Somewhere between six and seven a.m." Apparrently? The hospital was offering better drugs that time around....

So goes the lament of the second born. Hell, if I'd had twins, I probably would have carried around just one photo and said, "I have two of these".


My curiousity now peaked, I hunted for and checked their birth certificates when we got home. (Most parents don't keep track of paperwork like birth certificates, do they? Hey, they were in the third place I looked. Not so bad.) Turns out the gamester? He wasn't even born between six and seven. A.M. or P.M. He was born at 9:50 a.m.

Feeling guilty (to myself...I wasn't about to let the gamester know I was off by THREE hours!!!), I glanced at the sloth's birth certificate. He wasn't born at 4:51 p.m., either. More like 5:09 p.m.

Well, at least I'm an equal opportunity FAIL mother.

Sunday, April 4, 2010

Foreign Policy 101: No Habla Engles!

So I am at work, and I and a few fellow colleagues are discussing current events ('cause yeah, we're rocket scientists, and all the world could benefit from our idle chatter). A discussion ensues regarding border patrol and the increasing violence by illegal immigrants and those that ferry them across the desert (Can one actually ferry across a desert? Hmmmm...) . Anyway, it seems that in a recent news clip, ranchers in a border town somewhere north of Mexico (Err, you may want to turn to CNN if you were expecting accurate details...I may have said we were rocket scientists, but that doesn't make us news hawks!)....these ranchers received threats saying that if they did not vacate their homes (which I ASSume were on the path to America), the ranchers' homes would be burned and their families brutalized.

Thus began conversation number two, wherein my very educated think tank and myself proclaim, "Death to all who enter here," not unlike Al Pacino in just about every movie he made in the eighties. Normally quiet mild mannered secretaries, err, rocket scientists, by day, we quickly digressed into the heathens we apparently really are.

And so, it had been decided that heavily armed "Shoot first, ask questions later" border patrols should be entrenched from sea to shining sea. (Why, yes, we COULD double as the welcoming committee to Ellis Island!)....

And then, as I usually do AFTER I have spoken my mind, I started to think.....The mountain man and I and our lovely unbiased (really, they are!!) children have traveled quite a bit. We have even visited Mexico not that long ago. Mountain Man and I even took unguided horseback rides on the glorious beaches there.

What if.....What if (and I'm not sure we didn't) What if mountain man and I were romantically galloping upon our steeds, and we had veered off course a wee bit. It COULD happen. Hell, it happens damn near every time I attempt to drive anywhere new. Here we would be, eyes filled with nothing but undying (keyword: UNdying) love for one another, and then I'd see men on horseback in the distance.

"Mountain man....Look..I see men on horseback in the distance." I am nothing if not a stickler for following a script.
"Mmmmmhmmmmm." He would respond.
"Why, mountain man, whatever are they carrying?"
"Those, mysuestories, would be rifles. Are you sure you know where we are going?
"Of course, I do. Maybe they are just out hunting. You know...for beach caribou, or something..."
"They are hunting, mysuestories.....They are heading right for us!!!!! And they are shooting RIGHT AT US".

We would then have to very expertly outrun these professional hired gunslingers and hide out in some run down shack somewhere in Texas, where at nightfall, my beloved mountain man and I would have to sneak over the border INTO Mexico........

Yeah. Maybe I should just stay away from making foreign policy and take a nice course in direction telling by the north star instead.


Alternate ending:

Mysuestories is accidentally injured while trying to outrun the American bandoleros with the mountain man....In a strange twist of fate, the mountain man is forced to smuggle mysuestories into Canada to take advantage of their affordable health care....WE have now become the illegal immigrants...and I can only say, "Thank God Canada does not shoot first and ask questions later!"

Friday, March 19, 2010

I'd Give My First Born's Eye Teeth for a Laugh Here

He is approaching his nineteenth year, our three-toed sloth. And with age, come certain rites of passage. (And many a sleepless night for mysuestories-but this is not about me ....Did I just write that, oh constant reader? Shit.....I am losing it).

Anyway, our sloth is indeed approaching adulthood (or prison...not all the cards are in just yet)....And this impending maturity reared its ugly head yet again yesterday. Yesterday? The sloth had a dental appointment. When told that either the mountain man or I would be home to take him, he replied that he would, in fact, drive himself without either of us in attendance. I asked if he was sure he wanted to go alone. I have "child letting go" issues (There. I said it, mountain man. Now. Shut. Up.) The sloth assured me I was no longer needed for such mundane tasks (Sob.)

I explained to the sloth that all he needed to do was show up on time. All insurance related information was on file, no co-payment required.

This dentist, I should explain, is the same dentist we have used as a family since the sloth's fangs first appeared some 18 years prior. Twice annually, this same dentist has x-rayed, examined, and cleaned the sloth's pearly whites. This dentist has a larger film collection of my children at this point in time than I do. Suffice it to say, sloth had to reason to be uncomfortable handling this appointment.

Three minutes before said appointment was to commence, I get a phone call. It was the sloth.
"Mysuestories, ' (why yes, I do make my children call me by my virtual moniker....Doesn't everybody?), "mysuestories, do I need ID to show them at the dental office so that they will know it is me?"

Really, my little three-toed sloth? Do you think there are almost -adult children out there stealing other people's dental appointments these days?
Has the health care industry sunk that low?

But being the ever loving, albeit some times over bearing mom that I am, I simply replied, "Sloth, they possess in that office enough dental records of your teeth to identify your burned beyond recognition corpse if they had to. Surely they will be able to know who you are while you're still whole and breathing."

To which he replied, "Okay, then. Thanks."

I swear, that kid couldn't identify sarcasm in a dictionary!

Thursday, March 18, 2010

Erin go Braugh(less)

Top of the Morning to all me Irish breathren this week! I've just one complaint. Our beloved (yet distinguished) Irish named town cancelled our Annual St Patrick's Day Parade this past weekend due to rain. Yep, it sure would have been a shame to have all OF us fightin' Irish packing the pubs that line Main Street to get out of the rain.

Sheesh. We're Irish, for the love of Christ. We don't need an excuse not to party. That's what jobs are for!

Friday, March 12, 2010

Picture Perfect

I'm an educated woman. Sort of. Two college degrees and a quite useless NYS Regents diploma (remember those?) tell me so. So, can anyone, for the love of Christ, please tell me why I am apparently too stupid to order on line photos from Wal*mart?

Last month, the mountain man and I went on a little vacation. And I remembered to bring my digital camera. And battery charger. And spare memory cards. And I actually took pictures. Lots of them. This in of itself is no great wonder. I have followed that same procedure for every vacation for the last six years or so. I then download all these wonderful pictures (usually chopping off at least one person's head) of a wonderful family (usually not mine) having a wonderful time (while I am usually yelling at my family to stop having fun so I can take pictures of them having fun, damnit!!!) on to my laptop.

And then I dream about the day when I will sort through all these precious memories and actually select a few photos to print and frame. Because, honestly? How often do people walk in your home, look at your dormant computer, and say, "Hey, what a fabulous action shot!" ? (And if your friends have actually walked into your home and said that in the past, you should probably get a lock for the bedroom door. Just sayin'.)

Anyway, this vacation was going to be different. Yes, I would still remember the digital camera. And battery charger. And spare memory cards. And actually take pictures. However, this year? This would be the year of the printed out vacation photos. I even spent 300,000 colonies to buy a photo album while we were still on vacation. (And, no, dear reader, I have no idea how many US dollars equals 300,000 colonies...I don't even know if South American currency requires a $$$$$ sign or not...)---but damnit, I was not about to waste either one dollar (or $2,000.00 --what the f*@k is a colonie worth, anyway?!) and not use that photo album!

So I take the camera. And the battery charger. And spare memory cards. And actually took pictures. And I downloaded them right into my lap top amongst thousands of other long lost vacation photos happily labeled Family vacation Summer 1998, Family Vacation Spring 1998, Family Vacation Summer 1999, Family Vacation Spring 1999 (you get the picture -ha ha- constant reader, don'tcha?)

Finally, weeks after our return (and probably the most definite immediate fall of the colonie following our cashing back to American dollars), I sat down to review the vacation photos. It turns out we have two old photo printers. One is currently missing a charger with the strangest looking receptacle I've ever seen---This printer was circa 1976. Printer number two was a Kodak Easy Share printer in which the camera actually sits atop the print receptacle and downloads the photos right off the camera. Unfortunately, the camera that fits that printer died an untimely death in 1994, thereby rendering the term "Easy Share" as useless as a one-legged pole dancer .
Not to be deterred, I went where the desperate (and very hilariously dressed) go in times of need...Wal*mart. (not in real life...only on line...I am terrified of visiting on one of those http://www.peopleofwalmart.com/ sites for a good laugh, only to find that that man wearing the high heeled boots and clashing vinyl shorts is my beloved mountain man...some people just can't put a good outfit together)

I uploaded the photos from my lap top to the Wal*mart site (I kinda felt obligated to do some kind of business with Wal*mart, ya know, since I spend so much time laughing at their various People of Wal*mart websites!). So now Wal*mart (and it's over abundance of highly skilled workers) have my precious vacation photos in my own Wal*mart web shop. And I choose 20 out of 150 or so pictures to print (This only took me ninety minutes to accomplish--obviously photography was not in my educational pedigree!). And Wal*mart, fully knowing of my fear to appear in their store in person, offers me the option to have the photos delivered to my home. I can only assume that those door greeters? Must need something to do on their lunch hour, and a quick trip to mysuestories manor with my vacation photos would certainly break up their day.
I know it would certainly break up mine!

So, I enter all my information: name, address, phone number. I pick a credit card (OK, easily done...which one of the little buggers in my wallet still has a few bucks available?). I enter the number and expiration date on the card, as well as the secretly contained 4 digit code on the back (this number, I assume, is so that if anyone steals my close to bursting into flames from over use credit card, the thief will not know enough to look on the back, revealing the secret code, and thus, unable to complete the theft of my identity. Trust me, I pity the fool who accomplishes that little feat. If there were any credit left available in this name, I'd have found it by now.)

I push the final complete transaction button, and.........I am back at the top of the page, where all my previously entered information has now disappeared. I re enter my name, address, phone number, credit card number, and the magical 4 digit code again. I hit enter again. I am brought to the top of the now blank page. Again. Because I am the eternal optimist/idiot, I fill in this information five more times. If this info is in fact going any where, I will have paid more than $600.00 for these frickin' pictures. Good times.

Two hours later, I am looking at the top of the page in which all of my information has once again mysteriously disappeared. And then it dawns on me. Wal*mart is on to me. They want to get me in the store to physically retrieve my photos. I have been beaten.

So, I ask the mountain man to carefully assess the way I am dressed. You know, in case some of those idiots with cameras are looking to update their photo site. He assures me I look non-Wal*mart photogenic.

I am not in the d@mned store five minutes when I hear a dreaded "click". I grab my photos, throw cash at the cashier (you know, the one with the scrunchy key chain who berates all the other cashiers 'cause she has senior-i-tay after 3 weeks on the job?)...and I make a mad dash for home.

Home and safe at last from the prying eyes of Wal*mart shoppers everywhere, I jump on the computer and rush to http://www.peopleofwalmart.com/ . And, dear reader, there, in all my glory, did I appear:
From walmart

I swear, some times I don't know if I am coming or going!!!!!!!!!

Next time? I'm sending the mountain man. In mis-matched heels and an outdated purse!

Friday, February 26, 2010

I Love You More Than Mah Luggage- Not

I've been missing from this little space in cyberville for a while. The mountain man was kind enough to take me on a vacation points south of here for a spell. (Actually?
It's part of our pre-nup. It clearly states in section one, Article 3 "I, mountain man, do solemnly swear to take mysuestories on at least one really hot, humid, sweaty vacation per year, preferably during a very cold, snowy period of February, lest I risk the wrath of a woman who has previously buried two former husbands (OK, OK, so I didn't actually bury my exes- does wishful thinking count for anything?)

And since we're being totally honest here ( as honest as I have to be, seeing as how all two of my many readers don't actually know me outside of the Internets)..that above clause? Is our entire pre-nup. Apparently the division of our vast wealth (or lack thereof) is not so much an issue. I mean, our worst fear, should, *gasp* end this union before death do us part -are you paying attention, mountain man?- will be which one of us gets the over extended Master Card versus the less coveted interest compounded daily maxxed out Visa. Ahh, always choices in America. What a great country, no?

Anyway, in living up to our annual marital obligations (no, constant reader, not the one which involves kinky sex and lots of alcohol), mountain man booked us a trip to Costa Rica.

We had a (very f*cking) early flight out of JFK with a forty five minute layover in Miami, because apparently no where in our pre-nup does it say "All flights must be direct and in first class". (Pay attention, brides-to-be. Learn from my misfortune!)

Well, our departure from JFK was delayed precisely forty minutes, which in travel-language translates to "You, dear traveler, are about to be screwed". We landed in Miami, and we (along with eight other thrilled fellow travelers) proceeded to run (yes, faithful reader, run) through the airport through seventeen gates to catch our connecting flight to San Jose with seconds to spare. Did I mention I was wearing five inch heels and a silk pant suit, 'cause I like to pretend I'm a seasoned world traveler who just happens to be sitting in coach, because "that damned assistant of mine simply must have made a mistake with the reservations"? Yeah, I was the epitome of classy, with my pumps in my hands, my sweaty hair matted to the side of my face, and me wheezing like a lung cancer patient in the throes of death.

But we made our flight ( when did they start seating first class in the back of the aircraft?), and after many a few cocktails, we were back to vacation mode. It occurred to us (OK, so it was the mountain man who had this thought...I can't do everything, you know), anyway, it occurred to us that if we barely made it on this plane, chances were that our luggage didn't. Although our luggage does have wheels, and it doesn't have a wheeze courtesy of twenty years of loyal patronage to the makers of Marlboro Lights. At least I don't think it does. (Ironically? My rolling duffel? Courtesy of Marlboro miles, circa 1994.)

We debarked (like a bad dog whose vocal cords have been snipped? Weird word, no?) in San Jose, and our spirits were lifted when lo and behold, there on the baggage carousel, appeared my beloved flip flop carrying luggage!!!!!!! Yea, for me! Yea for flip flops!

Ah, but bliss is short lived for the Traveling Woeburys that is mysuestories and the mountain man. It quickly became clear that while mysuestories luggage was fit enough to make our connecting flight, mountain man's luggage must be a closet smoker, for it was nowhere to be seen on the luggage carousel. There is truly nothing sadder than a revolving luggage carousel carrying nothing but a stray floral print satchel. And as tempted as we were, it was highly doubtful that the owner of such a delicate piece had packed men's XXL swim trunks.

We headed to the lost luggage department (now there's a happy career choice, huh?)where we were assured that mountain man's luggage would hop on the next flight to San Jose and be taxied right over to our resort four and a half hours away by car.

"Cheer up, mountain man, " I cajoled. "All is not lost. It's just a little luggage mishap. Happens all the time. I'm sure your luggage will be along quickly." Hey, I am nothing, if not supportive, and, geez, at least I had my stuff.

We made our way through the San Jose airport and walked around the block to a small private airport, (?) where we would board another plane to sprint us to our final destination. Now, I love flying. I like the too tight seats, the little fold up tables, the cocktails, the cheesy movies, the expensive peanuts and chips. Oh, and did I mention the cocktails? So, when the mountain man told me there would be a thirty minute flight from San Jose to our resort, I was thrilled. When he told me (at the landing strip, no less), that the craft that would be flying us at thirty thousand feet held only eleven passengers, I was less than thrilled. I don't like roller coasters, or high elevators, or catapulting in thin air in anything less than a 747. But hey, I'm no party pooper. We grabbed our my luggage and headed through South American security (which? In its' entirety entails a man asking me in broken English if I was carrying anything illegal in my bag, and tempted as I was to say, "why, yes, I have an entire family of Americans trying to flee the country your compatriots have taken over", I showed full restraint and said simply, "No. All our contraband was in the baggage that the airline lost."
'Cause when I have my luggage? I'm cocky like that.

So, this high tech airline in a dirt field weighed each passenger, and our carry on bags, and our luggage. We were then directed to a awaiting area (twelve chairs in the searing sun), while they readied the plane for take off.

As there was only one empty seat amongst our melanoma section seating, I intelligently ascertained that the plane/wind up tin can would be full. I even snickered not so quietly, when airline personnel approached a family of six that was amongst our fellow travelers, and informed them that due to the combined weight of passengers and cargo, this family would have to leave one of their bags behind until the morning flight. I snickered when the alpha male of the group stomped his feet and refused. I even chuckled when two security men approached alpha male and said he most certainly would be choosing a bag to leave behind, or they would leave it all behind.

Mountain man, still feeling the loss of his own precious cargo, did not share my humor.

I joked about the matching pouts mountain man and alpha man were wearing as airline workers unloaded the man's baggage (yes, he did choose one. I'm pretty sure it was his wife's, and I don't think she was aware of this.)

I continued laughing over the laments of luggage-less people. (Yeh, well, riding coach can do that to a person, you know).

I was still laughing fifteen minutes later when airline personnel approached the mountain man and explained that we, too, had to sacrifice a bag.

Mountain man was more than happy to point out my Marlboro bag. They unloaded it out of the cargo hold and placed it next to alpha man's luggage.

I stopped chuckling.

Mountain man started laughing.

The cad. Has he no compassion at all?

Monday, February 8, 2010

Who Dat?

It was a Super Bowl of ginormous proportions, and surprise after surprise came to mysuestories manor via CBS this year!

Yes, it was a great game. And yes, we did win a few "points" on the highly technical, scientifically deduced ---random numbers drawn from a hat!

That said, I am left to ponder the days' biggest shockers...

Was it the fact that the Saints actually made it to the playoffs, allowing their "devoted" fans to finally rid themselves of their paper-bag-over-the-head days? (What? You haven't ever woken up to a head ache and a "What was I thinking?" groan the day after Monday night football?)

Perhaps the biggest moment was Shockey's key touchdown pass in the last 6 minutes, at first overruled, but then vindicated by the old "Let's go the videotape"? (Hey, this is one instance where rolling tape is a good thin---One of the very few.

Was it Roger Daltrey and Pete Townsend pretending to be in their thirties again (like back in the 1970's, when I paid a bloody fortune to see their FAREWELL tour?)

Maybe the big moment was the ticking of the clock in the fourth quarter that at long last declared the Saints winners?

Nope. Not for me. Here, at mysuestories manor, our biggest surprise?

Who the f*#k knew Abe Vigoda was still alive??????!!! Some body does not sleep with the fishes. At least not yet.


Friday, February 5, 2010

Been There, Done That

I read. A lot. There was a time I would hit the local Walden Books (remember life before Borders? No coffee, no sitting area, just books.... No? Then you must be under thirty!) Anyway, I'd peruse the book stores a few hours a month, leaving with stacks of books. Some where along the course of this story I call my life, new release hardcovers soared to $35.00 apiece (???!!!), and while I love you, Stephen King, even I cannot justify $35.00 for a 48 hour affair (especially since I'm curled up with an eight pound book at three in the morning; a very unforgiving lover should you have the misfortune to fall asleep on top of it). So, I gave up buying the latest Best Sellers so that I could buy groceries for my kids. (Okay, okay--so the mountain man technically does the food shopping. And the cooking. I am taking creative license here...I sacrificed my personal library collection so my kids could have Hot Pockets in the freezer- I am that kind of parent, yo.)
So, it comes to pass that I now visit my local library at least two or three times a month (hey, I'm willing to feed the little f*@kers pre processed microwaveable dinners, but that doesn't mean I have to actually spend time with them, does it?) - So, I have been known to get lost in the pages of said library for hours at a time. (Little known mysuestories fact: I would love to own a book store, and I'd make the mystery section unmarked and really hard to find. And if a customer asked, "Where's the mystery section?" I'd totally answer..."That is a great question. Happy hunting!")
Anyway, while I'd love to spend hours in the local library aimlessly wandering amongst the pages of trees long dead, in reality? Not so much fun. Most library trips are tucked in amongst other errands on any given day, so, many times I barge through the doors and scoop up books at random (think 60 second supermarket shopping spree where you rush through the aisles filling your cart with anything and everything, except with pages fluttering behind you instead of dented cans of Green Giant french style green beans).
This method is an effective time saver, and it does have its' perks. I often find myself enjoying something I might not have otherwise chosen. On the other hand, many times I have found myself five pages (okay, okay...maybe twenty pages....alright, some times fifty pages....but never more than a hundred pages) --a few pages into a book, when I realize that I have already read that particular book. Not a big deal. After all, I read. A lot, remember? Nothing wrong with forgetting the occasional book title. Or so I thought.
Last week, I was plowing through the five or six books I currently had on my library table. (Yes, I know, constant reader..I am a nerd..I do actually have a library table. With two piles of books on it. The Read and the To Be Read piles. Hey, don't judge, okay?) I read a book and then continue on to the next in the stack. And all is happy in mysuestories manor. Until last week.

Last week, I reached for the next book in my To Be Read pile. It had been third in my To Be Read pile, but I had already polished off the first two, which were now sitting in The Read pile, and so this book was now number one in the coveted To Be Read pile ( We can discuss my OCD tendencies at another time, okay?). I started to read this coveted spot book (Jodi Picoult's Change of Heart -if you must know!)....and I quickly realized (within thirty pages, okay?) that I had read this book before.....So, I took this recently coveted To Be Read book and placed it in The Read pile. And that's when I saw it....

From Double Day Books

I had read that very same book only one book ago!!!!!!!! Jodi Picoult's Change of Heart was , in fact, numbers one and three in that rotation!!!!! Worse? I had taken both books out with the same title, by the same author, on the same day!!!!! Hello? Have I completely lost my marbles? And what, for the love of Christ, was the fricking Librarian thinking when I checked out two books with the same author and title? Me, and my secondary personality (A la Sybil?) read at different speeds and don't share well with others?

In my defense? There were different book jackets on each book. And they were different colors.

From Double Day Books

Okay...That is weak. The mountain man? He was pleased with this latest evidential proof of my ultimate mental demise. He's decided that when the time comes that I can no longer get to the library of my own accord, that he will simply pick up a book lying nearby, walk out the back door and say "mysuestories? I am off to the library to procure a new book for you, because that is how much I adore your being". He will then walk around to the front door with that very same book and declare, "my love, I have returned with a new novel for you!"

B@stard!!!! I only hope I can remember to be pissed at him when he does do that. In the mean time? Bring me back a big fat Stephen King novel, sweetie....As long as I am destined to forget the present? May as well have that imaginary literary affair!!!!!!(Oh, Stephen, your books are sooooooo big........)

Monday, January 4, 2010

Uncorked and Ready to Fizzle?

New Year's has come and gone, but not without much brouhaha. This may surprise you, dear reader(s), but I, mysuestories, have been known to revel with the best of them.

Fear not, oh constant browser of the Internet. Mysuestories had quite the celebration planned to ring in the New Year with style . The proof:

From New Years 2010

That particular bottle of champagne? Was an engagement gift. From three years ago. It's not that we don't like champagne. We do. Especially expensive champagne. (So please, feel free to send some along if you so desire ).

Every New Year's Eve, we promise ourselves we will finally crack that bad boy open. 2009 was the year we would fulfill that dream.

Yeah. the dream.

This? This was my reality:

From New Years 2010

Maybe he dreamed we were sipping on that champagne (that may explain the slight strand of drool dangling from his lip).

The worst part of this scenario? Check out the time this party ended.

From New Years 2010

9:13. P.M.

The gamester stayed up till midnight, at which point he saluted his Call of Duty buddies with tidings of good cheer for the coming new year. Then they went back to killing one another.

As for mysuestories and that bottle of champagne? Well, there's always next year. Sigh.