MYSUESTORIES

MYSUESTORIES: Show Me The Funny!

2011-10-15T21:47:00.000-04:00

Show Me The Funny!

2011-10-15T20:50:00.007-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2011-02-26T21:18:00.008-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She LIKES me! She Really Likes me!

Gonna Get Myself Some Cheap Sun Glasses

2010-08-10T19:18:00.010-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mysuestories: Plastic with leopard spots on a brown background.

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

Click.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nickles and Dimes

2010-07-20T19:57:00.007-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

**Crickets**

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

More **crickets**.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nobody Puts Baby in the Tar Pit

2010-06-28T18:38:00.007-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2010-06-21T18:41:00.003-04:00

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!)

Yo, Ho, Yogurt?

2010-06-14T19:08:00.004-04:00

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.

Smooth Sailing? Not MY Couch Potatoes!

2010-06-12T18:21:00.003-04:00

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.

Life on the Farm

2010-05-24T19:59:00.003-04:00

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.

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

2010-05-19T19:09:00.004-04:00

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.

Stop! Thief!

2010-05-15T20:39:00.005-04:00

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!

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

2010-05-12T19:07:00.005-04:00

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.......

Nah......

Addicted to Addiction?

2010-04-08T19:32:00.008-04:00

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!

The Lament of the Second Born Child

2010-04-06T19:36:00.005-04:00

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.

Foreign Policy 101: No Habla Engles!

2010-04-04T11:21:00.002-04:00

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!"

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

2010-03-19T08:00:00.004-04:00

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!

Erin go Braugh(less)

2010-03-18T21:00:00.003-04:00

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!

Picture Perfect

2010-03-12T17:36:00.009-05:00

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!

I Love You More Than Mah Luggage- Not

2010-02-26T07:37:00.017-05:00

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?

Who Dat?

2010-02-08T18:47:00.007-05:00

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.

GOOOOO FISH!!!!!

Been There, Done That

2010-02-05T20:34:00.013-05:00

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........)

Uncorked and Ready to Fizzle?

2010-01-04T18:57:00.004-05:00

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.

WTF???? I HAVE A BLOG?

2009-12-30T12:14:00.003-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because when I asked "What would you like?"

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

Amateurs!!!!

Stuff This In Your Stocking

2009-12-10T18:06:00.006-05:00

Ah, that Christmas spirit!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

***

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

***

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

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

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

2009-12-01T18:48:00.006-05:00

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

insert Law & Order theme music here-

Today, December 1st, is http://www.worldaidsday.org/ .

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

Anyway, back to World Aids Day....I find it a little sad that I had to learn of this day through blog reading at http://utterlyunpublishedauthor.blogspot.com/2009/12/expatriate-life-other-side-of-coin.html--- (Constant reader? She's real good...not mysuestories good, don't let her 1,500 plus readers sway you.....Just make sure you come back here when you're done clicking on her link...OK? Promise? I'll wait. Go ahead. Don't be afraid. Of course I am afraid. Afraid you'll flat leave me for her. Like the third friend at a fifth grade sleepover. But I am willing to take that chance. After all, hers is a good message.......But you will be back, won't you?- God, I hated the fifth grade)

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

Anyway, I felt I had to get that out there. Although I am still not sure if it is a good thing that Aids has moved off the front pages of mainstream media or not. I'd like to think we have just about stamped this disease out, but after reading http://utterlyunpublishedauthor.blogspot.com/2009/12/expatriate-life-other-side-of-coin.html I am afraid that is just my own wishful thinking out loud.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anyway....you just had to love Uncle Hank's optimism, if not his medical ignorance!

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

NaNoWriMo is susiese for Ho

2009-11-24T07:00:00.007-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pennies From Heaven, My Ass-

2009-11-18T12:30:00.017-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Write a Book in A Month Update

2009-11-04T19:14:00.002-05:00

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

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

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

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

Shit. It's gonna be a long month.

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

Sexless Tuesday

2009-11-03T13:01:00.007-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

Christmas in July

2009-10-27T19:21:00.004-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And his little angelic cherub face nodded up and down.

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

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

The Occidental Jurist

2009-10-21T06:53:00.005-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2009-10-16T20:29:00.005-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

2009-10-14T07:23:00.006-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2009-10-09T07:22:00.005-04:00

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

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

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

Still not enough.

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

These are his answers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

STOP!!! THIEF!!!!!

2009-10-08T12:36:00.007-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2. Poor. See #1. Cheap.

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

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

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

Sigh. Hope is such a big word...

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

Almost Cut My Hair...

2009-10-02T07:32:00.010-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2009-09-30T19:44:00.005-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ya Caught Me

2009-09-26T10:33:00.006-04:00

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

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

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

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

Fast forward to present day times:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I Just Called to Say I Got Nothing to Say

2009-09-23T07:27:00.003-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

The Last Dance

2009-09-17T08:06:00.002-04:00

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

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

Call Waiting

2009-09-09T07:05:00.005-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

Little Johnny Said WHAT?

2009-09-02T19:40:00.004-04:00

How do you guarantee a visit from Child Protective Services?

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

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

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

Ah, the things kids say!

Sweet Child Of Mine

2009-08-18T19:12:00.008-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

And this is how he came home:

From Graduation Day june 2009

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

And So they Gathered At the Summit

2009-08-06T12:48:00.009-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Swoosh, my ass!

Till Cell Phone Battery Death Do We Part

2009-08-05T18:49:00.010-04:00

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

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

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

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

On the Road Again

2009-07-22T07:53:00.007-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

See ya in a few days. Hopefully. Sigh.

You Take My Breath Away

2009-07-17T12:37:00.011-04:00

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

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

Huh?
Yeh. It's been that kind of week.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It Shoulda Been A Drive In

2009-07-10T20:07:00.007-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Scratch This Itch!!!!!!

2009-07-07T07:37:00.012-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

From New Window

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

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

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

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

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

This is The End of the World As We Know It!

2009-07-01T19:42:00.005-04:00

Well, the world may very well be coming to an end! Hell must be freezing over. Pigs will indeed fly. Farrah really IS an angel. And Michael Jackson is the world's very best child role model.

I suppose, dear reader, that you are wondering what has sent the earth in to this untimely spin of destruction? And why, oh why, is mysuestories at the heart of such world altering changes?
Simply put, constant reader, the current state of turmoil of this galaxy is caused by changes at mysuestories manor. Yep. Single handedly, I have achieved total universal chaos.

"But how did you do this, mysusetories, your majesty?" (Hey, my blog, my kingdom. Don't judge me.)
Quite simply, we have turned out our three-toed sloth to the working force! That's right. The kid who couldn't find his way out of a paper bag with a map has got a job!!!

Not just any job, either. He's pulling ten and eleven hour shifts SIX (That's right, reader, SIX!!!!) days a week digging post holes and installing fences for a certain local landmark (who shall remain nameless, but who would probably be better suited as a plumber due to certain characteristics!)

Yep, the kid who wouldn't, shouldn't, (" I just can't work, Mama! I just can't!") CAN!!!!!!! He really can work! And he does. Makes a mama proud, I tell ya!!!

And he has just stepped right into the working man's lament head first. Besides enrapturing us at nightly meals with tales "from the job site" and his just-walked-in-the-door lamentations of "what a long day on the job!" , our little three toed sloth has finally embraced a long standing tradition of the working man the globe over.

Tonight, the Sloth came home and announced he had bought his very first lottery ticket. You know. So that he can retire. At the ripe old age of eightteen.

Yep. He and sixty two million other Amercians. God bless the working class!

Pomp and Circumcisions

2009-06-26T20:09:00.010-04:00

WOO HOOO! Graduation Day, faithful readers!!! I did it!!!

From Graduation Day June 2009

I finally graduated high school!!!! Yea! Me!!!

What's that, mountain man? I already graduated high school ~~25 frigging years ago~~ a long, long time ago?
But I worked so hard for this day! It was me who dragged the three toed sloth's ass out of bed every morning. Me who had to ask him if he finished his homework every goddamn night through 13 years of education. And just who was it that had to run to the f**king drug store for poster board for the science project assigned three weeks earlier that had to be started, researched, and finished in a mere twelve hours? Me!
I gave up episodes of Law & Order for that sheepskin! Even missed the season finale of Deadliest Catch to help the bugger study for an economics exam, for Cripe's sake (just who is Cripe, any way?)
The nagging, the pleading, the sticking my foot so far up some one's ass he could taste the nail polish....... And now you say it ain't my day? Ya coulda told me that before I stayed up all night worrying about the next day's S.A.T.'s. (The Sloth? He slept like a baby, the s.o.b.!)
And just who is responsible for making sure that kid was not up there in his grungy jeans and tee shirt? Who made sure that suit and tie were hanging in my closet (his closet would scare the pleats out of your slacks!) three weeks before graduation?

It's not my day? But I don't wanna give up the cap and gown....Geez....if I were a man, I'd be feeling a little emasculated right now, my (imaginary) balls crawling into a warm scrotal sac.

Fine.
I'll start over.
woo hoo. it's graduation day.
I he did it.

From Graduation Day june 2009

Happy? Sigh.

From Graduation Day June 2009

Look at the little heathens throwing their hats in the air. Hey, You! I paid 36 bucks for that gown AND cap, mister!!!! You march right back there and pick that up!!!!!

Thank you. Now show a brother some love!

From Graduation Day June 2009

Congrats, Kiddo! I knew I you could do it!!!!! I love you more than broccoli!

Oh, and Sloth? If it isn't too much trouble? Can I borrow that cap and gown while you're out painting the town red tonight? I'm thinking I could sneak up on the Gamester tonight while he's sleeping....You know...kinda like the Ghost of Graduation future.....

Oh, and Sloth? Ya owe me a pedicure!

Ding Dong The Witch Is Dead

2009-06-26T07:02:00.005-04:00

OK. It's all over the news, and I guess we have to pay our due to the death of a once hugely popular music icon, Michael Jackson. I grew up in the 70's, and I remember the days of ABC and 123, and I'll Be There. Then there was the Moonwalk that I could never get right. And the creepy night of the living dead Thriller stage. The man could sing. The man could dance. And he did. Sing. And dance.

So all hail the King of Pop.

But then the mother in me creeps out. ( And, yes, constant reader. I can be quite the mother. In a variety of ways.) Does anyone out there today remember the infamous child molestation charges that always managed to pop up around this guy? Or the tales of sexual abuse that mysteriously went away amid swirls of rumors of parents accepting large amounts of money to silence their broken children. After all, isn't that a valuable lesson to teach one's child? (Hell, the mountain man would've volunteered for a mere five million and a roofie!)

And how come no one's mentioning the "Jesus Juice" this King Of Pop so generously plied his under aged companions with? And isn't anyone curious as to why a grown man had his own little Disneylandesque play land in his back yard? (What, offers of candy and lollipops were too passe?)

And while I'm at it, who in their right mind would not only bequest three young children upon this surgical recreation of a man, but leave those same children motherless and unattended with no one to guide them but a "man" who was so uncomfortable in his own skin that he spent a lifetime trying to alter it?

OK. So the King of Pop is dead. He could sing. He could dance. And millions of people the world over will cry and profess their unabashed love for him.

Me? I think a lot of kids out there are silently cheering. And it is the loss of their innocence that I mourn today. I think someone some where should have ripped that one handed little glove off of him at some point and slapped it across that made to order face of his. King of Pop? Blech.

Kinda ironic that a germaphobe who hid from the world should die from the most twisted part of his own body- his heart! Maybe he shoulda asked the The Wiz for a new one back in the day?

Post script- sorry for the downer today, faithful readers-but if I had to listen in silence to one more "All hail The King of Molestation" today, I believe I may have punched someone. So thanks for listening. And saving me bail money.

We will resume our regularly scheduled "mysuestories" programming later today.

Jon & Kate Plus 8-1 + The Mountain Man?

2009-06-23T07:57:00.010-04:00

Jon & Kate Plus 8 - 1???????

Well, it's officially official!!! Jon and Kate are splitsville. Yea, like no one saw that coming. And their first statement to hit the press?

They plan to continue their tv show for the sake of the ~~$$$$$$~~ (ahem) children.
Well isn't that a relief, America? Nothing I'd like to watch more than six young children face the horrors of divorce in an already publicly ruined family dynamic. Perhaps we could start betting on which of the little buggers will be the first to utter "I HAAATTTEEEE YOU (insert either parent here)!"

Today, the sacristy of marriage has lost to reality t.v. Aren't we just proud Americans today?

It's a sad, sad, world.

Anyone out there in network land looking to film a reality show about mysuestories' family? OK, so the kids are well fed and well adjusted (for the most part!) Nobody? Not interested in seeing a couple of loving parents strive to get their kids to the point of responsibility and self supporting while contributing to a better nation?

Yea, you're right. I wouldn't watch it either. I may live it (I hope!) but I probably wouldn't get past the first five minutes on tv.
Hmmm, what if mountain man had an affair with a neighbor? Maybe even the infamous Kate, who is surely on a manhunt by now! Nah. She' d be dead, I' d be in prison, and the mountain man would have a permanent knot in his manhood. End of Episode One. End of series. Besides, stripes make me look pudgy! (My real fear that keeps me on the right side of the law? No internet in prison. You can betcha ass I'm a good soldier!))

And just for the record, who the f**k is looking atJon, a father of SIX young kids; a man who is emasculated EVERY time Kate talks, and yet some how, some where, a young girl says "I wanna piece of him!"
Sigh. It's bad enough they film this shit. But that America chooses to watch it? Nauseating.

Now sit quietly and pass the pop corn. And the Pepto-Bismol. I don't want to miss a minute of
this crap!

No Soap Suds For You!!!

2009-06-17T07:27:00.008-04:00

A little known mysuestories fact. I love laundry. Yeh. I know. Pathetic, isn't it? But I must confess, I revel in the smell of Downy bouncing off fresh from the dryer towels. Something about the cleansing, the order of the creased folding, freshly hung clothes heading for a closet....hey every body gets to pick their p0rn, no? Superman had Lois Lane, Humphrey had Katherine, I have Tide! (What would Freud say? - "You, mysuestories, are a very dirty girl with a past you are constantly trying to cleanse". Hmmm....he may be onto something, except there ain't that much detergent in this world!)

Second little known mysuestories factoid (I know...I am just spoiling the hell out of you today, aren't I?)---Fact #2- I hate ironing. Couple this with Fact #1, and this explains that when that dryer buzzes done, I am up and ~~off my fat ass~~ running for that dryer to hang the clothes before dreaded wrinkles set in. OK. I have issues. Major issues. I can live with that.

Based on this confession, it comes as no surprise to me that laundry fixations (up to and maybe including rubbing up against the washer during its' spin cycle?) apparently run in the family.

I was on the phone with my Kister (that's sister with a kiss--not Keister-my Keister can't dial yet, but if ever my ass picks up that little talent I will post all about it...Or maybe I will just let my ass call you on the phone).

Anyway, Kister called and was doing what we do best on the phone together. Bitching. We are pros at bitching on the phone. We rant, we rave, we reveal our biggest annoyance of any given moment, and then we hang up. It helps, and, shit, who can afford an appointment with Freud these days, anyway?

So Kister is bitching about today's gripe, which happens to be the imminent demise of her washing machine, which, she swears is a mere few years old. Complaining, with the phone in one hand, while flipping through papers searching out a warranty with the other, she laments on how her old faithful Maytag just won't squeeze her wet linens like it used to. (I know...this is sad...kinda like when we had to watch Brad drop Jen, no?)

In the course of laundry lamentations, I revealed a deep dark secret to her, that in mysuestories manor, the clothing you took off at 8 p.m. last night is already hanging back in your closet this morning. (Sad, but true. I have that little entertainment going on.)

I even shared that the kids (for the most part) place their clothes directly in the washer immediately after showering or undressing. (No. No. No. After showering and redressing. We do not all happily prance to the wash room naked. Well, no one but the mountain man, and that's another post).

After my little "clothes directly in washer, do not pass GO" disclosure, Kister's end of the line got real quiet. After a moment, she whispered ( I swear!):
"You mix all the clothes together?"

Gulp! Deep Inhale! Is she for real?

mysuestories: "Um, yeah. I don't have time to wash each piece individually."

Kister : " The darks mingle with the whites?!!!!"

At this point I think we are now in Alabama pre-1950. Have I committed a crime here by introducing my dirty laundry to a Woodstock type environment? Is that why the old concert jerseys smell like pot?

mysuestories: "Um, Kister? I thought segregation was banned. Or lifted. Or just plain
wrong."

Kister: " THAT was for people, not delicates!!!!"

mysuestories, very concerned for Kister's mental status, I try to put her at ease. So I lie.

"Well, I usually separate the whites from the rest." Yeh. About once a year, when the whites have gone over to grey. Then I bleach the hell out of 'em, and they promptly fall apart.

Kister: "So you have only two categories for laundry?"

mysuestories: "Um.......how many are there?"

Would you believe she has seven???!!!!

Here they are, in no particular order (which is probably killing her anal little mind right now. Or it would if she bothered to read this blog!
Kister's Laundry Classifications

#1- Red clothing only.

#2- Orange and yellows. (?????)

#3- Greens and light blues.

#4 - Dark blues, browns, and blacks.

#5- Tans and khakis.

#6- Whites (Except socks?!)

#7- White socks. (Reasoning? Dirty socks make the other clothes dirty......Yeah, I would imagine all those smelly gym socks sharing tales of jock strap stories and other locker room trash talk with the fine white delicates....)

Seven laundry classifications? I don't have that much variety in our pantry, for the love of Christ! Do you have any idea how long it would take my family to make a whole load of RED laundry?

And do ya really think the khakis know they are not brown? Is my Kister a closet laundry racist?

What would happen if the reds played with the blues? Would a giant laundry Barney come out of the dryer wielding Tide with a "Safe Bleach Alternative"?

Who is this Kister, and what has she done with the girl I grew up with, a girl who could projectile vomit in her bed at 3 a.m., and depend on ME to wash her bed linens -- pillow cases, pj's, and different colored sheets, and washed them ALL together, at that?

And when. sweet Jesus, did she become a laundry Nazi?

SAW VII

2009-06-11T12:45:00.006-04:00

So, hubby has been very busy renovating our home. Forget that he is the greatest cook in the entire Northeastern States. Or that he religiously maintains our cars. Or that ~~he is a love god~~ he is soooo cute. All that talent is simply not enough for my man.

Nope. He also wants to be a master of home improvements. So last night my little ~~connoisseur of disaster~~ home decorator decided to take an electric saw to our freshly installed wall beams to make way for the coming electrical and cable lines.

He hit a knot. In. The. Wood.

The saw practically leaped out of his hands, and he struggled to maintain control of the wildly bucking electric saw while also maintaining to keep all four of his limbs attached to his cute little body.

Finally, the power cut off from the saw.

When the power cord was severed. Right from the saw.

Now it's a cordless saw. Only it doesn't work without it's cord. Sigh.

Thank god he can cook.

That's Right Neighborly of Ya, Compadre

2009-06-09T18:56:00.002-04:00

This past weekend the mountain man and I were watching t.v. in our bedroom (OK, OK, so we weren't exactly watching t.v. That's all I'm gonna say. After all, this isn't that kind of blog!---but it could be if I thought it would encourage more comments, dammit! Just saying).

So, there we were in the steamy hot throes of, um, Judge Judy, when I hear what I thought was a baby crying. (Talk about a mood killer!!) I leap off the bed (Alright..it was more like a seal in a death roll-sheesh!), and peak out the window to see this:

From New Window

And then this:

From New Window

It seems our neighbor's chickens and roosters were having a romp of their own. In. Our. Yard.

The mountain man proceeded to herd the invading game farm parade back to their own yard where we found about twenty more chickens, chicks, and roosters milling about. ( and yes, I am very sorry I left the camera in its case. We generally don't have it handy when, er, watching Judge Judy. Maybe that's why this blog doesn't get so many comments....

The owner of said chicken farm (referred affectionately at mysuestories manor as Foghorn Leghorn) was out ~~herding sheep towards a cliff~~ working, so the mountain man rounded up as many of the little errant chicks and cocks as he could and put them in their pen.

When Foghorn Leghorn arrived home ~~smelling suspiciously like wool~~ awhile later, the mountain man approached him about his encroaching fowl. The following exchange ensued:

Mountain man: I say, I say, Boy, your chicks are flaunting their tails all over our yard. You do know we have dogs, right?

Foghorn Leghorn: Si', senor. I will build a fence to keep them in, hokay?

Mountain man: Hokay. Just giving you a heads up.

Foghorn Leghorn: Muchas Gracias, Meester Mountain person. I haf already lost one cheeken to a stray cat, I theenk.

The mountain man and I exchange a glance and simultaneously reminisce back to a few weeks ago... (play dream sequence music here)
MYSUESTORIES: A Hen In the Pen, Sam I Am

Um, yeah. That cat? It was our dog. Rusty: Slayer of Chickens.
Like a good neighbor...We said nothing.

Two days later? Our Gamester/Dog Whisperer puts Rusty into our dog pen. Where apparently ANOTHER errant chicken had the misfortune to wander. AGAIN.

I guess Foghorn Leghorn hasn't gotten around to feexxing that fence yet. Sigh.

In the mean time, I am trying to catch that stray cat so I can pluck some cat hairs off of the thing and attach them to the chicken before I toss that dead duck (?) back into Foghorn's yard. Who says I can't be neighborly?

In unrelated news? Coincidentally, we had chicken for dinner that night. Some how, it just didn't seem right. But I guess if we can feed our dachshunds hot dogs, we'll get over it.

You Think I'm Hostile Now, Wait'll Tonite!

2009-06-04T20:09:00.011-04:00

OK...So I am reading a few of my favorite blogs tonight( What's that, Constant reader? You thought MYSUESTORIES was the ONLY blog in the blogosphere? Why, thank you, kind follower. How nice of you to think so highly of mysuestories. Of course I'd never KNOW THIS from all the comments you DON'T leave me...But I digress..)

Anyway, these blogs are like a box of choc-o-late. You never know what yer gonna git. I generally go for the funny (surprise!), but occasionally you'll catch your favorite blogger in a melancholy mood. Or maybe a lead in to a particularly funny punch line can be a little too much personal information.

This is one of those for me, so faithful friends and family, you may want to click outta here RIGHT NOW!!!!!!

No? Still here? OK, just don't say didn't warn you. (And I mean YOU, Grandma!!!)

OK, for those (the one?) of you still here...

I'm flipping through my usual fave blogs, and I stumble upon one of my daily Internet acquaintances. And today, instead of a cute little story about her kids saying goofy things, or maybe her cat upchucking on company, she decides to share a little ditty from her past.
It appears this particular blogger suffered a small bout of infertility, and was told by her DOCTOR that she had a "hostile cervical environment"!!!!

No shit. You can't make this stuff up. Go ahead and read all about it. I'll wait.

Motherhood in NYC: Baking Soda, Vinegar, Maybe Oil for Flavor?#links

You didn't click, did you? Okay...suffice it to say that this blogger has (had?) a hostile cervical environment, which according to her ~~witchdoctor~~ physician was causing her cervix (I told you this was upfrontandpersonal!) to kill all sperm who enter here, thus leaving her infertile.

Now do ya wanna leave? No? Good.

OK, now I'm certainly no medical doctor, but I am a woman (maybe not a lady, per se, but a woman nevertheless!), and I do know a little something about HCE (otherwise known as Hostile Cervical Environment!

A Hostile Cervical Environment is what fuels my PMS rages seven days prior, seven days during, and fourteen days after a visit from dear ole Aunt Flo!

A Hostile Cervical Environment is how any orifice would respond whose main function is to be stuffed at the whim of "the little" head.

A Hostile Cervical Environment would be any body part forced to squeeze out a kid with a head the size of a watermelon through an opening the size of an orange (I SWEAR!!!! It really was the size of an orange before old Butterball came along!!!))

And lastly (Thank God, you're thinking about now...She's almost done. Your right. I am.).
And lastly....
A Hostile Cervical Environment is what the mountain man faces when he thinks poking me with a particular body part 50 minutes before the alarm goes off is a good idea!

Sheesh...between Aunt Flo, tampons, popping out brats AND having to put up with (for?) pricks all the time, it's no wonder it's a Hostile Environment!!!!

I'll take "the mountain man" for $100, Alex

2009-06-02T19:42:00.006-04:00

Scene: The mountain man and mysuestories are performing a near-nightly ritual. We are plopped on the love seat watching Jeopardy, a show of not only body, but also of mind. Three unsuspecting contestants answer questions for cash, while at home, the mountain man and mysuestories do the same. With one small (!?!) difference. Without the chance to win money.

Mountain man and mysuestories shout out answers at the t.v. (We do not have a buzzer). Our answers? About 50/50 on the correctness scale. No matter. We continue to shout at an unhearing Alex Tribek.

All three contestants miss the Final Jeopardy question. Mountain man proclaims them "LOSERS", the best of which is walking away with $9400.00. That's a mere $9400.00 more than either the mountain man OR mysuestories won tonight.

Yeah, honey. You tell 'em!!!

Thank God we can live on love. I just can't decide whether to serve that with rice or potatoes for dinner tomorrow nite.

I'm thinking the guy who won the $9400.00 will be having a nice juicy T-bone steak. Yeah. What a loser.

Talk About a Dead Zone

2009-05-28T07:19:00.009-04:00

Camping with mysuestories and crew was not all chicken feathers and guts MYSUESTORIES: A Hen In the Pen, Sam I Am .

There was one nephew who suffered the tremendous loss of three days without electricity. No t.v., no Xbox 360, no Nintendo DS, no ( shudder ) laptop. We may as well have taken air away from the poor tyke.

By day 2, he was jonesing pretty bad. Those 20 minute daily visits back to mysuestories manor for showers and quick television intervention just wasn't cutting it for this human USB cable.

He spent hours trying to find a spot on the beach (which is apparently off of every single satellite grid in the world!) trying to get some kind of signal for his ~~lifeline~~ iPhone.

Leave it to his adoring Pop Pop and an aluminum bat to solve the problems of the Internet unconnected!

From Camping Memorial Day 2009

I'm pretty sure Pop Pop did not need to raise his arm in a salute reminiscent of World War II, but that's a guess, at best!

All hail Pop Pop, Harnesser of Satellite Service!!!!

Psst...iPhone management, mysuestories is looking to make an app for iPhone that will bring the service of Pop Pop and his Amazing Satellite Connection to beached iPhones everywhere!
It works great until someone yells "Play Ball!"

A Hen In the Pen, Sam I Am

2009-05-26T18:45:00.009-04:00

Well, campers and readers, mysuestories and clan spent the holiday weekend camping at our local beach with many friends and family.

And, as usual, there was a fair amount of family:

From Camping Memorial Day 2009

And friends:

From Camping Memorial Day 2009

Plenty of Christmas trees in May:

From Camping Memorial Day 2009

And carefully sorted firewood:

From Camping Memorial Day 2009

Some new tents appeared---Even one with closets!!!

From Camping Memorial Day 2009

And plenty of man-love!

From Camping Memorial Day 2009

But the high light of our trip occurred when my new-to-camping dad took our gaming addict and his two cousins back to mysuestories manor to let our dachshunds out for a while.
Twenty minutes later, I received the only phone call where the reception actually worked at the beach, and it was our gaming addict calling to say,
"There's a hen in the pen! There's a hen in the pen!" Sam I AM? Green eggs and Ham?
HUH?
Well, it turns out, one of our neighborhood hens had decided to take a walk in our dogs' pen that morning. And our unsuspecting gamester unwittingly let out chainsaw on legs dog, Rusty, (you, remember her, the sexually frustrated one, star of MYSUESTORIES: That Doggy has Style )

Well, bedlam ensued as Rusty went on the attack to defend her turf, and this poor chick may as well have had a fox in the hen house. At one point, the chick tried to play dead (I think!), and Rusty let go....alas, only to move in for the kill, which, unfortunately, the hen was well alive for!

All the while, the kids are hooting and hollering, as my poor dad is trying to get a rake between the hen and dog. Now the hen had two problems...she's being eaten by my dog and being attacked with a rake by a crazy man!!!!!
The gamester called us back, as we raced to the crime scene to tell us that while my dad had rescued the poor chicken from Rusty, he was mortally wounded. He then reported that my dad was now, (and I quote-Ya can't make this shit up, people!)- My dad was now CHOKING THE CHICKEN in our backyard!

We got home to find one dead chicken (yes, a bird, and not a pecker as we feared!) and a dog pen in which it looked as if a goose down pillow had exploded!!!!

Oh yeah, there was also this on YOU TUBE:
WARNING- NOT FOR THE SQUEAMISH!!!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PLC6_hRcxCI

Apparently, in my nephews' neck of the woods, when there's a Hen In The Pen, that's a cue for the iPhone to start arollin'!!!! Good show, kids!

Oh, and the newbies to our camping trip (IE:Dad and nephews)? Can't wait till Labor Day! Make sure your phones are charged at all times!!!!!

Locked In Or Out? And Does It Matter Which Side of the Fence You're On?

2009-05-22T12:15:00.008-04:00

As we get ready to embark on another fun filled weekend of camping at the beach, I find myself remembering another weekend camping trip...(insert dream sequence music here...)

About ten years ago, mysuestories' then-husband and I took our kids camping with some friends at the local beach. It was one of our first times camping, and we borrowed a tent and some gear and took off for some sun and fun.

Well, there was fun to be had, but unfortunately there was not all that much sun. In fact, one evening as we were trying to sleep in a tsunami strength wind storm on open flat sand, mind you, what else could possibly go wrong? The wind is ripping through the fine, flimsy walls of our huge tent. The protective tarp covering is simply howling and whipping against said tent.

The kids, inexperienced campers that they were, were sufficiently terrorized and unable to sleep in such a chaotic beach of bedlam! And the then-husband and I were not much better off.
But as we tried to brave the weather, a tremendous thunderstorm broke out, thereby ending any chance of catching any sleep after a full day of sand play.

Not only did the lightening and thunder further scare the bejesus out of us (we were after all in a tent with aluminum poles - may as well just be wearing a sign that says Light My Fire, chrissakes!).

Side note: Are you aware, constant reader, that the words water resistant do not in fact mean water proof? Oh, hell-in-a-hand-basket no, it does not!!!!

So, you can imagine, we were now drenched as well as properly terrified in our "tent"/canoe!
By three am, we simply gave up and decided to just pack up the kids and make a mad drive for our homestead, which, coincidentally (or not-I can rough it only sooo much!) happened to be a mere five minutes away!!

We each scooped up a kid and ran for the parking lot and the safety of our car. As we were about to leave the parking lot to hell, we noticed a chain through the goddamn gates across the entrance. Apparently, this particular beach prefers not to allow visitors in after hours. Or out, either. Shit!

Exhausted and cursing silently, we made the kids as comfortable as two soaked to the skin, exhausted, terrified rats could possibly get and settled down for the remainder of our "Night in Hell".

Forget sleeping smashed in a car (although the uncanny ability of my children to fall asleep anywhere during anything amazes me to this day!) , I stewed and cursed (albeit silently), and waited for first light and the park employee who would surely release us from our prison!

About two hours into this new prison cell (read: vehicle), the then-husband and I notice ~~a pre dawn lunatic~~ an early morning fisherman drive up to the chained gate. We kinda chuckle at the dilemma he will now face, being locked out of where we would like to not be locked in! (The irony could kill ya, no?)

Then, to our horror and amazement, the fisherman/axe murderer(?) simply gets out of his car, walks over to the gate, and slips the unlocked chain through the gate!!!! Our hero returns to this car, enters, and simply drives through the friggin' entrance!!!

We may have at that very moment decided that the person sitting beside each other was , in fact, a moron, and divorce was definitely a thing to come, but I just remember being so grateful to get the f**k out of that miserable parking lot in that torrential rain, that our own idiocy was simply not so significant.

Now, the next day, when we returned for our flooded tent, that was significant idiocy, alas a tale for another day!

Roughing It!

2009-05-21T07:58:00.004-04:00

Well, the Memorial Day Weekend is just about upon us. It must be one helluva day to have an entire Weekend named for it!!!! And we here at mysuestories manor plan to celebrate those veterans who sacrificed their time, safety, and lives in order for us to enjoy our life, liberty, and pursuit of all things summer!

We will be participating in an age old tradition for both mountain man and mysuestories (both pre-hooking up and post!)----We're loading up (and hopefully getting loaded as well!) the kids/friends/gear/food/drink...and we're going camping.

Yep, we are gonna shop/pack/gather/chop wood/shop some more and lug all that shit by the truck loads and head in to the great uncharted land that is the beach. The beach that is exactly a six minute drive from our house. A mere hop. skip, and jump from our running water, heat, and indoor plumbing. Right down the damned block from my most cozy down feather comforter and nice firm mattress.

Matter of fact, as soon as those little kiddies get their tent set up and crawl in for an evening of scary tales of wandering murderous one armed slayers, I just might high tail it back to my own little 4 bedroom, 2 bath pre-erected tent...tee hee!

I just loooove roughing it!

Sgt Strict

2009-05-20T08:05:00.003-04:00

Okay- Now I've gone and done it!!! I just had to take this quiz courtesy of T-Mobile. (Not a bad quiz, by the way!) AND I've confirmed everything my kids have ever said about me.

T-Mobile Mom to Mom Quiz: "

Take the fun, Mom to Mom quiz and discover your parenting style.

Great. Now an entire mobile network knows it, too. Oh, and you, dear reader. You're in on the big secret!!!!!!Now Sssshhhhh!!
I hope this doesn't get in the way of my Greatest Mom Award (You don't have to actually be nominated by your kids, do you?)

In Be Tween a Rock and a Rock Hard...Oh Never Mind...

2009-05-19T12:22:00.008-04:00

Well, it was bound to happen eventually. Saturday night the mountain man and I were revving up for our usual high-time party weekends (read: we were actually watching CSI. And re-runs at that. Yeah. I know. Unbearable excitement, no?)

Anyway, our gaming addict came downstairs to tell us he was riding his bike to a new friend's house where they would be meeting up with more new friends and would be returning HOME ALONE at 9:30 as in P.M. Need I remind you, the gamester is 12 and a half and the new friend lived four blocks away. AND in my part of the world, it is pitch black at 9:30! (It's actually dark by 8:15, but you get the picture!)

And just who were these new ~~hoodlums~~ friends he'd be with? Were there future drug dealers in this crowd? A future crystal meth head in the group? Which one of these ~~corruptible tweens~~ cute pre adolescents would be barreling down the road in 6 years after a few too many drinks?

My mind raced with reasons of why the gamester would no longer be allowed out of our house until well after college : His room was dirty. MY room was dirty. It might rain next week. What if there was a power outage and his cell phone was zapped useless by a bolt of lightening a mere FOUR BLOCKS AWAY??????? What if he got a flat? Or TWO flats? Or if a rabid lochness monster swooped down our quiet tree lined street and.....

It was at about that moment that I noticed both the mountain man and the gamester looking at me with both heads cocked to the side a la Forest Gump or perhaps a dog whom you've just asked the difference between a hypotenuse and isosceles triangle. Yeh. That look.

It was decided (against my rather loud protestations- which apparently are not loud enough to be heard over the logical planning and plotting of my husband and youngest child while attempting a coupe to overthrow my omnipresent powers!)----Pshew-- That was mouthful (or a typing hand full...whatever!)
Anyway , they decided together that I would follow -from a respectable distance- (meaning I couldn't within 100 feet of his bike!) the gamester to his new friend's house so I would at least know where to hunt him down when he was seven minutes late for curfew in 4 years. I entered the new friend's phone # in my cell, in case, ya, know, the power outage/lightning bolt thing did actually happen. We discussed (Okay -I told- he failed to pay any attention- which in our household is a discussion) bike safety and watching the driveways and cars. Forget that these were four blocks of lightly traveled side streets ending in a dead end.

I then followed the little czar overthrowing traitor to his new friend's home where I planned ~~to fingerprint the fledgling criminal to be~~ to hand over the care of my so innocent and precious (hey- it is my story, isn't it?) youngest child into the hands of heathens of untold horrors.

His new friends anxiously greeted us at the corner of the block and greeted me with a "Hello, Mrs. mysuestories," which served to elevate him from hard core con to possible juvenile delinquent WITH MANNERS. He graciously showed me his house, where his dad was outside and came to introduce himself.

The new friend's dad explained that most of the kids in the area hung at the house two doors down where they had an expanse of property and apparently never ending tolerance for tweens.
After assuring me he would in fact check on them in an hour and make sure my gamester called me so I could monitor his FOUR BLOCK ride home, I bid him adieu (I've always wanted to say that- ya know, not like in role play, but just to say it...sigh such small goals for myself, no?) and passed the house two doors down and proceeded to turn around to head back home,....child less.

As I drove past the House Where Kids Congregate, I noticed two things. Many of these kids new to me did not call the gamester by his well thought out birth name (and no, dear reader, gamester is not on the birth certificate! He didn't display those amazing talents till after toddler hood...) Apparently, outside the confines of our home, he was cheerily called by his surname. Just his surname. The one I spent thousands of dollars divorcing. The surname that in no way identified me, the woman who birthed him through 16 hours of hell: me, the woman currently stalking him in a car precisely 100 feet behind his bike: me, the woman who would sit nervously chewing my nails till I followed him home again (from that same 100 feet distance...Jesus, I've had orders of protection that let you get closer to people you hate with guns!)

Second thing I noticed as I pulled away that night? About half of the kids congregating were girls!!!!!!!!
Shit, this called for a whole new lecture on safety and it didn't involve his bike one goddamn bit!
Gave me lots to think about on my four block drive home. Forget the future alcoholic in the group. Drug addiction? We could handle that. We had bigger problems now! Which little flusie was gonna wear the all revealing bare midriff top with too much eye make up in four years? Who was the unplanned teenage pregnancy just waiting to happen down the road? Which giggling goofing girl in that group was gonna break his heart in a few short years?

Dammit! It's the teen years all over again! Shit. Some body wake me when he's back from college!!

Look at Me I'm Flying AND I Don't Have Wings!

2009-05-14T06:53:00.008-04:00

OK, so here we were, 300 feet off the jungle floor somewhere in the Costa Rican jungle. In an attempt at the mountain man's idea of fun, we and some 15 of our nearest and dearest friends were about to go zip lining.

Ziplining, you ask? Yeh. First you climb 60,000 feet up a mosquito infested trails into the deep brush. But not to worry - the mosquiros really don't alarm you as much as the fire ants zig zgging across open toed water sandals. And the fire ants take a place slightly behind the many venomous types of snakes indigenous to the area that our tour guide was more than happy to share with us on our bus trip to this hot spot of resort must-sees!

Finally, atop what seemed like Mt. Everest, (less the snow, plus the snakes) We get to our zip lining destination! Now, zip lining? It's where you strap on a brightly colored helmet (mine was day-glo orange-not my most flattering color!) and they zip (Hence the ZIP part of zip lining!) you into an ill fitting, non-OSHA approved harness that looked particularly uncomfortable for the boys and well, their boys.

Next, we find all 19 of us PLUS guide PLUS 2 Zipping attendanst (?) all standing on one shaky little 10by10 platform built (again, I'm sure without proper permits!) attached to a large tree. No where did I see a maximium weight allowance sign ala Otis Elevators, and I'm pretty sure, at least on my own portion of this make shift tree stand that we were WAY over our "Maximum Occupancy Not to Exceed" limit!

At this point, our guide, Pablo, (or José or maybe it was Prometheus?) explained that we would each be hoisted upon a VERY THIN cable, linked to clasp that looked remarakably like an old key chain I once had. A key chain, mind you, that had broken under the weight of about six keys.

That teensy weensy clasp would, once attached to a similar, equally flimsy looking hook attached to my midsection would be all that would carry me six hundred feet from the current tree stand to a second one in the distance.

Random mysuestories fact- I am not a big fan of heights. Never have been, never will be. At 5'3" (OK 5'2.5") tall, four inch heels is pretty much my reach for the sky limits. I don't do roller coasters, I don't care for the assembled in twenty minutes bumpy slide at every single carnival and street fair....and I don't do swinging from fishing line 300 feet up in the air. Until now.

I let mountain man and a few others go ahead of me. Let's face it. He's a little bigger than I am, and quite frankly, I was willing to sacrifice him in an attempt to test the strength of that wire. Yep, I am a sweetheart like that!

Then I started to think that maybe I should have gone first, 'cause now that wire had maybe, just maybe, given it's last safe ride before starting to fray, and was now eageraly waiting to catapult it's next victim hurtling to the ground.....Great. This was just getting better all the time!

In a panic, I cut in front of the rest of our eagerly awaiting band of friends who seemed unfazed that this could be the last ride of Wyatt Earp and his Immortals. I didn't need anyone else weakening that line before I got on it, damnit!!!

Hoisted up by ~~a hunky, muscled man of about sixteen~~ a park employee, and attached to the fragile line that stood between me and 300 feet of painful forestry just waiting to break my ever loving neck, I was sailed off into the distance.....600 feet through the forest canopy and I almost breathed a sigh of relief...Until I saw the even smaller tree stand I was fast approaching that was attached to a large tree with...was that a mattress I saw wrapped around the trunk? A dirty, weather beaten mattress? With some kind of splotches on it? OHMYMOTHERLOVINGGOD are those BLOOD STAINS on that mattress that I am hurtling towards at 40 miles an hour?

My surge toward the Mattress of Death (How's that for a slasher/p0rn flick title?) -and my accompanying new found religious chant (PleaseGoddon'tletmef**kingdieuphere!PleaseGod,I'llbeakindermoregentlermysuestories!Iwillturnmyblogintoabornagainnotsmashingintotreetributetomy...OHJESUS

MOTHERF**KERI'MGOINNAHITTHATTREE!!!!

All of which was gently ended by my wildly spinning, madly cursing body being abruptly snatched out of the air by ~~hunky tree boy~~ life saving assistant number two.

And how was I greeted by the man I picked above all others to share in the destiny/torture that is my life? "Why, mysuestories," the mountain man started,"Did you notice all those cute little howler mokeys at eye level in the trees? You know, the ones with the razor sharp teeth that Pablo/José/Charleston told us ALL about on the way here? Wasn't that a sight to treasure forever?"

Not nearly as wonderous as the thought of gnashing through HIS beautiful neck with MY razor sharp teeth!!!

Repeat above FOUR MORE TIMES, and mysuestories first (AND LAST) adventures in zip lining above anything higher than five inch stiletto heels are effectively over.

Needless to say, my then eleven year old fruit of my loins, had a bit of a different experience:

From George of the Jungle

He laughed all the way!

Traitor! And yeh, he DID see the cute little howler monkeys.

Oh, and those brightly colored day-glo helmets? I asked Pablo/José/The Grim Reaper about the thin bicycle helmet type headgear. Wouldn't something more more motorcycle worthy be better to protect the unknowing heads of stupid tourists like myself?

To which he replied:

"Those helmets are not so much for protection. After all it is a very long way down. The brightly colored helmets are so we can find you if you fall." And some how, I didn't get the feeling that getting the local EMS team into that inaccessible jungle to perform life saving tactics was part of the plan.

Ooookay....Thanks for that little tidbit!

Mountain man? Might this last little adventure of yours have anything to do with that life insurance discussion we had right before we headed out into the jungles? Well, if you think I am signing up for any double indemnity accidental falling to the ground at high rates of speed while wearing a clashing crash helmet clause ...Well you can just go hug a blood stained mattress at sixty miles an hour!!!!!!!

When Opportunity Knocks -See That She Doesn't Steal Your Wallet!

2009-05-12T07:05:00.011-04:00

Okay, so we all know all about my Internet addiction, no? (Of COURSE we do, but thanks for not sending out the INTERVENTION hit squad yet!!! I do understand that once I stop making you laugh, I am fair game for a 12 step program---sheesh---the pressure!)

Anyway, so I often troll the Internet, not for p0rn, but for new blog reading material--some of it as good as I've ever seen!---AND as with all trolling, you come across a few diamonds in the rough, a few gems, and the occasional "How the fuck did I get here, and why am I still reading it?"

I'm not sure which category this one fell in, but I stumbled upon Her Bad Mother' Basement, which is an off shoot of herbadmother Her Bad Mother: Hello, Princess
Her Bad Mother's Basement Her Bad Mother's Basement: Sick And Tired

is an anonymous F**k You Forum that encourages people to vent and rant and rave over any number of topics. It's kinda like that accident clogging up traffic....You really just want to get past it, but as you drive past, you automatically slow down for a longer look...
Well, I haven't posted any deep, dark secrets or rants (Breathing easier, mountain man?), but I
have been slowing down more often to look at the crash scene.

Today's post,Her Bad Mother's Basement: Sick And Tired
follows the rantings of one extremely stressed out military wife who is raising her kids solo while her man very valiantly sacrifices his freedom to ensure ours. Commendable couple, no? That's kinda what I thought. Until I started to read the comments....(Of COURSE I read the comments! The comments are like the twisted metal of that accident you just have to watch!)

The first few comment offer up all types of suggestions to relieve the stress of this military mom. (Hey, who says bloggers can't be helpful?). And I thought all was right with the world.

Then I got to the next eight or ten comments starting with Teena from India who so graciously offered our daily damsel in distress her services via international escort. Following Teena (who I'm sure is a fifty year old, five hundred pound, naked balding man in New Jersey), were over half a dozen OTHER "Indian" escort services offering to help out out our overstressed mom.(sorry folks...no direct links here..I provide my own smut on this site!--DO feel free to click on the links above our voyeur the site yourself---)

Now, I'm not 100% certain, but it's my guess our Do It All By Yourself Military Mom is a tad too tired to pursue the invitations of these various Indian ~~sluts~~ ladies of the evenings. Or perhaps I read them wrong, and these inquiries were actually career opportunities for Military Wifey, who clearly sounds as if she requires a change of scenery? In which case, maybe these Escort Service hijackings in the blogosphere is a good thing?

Sigh. Now I don't know if I'm relieved that mysuestories doesn't generate
that kind of response (or any other , for that matter, constant reader!), or is it because they simply don't think I'm pretty enough to be an Internet ~~slut~~ high class call girl?
Sigh. Maybe I should be posting on Her Bad Mother's Basement: Sick And Tired about this shortfall of mine.....

A Mother's Lament

2009-05-09T20:11:00.004-04:00

We (I-the almighty and all knowing mysuestories) preempt today's regularly scheduled mysuestories to bring you a Mother's Day Public Service Announcement:

1. Flowers are always better when delivered to someone who can still appreciate them. Skip the funereal arrangements. Spend that money now!

2. There is no better present than that hand made card or unidentifiable clay ashtray. If you can't afford something, make something. Just don't let the kids glue glitter to the new kitchen table, 'mkay?

3. Breakfast in bed had better include kitchen clean up. Otherwise? Buy bagels. Trust me on this one!

4. Say "I love you, Mom." Don't assume she knows this. She does. But it's always nice to hear!

5. Don't just celebrate your mother. Honor anyone in any way that makes your life a nicer one! It'll make your day nicer, too!

5. If you are unfortunate enough not to have a mother to celebrate this year...my deepest condolences. Plant a perennial flower somewhere in the yard. Add to it each and every Mother's Day. It won't change your situation, but it just may make you smile

Happy Mother's Day!!!!!!

And now, back to our regularly scheduled post:

In my own attempt to revel in the bliss that is Mother's Day, I do solemnly swear to eat the scrambled eggs that may be just a tad too runny, the toast a little too well done. If you make it and serve me, I will eat it! (This also applies to consumption of poorly made cocktails, over done Hot Pockets, and broken OreO cookies, and is not limited to Mother's Day!)

I also promise to hold court from my throne (no, dear reader, not the porcelain one-but the couch!) and bark out commands for more grapes and additional palm leaf fannings on this: the only day that may actually work.

In addition, I will allow you, my beloved family (who don't actually read this blog, save the mountain man, so if you see this, constant reader, please leak this post, okay?)..any hoo, I will allow my family to carry on without me for a few hours while I primp and pamper myself in the salon/tanning salon/hammock or any such combination.

And I will also turn a blind eye this one day to whatever mess I return home to. If you can't clean it yourself, screw it. It can wait another day.

Oh, and as long as we're talking Fantasyland here, faithful blog lurkers, how about gifting me with a few (too many? How about one or two?) comments this week? Maybe? Okay, I'll take it!!

In the mean time, would you like to stop by for some ~~runny~~ delicious homemade eggs and weak coffee? Really! I'd be happy to share. Honest. I would. (Oh boy, would I !!!!!!)

FUN! FUN! FUN!

2009-05-07T20:16:00.004-04:00

I may be a little suspicious by nature (ya think?), but our gaming addict must have found an Xbox methadone clinic nearby. Yesterday, son number 3 voluntarily ~~had his game controller surgically removed~~ put down his gaming gear and did this:

From Mother's Day

Yep! He asked to help change the oil in the mysuestories mobile! (And mountain man? Thanks for not wearing your Sunday best -read: Holy pants!)

From Mother's Day

Ain't he just the cutest little thing?

So what's a responsible mother to do with such a helpful twelve year old? Why you let him drive the car off the ramps!

From Mother's Day

Safety first! (Of course, I made him buckle up first! He is only twelve!

From Mother's Day

And away he went!!!! Down the ramps.
(Screech!)
Up the driveway.
(Screech!)
Back down the driveway.
(Screech!)
Back up the driveway.
(Screech!)

And now all I need is a new pair of brakes. (And hair dye. Please send hair dye!) Oh well, they'll never call him light foot! Sigh.

Cinco de Mayo

2009-05-05T18:03:00.009-04:00

What does the average non Mexican full time working mom do to bring a little cultural fun into her family's lives?
I honestly couldn't tell you. But what I did do, was come home from a hard day's work to a fiesta!

From Party Time

It was tacos for all at mysuestories manor!!!!! (Sorry to disappoint, constant reader, but that little tequila bottle in the midst of all that artery clogging food? Simply for ambiance. It is only Tuesday!)

Oooh, and the best part of our Cinco de Mayo celebration? It was all waiting on the table when I got home. (Thanks, Mountain Man! I love ya more than mah luggage!)

From Party Time

Almost!

And another thing. Who on earth would schedule a holiday that promotes over-indulging in spirits, and then let it fall in the middle of the week? (St. Patrick, are you listening as well?)

Oh well, pass the tacos. And hot sauce. Plenty of hot sauce. (Yeh, I can live a little on the wild side. Even on a Tuesday! OLE!

Games People Play!

2009-05-04T18:18:00.002-04:00

How do you turn a sweet, mild mannered 12 year old into a money grabbing slum lord akin to Imelda Marcos on a bad day?

From Party Time

Why, you play Monopoly with him, of course!

This dear child became the most ruthless land baron I had ever seen! The lure of the dollars! Those shiny little hotels!!!

From Party Time

That evil maniacle laugh as
his own mother was sent to jail!!!!!

From Party Time

Beware!!!! Trump: The Next Generation!

The little bastard had me mortgaged to the hilt! And then he went in for the kill! Hotels on Baltic AND Mediterranean did me in on my last pass! Shit! $450.00 to land on those dumps?! I didn't stand a chance!

Sure. Laugh now, my little entrepreneur! Wait till Allowance Day! Each real dollar is gonna cost him $200.00 Monopoly money!!! And then we'll play again!

And just wait till the little bugger finds out how much the back rent is for that video game enhanced bedroom he's been squatting in all these years!!!

Hey, if you can't beat 'em, find a weakness and SQUASH 'EM like a bug!!!!!!

Off to The Races

2009-05-02T11:33:00.006-04:00

Today is the Kentucky Derby, and the mountain man and I will be heading over to our local watering hole to watch the race go off. Now, let me preface this by saying that the mountain man and I are not big gamblers, and we know next to nothing about horse racing.

But, we do like to cheer with a crowd (about damn near anything, we will cheer! We cheer for weddings, we cheer for karaoke nites, we have even cheered on the three toed sloth as he completes his homework on occasion! ), and so we started gathering with friends for some of the big horse races.

We make our decisions on which horse to choose quite scientifically. In fact, we generally choose by the horse's name.

In 2006, we placed a wee wager on the Kentucky Derby on the favorite horse to win, Barbaro. I liked the name 'cause it reminded me of Barbarino from the old Welcome Back Kotter episodes of my child hood. (Don't ask, but my sixth grade math teacher was a ringer for Mr. Kotter, and it turned out that teacher had a brother who was a whiz with cars, and serviced mysuestories' mobile for years. That brother had an identical twin who was an anesthesiologist. Imagine my surprise, when I was in labor with the three toed sloth and my car mechanic appeared to enter the labor room to administer an epidural!!!! Talk about a freak out! I actually made him show me his license, proving he was in fact not my mechanic!) OK, so you didn't ask, but how the heck else are you going to learn these random mysuestories facts?

Anyway, so we placed a $10.00 wager on this star horse, and he proceeded to win (Yea, us!!!) Come the Preakness later that season, we again bet on this favored horse to win. Turns out the damned horse fractured three bones in his right hind leg, thus ending his racing career. He was eventually euthanized in Janury 2007.

We missed the 2007 Kentucky Derby, attending a nephew's First Holy Communion. In hindsight, this may have been a good thing for the horses, none of whom suffered as much as a scratch that year!

Fast forward to 2008, and the mountain man and I again tried our hand at horse racing. Or maybe I should say horse betting. After all, the only horse I've ever raced was quite accidentally on a beach at a resort where the horses were half dead and could barely follow a trail. My horse must have had Wheaties that morning with his wild oats, because he decided to RUN LIKE THE WIND, BULLSEYE!!!! I dangled precariously from this mad animal until the guide was able to catch up and ~~beat him into submission~~ gently subdue this crazed horse! (Note to reader(s), gifts of horseback riding trips, not a good mysuestories present!)

Again, I digress. Are you still there, oh constant reader? Yes? Good. OK, so the mountain man and I again wager on the 2008 Kentucky Derby. We placed a $10.00 bet (yeah, we do live on the edge, don't we?)on Big Brown (as in my Rolling Stones favorite tune, Brown Eyed Girl---yes, very scientific pickings, no?). So the bet was $10.00 for Big Brown to win and then, because she was the only girl on in the race, we put another $10.00 on Eight Belles to just cross the finish line first, second, or third (in OTB lingo, that means to Place- which sounds more like a location than a finishing line posting, no?)
So the race goes off, and we're cheeering like maniacs (see above cause for cheering!) with very little knowledge of race horsing form. All I know is that I want my two horses to come in first and second. And guess what, faithful friend of this blog? They did. Both horses came in first and second.
Big Brown finished first and we could hear the ca ching of ill gotten winnings come our way. And then Eight Belles, the belle of the track, came in second, as in PLACE!!! Ca ching again!
Then, before we even got to bask in the glory of the win that was our personal victory, Eight Belles went down in a flurry of motion, and huge screens were placed around our victorious Belle, and right there, track side, BANG!!!! Our horse is now in horsey heaven, where I suppose the horses ride on the backs of little Mexican men in funny hats.

And so today, with the luck of the Irish on our side (at least on half of my side), the mountain man and I will again place a wager on the Kentucky Derby. We may choose Chocolate Candy (obvious choice- this being the mountain man's kryptonite!), or perhaps Mr Hot Stuff (again, a mountain man trait!) or maybe Nowhere to Hide or I Want Revenge (a veiled reference to ex #2).

In any event, if anything SHOULD hypothetically happen to cause the untimely demise of our choosen steed, let it be known that we just aren't good at this.

And maybe, just maybe, next year, the Horse Owners Association of Racing Studs (aka HOARS) will pay US not to wager at all!!!!!

Hey, somebody's got to fill the hole that was my AdSense Google Revenue - And they know of exactly which hole I refer!....(OK, OK, I AM over that whole debacle. Really I am!)

Well, dear reader, I'm Off To the Races!!!!! Wish ~~the horses~~, er, me, wish me luck!!!

This Little Piggy Went to Work!

2009-04-30T07:30:00.009-04:00

Today at work I found a memo (we just love memos here at mysuestories money plant!), and this particular memo advised employees to wash hands more frequently amongst other suggestions in order to combat the flying pig flu that is currently gripping our city.

Symptons of swine flu (as described by Money Plant MANAGEMENT): "include fever, cough, sore throat, body aches, headache, chills and fatigues. Some people have reported diarrhea and vomiting....."

Shit, reader(s)! I currently have a cough and sore throat (along with 10 million other allergy sufferers!). My body aches! It's always freezing in my cubicle! And fatigue? I haven't not been fatigued in eighteen years! Do I feel like vomiting? Every time I pass the kids' rooms!!!!!

Swine flu? Hardly. Hell. I've eaten pigs for breakfast! (And so have you, I'm sure!)

So, what's a girl to do?

From Party Time

Cover up that cough and get on with her day!!!!!

Oh, and that cute little mask I'm sporting? Made in Mexico. I'm thinking conspiracy!!!

disclaimer: No animals were hurt in the making of this post. Er, except for the little piggy that was part of my breakfast. What can I say? I'm a carnivore. Sigh.

Show Me The Money, Already!!!!!!

2009-04-29T07:03:00.002-04:00

OK, I am still here and working. My first round of lottery tickets purchased with a group of friends at work has been a complete bust. Not so much as a free ticket. Sigh.

The Mountain Man still has to check his group work tickets, and then we bought a few of our own he will check later.

I don't know if I will be happier to just have won my (yes, I am sure it is mine, already!), or will I be pissed that I had to work another day before I found out? Probably both. I'm moody that way.

Not to worry, lottery Gods. I will still feed the children of Dar fur. I may even send our kids there for a while. Just so they can see what it's like not to have a stocked pantry and full fridge to stand in front of while whining, "There's never anything to eat here!" I'll shoe them life without hot pockets and everything bagels with cream cheese and bacon! Bastards!

Hmmm..suddenly I have an urge for bagels......(Apparently I have a highly suggestive brain!) Sigh. I shoulda wished for the money instead. Less calories!

Keep the faith, constant reader(s)! We (meaning I of course, still have a chance to be ruined by money, money. money!!!!!!!1

Mama Needs A New Pair Of Shoes

2009-04-28T12:41:00.003-04:00

OK, faithful reader, I am so over the blow from AdSense and Google yesterday. (And I tell ya, it really did B-L-O-W!!!)...Anyway, back to happier times....

We here in my neck of the woods have a state lottery drawing that is up to about $180 MILLION DOLLARS!!!!! Wooo Hooo! With THAT kind of ca ching, I could pay myself to advertise on my own blog, and I would let myself click away as much as I damned well pleased! --Oops, maybe I wasn't quite over that whole Google Blows Bullshit after all. I'm better now. No really. I am. Just a temporary set back......Back to our story....
Ah, yes.... $180 million dollars....I would come to work just one more day, and surprisingly, I will have developed Turret's just for THAT day. Boss comes in to say "Good morning, mysuestories,"? And you would hear nothing from me but "fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck" ALL day long!!!!! (another plus to no ads.....No language barrier here to be wary of !!!!---And YES I AM over it, I was just saying, is all!)

That $180 million, though, that is blog from around the world money...I would just live on room service and relate to you, constant reader, of the magical mystery travels that would become this blog's fodder! (Ya didn't think I was just going to up and leave ya hanging here, did you, dear reader? Over a measly $180 million dollars? Nah. Maybe, though, for $185 million....I just hope I get the chance to be ruined by that much money!!!!!!
I'd literally be in shoe heaven!!!!
So, besides buying Google and firing their entire detective/goon squad, what would you do with $180 million?

(Oh, and dear reader, if you should win, and I don't by some wee chance? I can be bought! Cheaply, too!)

Google Adsense. Tanks For Nuttin' !!!!

2009-04-27T12:35:00.003-04:00

Well, readers, now I've really gone and done it!!!!Notice anything new about how mysuestories looks today? Anything missing?

What's that, dear reader? Oh, that's right...where are all those little bitty ads that were going to support mysuestories' early retirement? Why, whatever happened to them, you ask?

Well, I'll tell you what happened to all those itsy bitsy google ads. They were banned from mysuestories. And do you know why adsense was banned (or was it mysuestories who was banned from adsense?--Oh well, either or). The reason Adsense and mysuestories are no longer a couple? Because the ads were being clicked on. (Wsn't that the whole point????)
The ads were clicked on by my kids when they read the blog, my hubby when he read the blog, and some times, even by mysuestories when I read the blog!!!!
So, apparently in the mind of Goggle and all that is unholy in the world today, those little ads? Not so good to click on. Apparently authors are not allowed to surf the web through their own site, and shopping on line should never be to my own benefit, yet it's okay to shop through another person's ads!!!!?????
Are you still with me, here, constant reader? "cause I gotta tell you, the world of Google and Adsense? Seem's a little contradictory to me right now.
So, I guess I'll just be writing these silly little tales here for the fun I started it all for to begin with. And Googl Adsense? You can KMA (huh, reader, not familiar with that little acronym? Why it means KISS MY ASS!!!!

Screw it. Who wants to retire early anyway? Sigh.

Spring! It's Not Just For Flip Flops

2009-04-23T18:29:00.004-04:00

Yesterday's post hailed the wonderous season for flip flops. This caused quite the commotion in mysuestories closet. So, in order to bring fairness
and harmony to those who were slighted yesterday, I present to you a second edition of what shall hereon be known as myshoestories:

First we have these little lovelies:

From Party Time

Great for short walks and dancing!

Every good shoe collection simply must include on pair of ridiculously dangerous black heels!

From Party Time

Again, long walks, not particularly popular with these.

Summer wouldn't be complete without a little 5 inch white heel!

From Party Time

Or two....

From Party Time

We've got sandals and tan heels:

From Party Time

And strappy chunky heels too!

From Party Time

Of course, all this thinking about shoes....well, it's like waving a bottle in front of an alcoholic.....I did what any other self respecting shoe maven would do. I went shopping....
And came home with these:

From Party Time

Say hello to my little friends!

Pshew. Maybe now the tongues in my closet will stop screaming at the flip flops for equal blogging rights. Now, if only the boots would stop putting
their foot down!!!!!!

Sigh. What's an addict to do?
Did somebody say pedicure?
I'm gone.

And reader, thanks for listening to the voices in my closet. (They are in the closet, aren't they?)

Spring Is In The Air

2009-04-22T07:05:00.006-04:00

Spring is definitely on it's way. I can tell, too. It's here in these fresh flowers the mountain man planted by the front door:

From Party Time

And by the back door:

From Party Time

( He knows I just love seeing fresh flowers when I come home- he's a suck up that way, and I adore him for that!)

I can see spring here:

From Party Time

Notice the hard dark ground has been turned and outlined? Just waiting for the mountain man and I to plant our garden. Since we won't be having any fruit from our loins together, we have decided to cherish the vegetables from our dirt, which is much more our style!

More importantly, I can see spring here:

From Party Time

What can I say? Apparently face book is not my only addiction! So many flip flops, so little feet. I should have been a centipede!

**disclaimer: Due to the high incidence of piracy paranoia (Ooh, I like that one!) in the blogosphere lately, let me just say that I have seen other posts of sandals lately, but none as pretty as mine! (OK! I may be just a tad prejudicial! But these words and those flip flops? All mine, baby!)

Oh, and constant reader? Thanks for coming by!

Flattery. It Does An Ego Good!

2009-04-21T12:29:00.004-04:00

About 10 years, twenty pounds, and a truckload of hair dye ago, I made plans with my then -husband and his friend to meet up at the local saloon. (Imagine that! A saloon---Bet you Never saw that coming!)
The ex and his buddy were helping fix the ovens for our upcoming church bazaar (bizarre? You could say that if you knew them!) , and we agreed to meet at a prearranged time. In. The. Saloon.
Now, if there's one thing I'm NOT a fan of, it's me being in a bar alone. (I didn't say I wouldn't do it. Just that it doesn't thrill me. It reeks of desperation. Or worse. Thirsty and friendless.

Anyway, so I show up at the predetermined time. All by myself. On time. I'm big on punctuality. I know. I have issues. On with the story.

At this particular saloon, we have a friend who bar tends (let's call him , oh, I don't know, how about Mike?). Anyhow, Mike is behind the bar, and there are maybe five guys spread out along the bar. I am the only female in the place. Great.

I sit in a corner at the end, and Mike serves me a drink, and I'm waiting for the ex and friend to show up. For over an hour. I'm even doing a cross word in the goddamn paper already!

And then it dawns on me. In the hour I've been sitting there, the only female in the place, not one guy has talked to me, offered to buy me a drink, nothing! (Not that I wanted someone to buy me a drink, but, you know, it's always nice to be asked!)

Another half hour goes by and the ex and his friend show up from a different bar (misunderstanding---yeah, right!). And I am recounting my last hour and a half to them. And as Mike the bartender listens, I tell them that, geez, I'm the only girl in the place and not one guy said so much as hello.
At which point Mike says, "Oh, no, mysuestories (Of course, this was before I was mysuestories-but you get the picture). A couple of guys asked me to send you over cocktails, but I told them to stay away from you because you are my friend's wife."

Well, Geez, Mike, At least ya coulda told me that as I was sitting there thinking I need a whole makeover or something!!!!!!
Anyway, moral of the story? It's always flattering to be flattered.

Which brings me to my real story today. All over the blogosphere today there is talk of a certain blog person (OK. It's Miss Musings - I can't keep a secret...keep that in mind, constant reader!), anyway, this blog person takes material from lots of other blogs (like cjane enjoy it and Velveteen Mind and The Jet Set, and apparently some others as well) and then she copies them nearly word for word and claims them as her own stories. Yep. This person plagiarizes these silly little blog posts where people are not graded, but rather just sharing a little piece of yourself. Go figure.
Not only that, dear reader. There's more. MissMusings? Had like 500 followers AND tons of comments telling her how wonderful she writes (Right about now, dear lurking readers, you should begin to feel guilty about not leaving me enough comments.....Comments are to bloggers as orgasms are to sex. Just trust me on that one!)
And so, back to my dismaying dilemma. I scanned quickly through all the stories of all the posts on the Internet today of all the bloggers that MissMusings was stealing from. And there were plenty. And boy, were they pissed!
And guess what? Not one of the hijacked stories were mine. Sigh. I felt like I was back in that saloon all those years ago.

Maybe it's Mike, again. Keeping all those blog pirates away from my posts here. No? He's still bar tending? Dangit!

Rejection. Sigh.

A Little Mother/Son Vacation? Not Likely!

2009-04-20T12:59:00.004-04:00

Our eighteen year old three toed sloth mentioned to me that he had entered a contest to win a trip for two on a romantic couples escape vacation. Not only did he enter this, his very first contest, but he was absolutely positive he was going to be the winner out of tens of thousands of nationwide entries! And the drawing was to be held that day. And, he was checking his computer every five minutes for the results of such a wonderfully gifted contest!

For a kid who has to be prodded to leave a burning house, his enthusiasm was encouraging. So encouraging, that I, as his mother, felt it was my duty, no, make that my God given right by having spawned him, to set him straight about winning such a contest.

"You know, Sloth," I began gently, 'cause, I am -(gentle as grizzly!), ya know, millions and millions of people enter those contests all the time. Only One teeny tiny person's entry gets chosen."
"Some one's got to win, right? May as well be me, right?" Where this kid gets his optimism, I'll never know. I've tried to raise my kids to set their sights low, and this way, anything above "This Totally Sucks" would be a win. Smart, thinking, huh, reader?

Not to be deterred, I switched tactics.
"You know, Sloth, you may be eligible to win this trip, but who would you take? Your girlfriend is under eighteen, and I'm sure they wouldn't accept liability for a minor on a giveaway." I let that set in his mind for a moment, and then I went in for the kill.
"Sloth, you could take me! Just think, we could go out on the Sunset Cruise Ride with all the other "young" couples! They'd be sharing frozen drinks, and I'd be complaining how cold it is..."Oh, Sloth, it's very, very cold...fetch me a sweater, would you, dearie?"
"And think, when everyone else is playing silly pool side games, I could yell from my perch on a lounge chair, "Slothy, I need a pill. Can ya get me a pill for what ails me?" Very Norman Batesque! "'Course I would be wearing one of my from the neck to knees one piece bathing suits UNDER my best house coat!"

The sloth visibly paled and headed up for the sanctity of his bedroom.

Later, when he came down for dinner, I asked if he had gotten the results from the contest yet.
"No," replied a much more relieved Sloth. " I emailed and asked them to withdraw my name from the contest. Then I deleted their web site from my laptop. I'm never going to enter another contest again! There IS no winning in this one, anyway! "

Ahhhh....Another lesson taught by mysuestories! I tell ya, raising kids DOES have it's rewards. And, if you're really lucky, every once in a while you get to mess with their heads! Heh!

When Love Come's A Calling......

2009-04-17T07:02:00.009-04:00

There comes a time when an opportunity finally presents itself, and you simply must seize the moment and leap into a conversation with your teenager about some of the trials of making it through adulthood.

This week, I was fortunate enough to find myself in the perfect situation to discuss the value of romantic relationships, and the responsibilities and all the baggage that comes with them, to our 18 yr old three toed sloth. And it all started with a cell phone bill.

My husband received our family plan cell phone bill last week. Our Verizon Wireless account, which links four cell phones of mysuestories manor ( our oldest member of the manor, number one son? Wouldn't be caught dead without his iPhone. Thus, in a burst of Independence, he broke away from the familial cell phone structure and ventured out onto his own with his own service AND his own bill. ( I know, dear reader, it makes me all teary eyed, too!!!! Sigh, they grow soooo fast, don't they?)

Again, (as usual?) I digress. So the mountain man opens our standard Verizon Wireless bill that weighs in each month at about $160.00. Unfortunately, this bill weighed in a bit heavier. A lot heavier. This bill had gained weight like Oprah in a feeding frenzy. It was that big.

$396.07 B-I-G.

I could actually hear the mountain man's blood pressure rising through the phone line when he called me at work to ~~scream bloody murder~~ share the news. Note: This is the FAMILY version of that conversation. Trust me when I say this is Sponge Bob compared to Linda Lovelace's "Deep Throat" when making the comparison of what really went down!

He: "Uh, mysuestories, isn't that awfully high for a cell phone bill?"
mysuestories: "Ummm..."
He: " Obviously, there must be an error that I am sure you can straighten out with logic and patience."
mysuestories: "Of course, my sweet Ba boo. Let me make a quick, rational phone call to that kindly service provider, and straighten out this wee issue."
He: "Thank you so much, mysuestories. You are the ultimate answer to all things living in the world."

OK, so the live version was peppered with a little more volume and a lot more expletives. Let my sweet little head remember this exchange the way it wants to. (That little ability also makes for a much happier marriage!)

So I proceeded to call ~~Lucifer's right hand men~~ Verizon Wireless, and spent the next forty-five minutes either on hold or explaining my plight to an entirely different person. At the end ~~of my rope~~ the day, mysuestories learned a few things.

1) Our three toed sloth had made 1300 minutes of out of network calling (and that was with nights and weekend free!)

2) Our sharing (hah!) plan contains a total of 1400 minutes for all four of us.

3) If you present a logical argument, and cry, beg, plead, and risk losing all dignity, Verizon will in fact credit away everything. As. If. It. Never. Happened.

This last one, constant reader(s)? Leads me to believe they know they are screwing you to begin with!!!!! Without so much as a complimentary glass of wine, first!

I then proceeded to go to their on line service and printed out a fifty-one page phone bill (!?!) listing each and every single call.

Armed with a phonebook sized wad of the three-toed sloth's phone accounting, I
~~attacked~~ quietly approached our crazed teen dialer, whose fingers must be calloused from dialing all those numbers!

Together, we tried to determine what had changed since the previous months' usages of a mere seven or eight hundred minutes.

And lo, and behold! A discussion of ~~teenage lust~~ a young man's fancies comes to light. It appears that in the midst of the past month's cell phone billing cycle, The sloth had broken ties with his sweetheart (a nice girl, I might add,) whom I adored, and who had Verizon Wireless Service ( which endeared her even more to mysuestories.

Our sloth, an apparent trampoline expert in relationships, took all of five minutes to find another object of his affection. She, too, was a nice girl, and once again, I adored her. It turns out, thought, that this sweet, smiling new cherub was actually hoarding a very deep and dark secret. She was *gasp* a Sprint follower.
And every single minute of every single word they spoke was costing me forty cents a minute!!!!!!
To the tune of $396.07.

Well, as the dear, sweet God of Eros would have it, by the time that bill arrived? Our little sloth had for reasons not yet revealed, broken up with lovely #2, and was once again dating lovely #1, a confirmed Verizon Wireless Service user.

Having once again, no fear of a repeat cell phone bill to rival a CEO'S bonus, the sloth and I discussed the importance of young wander lust, and how as a responsible, proper young man, one of his very first inquiries into approaching a new relationship should absolutely be, "Who is your cellular phone provider?"

It's important to make the most of sharing life's lessons with one's children. And mysuestories knows it's also important to know how to lower the mountain man's blood pressure. And I ain't afraid to cry, beg, or shamelessly plead, nor defile myself if necessary in order to do so for the good of my in plan network!!!!!

The Envelope Please.......

2009-04-16T17:50:00.003-04:00

The winner of the NAME THAT LAPTOP is..........

Lappy Toppy

submitted by David S. David, email me your addresss for your wonderful prize!

From Contests and Giveaways

David, you're going to smell sooooo good!!!!

Hereon, this laptop shall be known as Lappy Toppy (Lappy for short)!!!!!

Thanks, everyone,(all SIX of you!) for entering AND reading.....

And The Winner Is....

2009-04-15T21:09:00.003-04:00

Doesn't this feel just like the Oscars? Every (sigh) one of you...waiting to hear Who Won The Name The Lap Top Contest At mysuestories.....

Well, there were soooo many to choose from (yeah, right...thank God lurkers count in ad payouts, cause if I EVER had to count on the actual comments of my readers? (besides a few stalkers -- Thankyouverymuch!)....

Any how....The winner is......
stay tuned.... winner actually posted tomorrow morning.. sorry..... I AM that undependable... actually just looking for a few good last minute entries...PLEASE!!!!

mysuestories Very First Contest!!!!

2009-04-15T19:20:00.002-04:00

OK readers! We are a mere hour away from the close of mysuestories very first con
test!

Last chance......NAME THAT LAPTOP!!!!!!!!

See original post here:
MYSUESTORIES: Contest Update

And thanks, dear reader(s) for stopping by!!!!

Worse Than Me Being Wrong? He's Right Again!

2009-04-15T19:02:00.002-04:00

So, constant reader, I've been feeling a little under the weather lately. Actually, aren't we all always under the weather? Other wise, we would never get wet when it rained, or have to drive in snowstorms, 'cause we'd be over the weather? Are you still with me, reader(s)? Or are you thinking that maybe today is the day mysuestories has completely lost her marbles? Or maybe you're just sticking around because today may be the day mysuestories has completely lost her marbles? (I know I would!)

Regardless of why you are still here (You are still here, no?), well, if you are, then I've got the next three minutes to either entertain you or bore the living crap out of you. It's a gamble, but then, I'm a gambling woman. Roll those dice.

So, twenty some odd sentences ago, I started ~~bitching~~ sharing my tale of woe on how I haven't been feeling well. I rolled into work, 'cause I'm that devoted (to the $$$, that is!). But just because I was at my post (posting, as it were) did not mean I was going to be happy about it. And if there's one thing mysuestories
does not do, is keep things to herself. (No shit, Sherlock!)

The cause of my angst was a piercing headache I'd had for going on two days. This was odd for two reasons.

1) I never get headaches. And
2) The only piercings I sport are one on each ear. Yeah, I'm a rebel. I know.

Now, since my sniveling was not confined to working hours, the mountain man had already put on his doctor's lab coat and proclaimed that my head ache was probably a sinus irritation from a cold or allergies. To which I ~~whined~~ dutifully replied I have never had allergies, and I would surely know if I had a cold, thankyouverymuch!

Anyway, half way through my ~~complaining~~ work day, my esteemed colleague-IE: the poor woman sitting directly in front of me offered me a couple of cold tablets. Since the four Advil I'd swallowed that morning did absolutely nothing, I gladly choked back a few more pills.

Within an hour, the headache was gone (Can I get a Hallelujah?), and had been replaced with, well, a cold.
I was now sniffling and sneezing on top of my sniveling and whining. I mean, hell, what did I expect? I took a cold pill and got a cold, right?
Thanks, old colleague of mine. Oh well, at least she's in the direct line of my germ spewing, faucet like nose!

On top of that I had to go home and once again tell the mountain man he was friggin' right. Oh, I tried to hold in the sniffling and sneezing and red eyes, but it was either own up to my cold or confess to being a closet junkie. I looked that bad!

Shit.

Thank God I didn't ask for baby aspirin!

When Is a Flower Not A Flower?

2009-04-14T17:22:00.004-04:00

It has been confirmed by The Guiness Book of World Records that the longest living dog right now is 21 years old. (That's 147, to you and me, Lorne Greene!) As if having a dog who surely must be wearing Depends diapers at the very best scenario is not bad enough, said dog is a dauschund.
Those of you who know mysuestories, (and if you DO NOT,why the heck aren't you reading more?) you are well aware of our doggy threesome. In. Every. Sense. Of. The. Word.

From Doggy Do Doggy

You are probably also well aware that the mountain man has about as much love for these mongrels as he does for dengue fever. (Although, they could be classified as Mounting Dogs (at least Mickey-the little red one.) Bruno would technically be a Mounted Dog. Mountain Man....Mounting dogs...I dunno, I feel a connection here. Obviously one that surpasses the mountain man's heart of iron when it comes to our pooches.

Anyway, the mountain man DOES have a heart when it comes to our children, and hence the dogs have yet to end up in a soup pot thus far.....But if they ever do, I promise, it will appear in recipe form at "In The Kitchen With The Mountain Man" .

However, now faced with the knowledge that we may well be facing another DECADE with these dogs, lets just say, mysuestories and the mountain man have made a pact that we wouldn't bring any other animals into the household. After all, we will have raised and kicked out/ groomed into self supporting adults our children, and these dogs might still be alive!!!!! And possibly in diapers, or little wheel chair contraptions that they will drag along behind them when their legs are too feeble and frail to carry them. Jeez, the mountain man and I haven't even agreed to care for one another like that, no less these useless mongrels!!!

So it was mutually agreed upon that no other animals, fish, snakes, geckos, lizards, spiders, ants ( die, mother f*ckers! I HATE ants!) would take up residence at mysuestories manor.

And then came Easter morning. And the mountain man and our gaming expert/xbox addict ran an unexpected errand. They returned with this:

From In The Kitchen

And this:

From In The Kitchen

All this on top of this one received the day before from Miss Patty and family. (Aw, shucks, thanks guys, I love you, too.)

From In The Kitchen

Aren't they just gorgeous flowers? The average woman would embrace her man and man child and smother them with kisses. Not mysuestories. I immediately got suspicious!

Well of course you would think they were simply flowers, wouldn't you, dear reader. But in fact, they were not. They were a distraction to keep me from noticing the OTHER item the gamester and mountain man snuck in the house.

They also bought a living, breathing this!

From Easter and cooking

It's A Venus Fly Trap!

Apparently Killer(as he is so far undeservedly named) will grow a mouth (or three!)with lots of little teeth that will eat bugs that have the misfortune to think he is just another pretty flower to pollinate, or raw chopmeat handfed by our gaming addict who is apparently willing to learn how to play Xbox with missing fingers!!!!

Later, I grabbed the mountain man by the neck and asked him how he could cave in so easily, that what if next time the kid wanted a cat(blech) or worse, a turtle that might outlive us all! And his answer?

"mysuestories, when this thing grows," stated the object of my affections," maybe it will like hot dogs as well as chop meat."

Pure genius, he is! Now all I gotta do is find hot dog buns big enough for dauchshunds!!!!

Thanks for reading, constant reader!

Mr. Fix-It

2009-04-11T21:00:00.012-04:00

The mountain man has been very busy planning our Easter feast. (He did let me hold the coupons at the market!) However, in the midst of all his shopping and cooking, he decided to change an outdated fan/light in our bedroom with a new light he purchased that matched the decor a bit better.
This is what the original fan/light looked like:

From Easter and cooking

This is what the new light looks like:

From Easter and cooking

We people who chop wood for heat tend to be very energy efficient!

This is what the new light looks like after the mountain man installed it all by himself!

From Easter and cooking

And no, dear reader, those are NOT meds for the electrically challenged on his ladder. That is actually the part of his tool box that contains miscellaneous screws---none of which was the right size for the job!
And that dear reader, is why the mountain man's link to this blog is called In The Kitchen with the Mountain Man and NOT Let's Try To Fix Sh*t Ourselves!

But, boy, can he cook!!!!! (AND he's soooo cute!)

Oh, and constant reader? Have a Happy Easter/ Passover. And thanks for reading!

From Easter and cooking

Contest Update

2009-04-10T20:43:00.002-04:00

OK, constant reader.... there have been some blog lurkers chiming in with names for my "Name the Laptop" MYSUESTORIES: Mysuestories' Very First Contest!!!
contest on Facebook.
I'm going to share them here, and you can feel free to comment on these, or come up with a few of your own....Or....you can continue to simply lurk there in the shadows of my laptop musings, and let me go on believing I am amusing simply an audience of one (Thank you, Christine!)

Anyway...David S. offered up three choices.
1- Lappytoppy
2- Vito
3- Siobahn

I gotta tell ya, by the time I got to number three, I was concerned for David S.' well being!

Now Rosa also chimed in on facebook with Lapadoodle. Not bad, huh? But it's no Siobahn (thank the gods of wireless internet!!)

And of course, actually IN comments, is Christine, with.....Betty. Now, lots of mysuestories personal friends (WHO PROBABLY DON'T EVEN READ THIS EVEN THOUGH THEY SHOULD!!!) know how I feel about THAT one. But Christine also offered up Hal. AND she was THE ONLY ONE so far to post in comments,,,so she's got quite a lot going for her, besides the fact that I've known her longer than I've been coloring my hair> (Yea-- that long!!!!
So chime in, readers, and lurkers alike...
What should I name my dear laptop?????

Take Me Out To the Ball Game? Not Before Lunch!

2009-04-09T19:58:00.006-04:00

Certain songs evoke specific emotions and behaviours in people. It's true. Put on an old Bruce Springsteen ballad, and I'm sure to be driving way over the speed limit, hand surfing as I sing along at the top of my (very out of key) lungs!

Playing a little Marvin Gaye? You know somebody's gonna be gettin' it on.

Back to the 70's...Play a little Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young, and I'm scrubbing the floors. (Weird, no? But that damned "Our House"? Gets me every time! ) Needless to say, I usually hide that CD till springtime. Oh, and constant reader? Let's just keep that little secret here, safely away from the mountain man's prying eyes, OK? Thanks.

My real weakness song, though....The Star Spangled Banner. Crazy? Yes. But true. Years ago, the only time I ever heard that song was at the beginning of a sporting event, with most of the audience lip-syncing through words they barely knew.

Now? Since 9/11, every single radio station plays that song precisely at noon, as a show of the solidarity of the American people. I'm all for this kind of camaraderie. Really. For the first couple of years, hearing that song would get me all teary eyed. I looked forward to that warm feeling that the people of America were once again united together.

But eventually, I realized I was nothing more than Pavlov's dog. Now, I hear those first notes of The Star Spangled Banner, and before you can sing, "Oh say can you see..." I'm running to grab my lunch. The entire nation is banding together, and all I can think about is , "What did the mountain man pack me for lunch?" (Yea, I know. I'm spoiled that way.)

I'm telling you, it's gotten so bad, I'm afraid to go to a baseball game for fear of attacking the hot dog hawker "by dawn's early light"!

Some how, in my very convoluted, paranoid reasoning, I'm thinking this was the whole plan by Bin Laden from the start. First, a devastating attack. Then, they lull us into a sense of false security and togetherness by plying us with an American anthem. Then, while we are all running for our lunches, our human bodies are replaced with Stepford-like pods.

Time to start building the underground bunker? Maybe. Time to increase mysuestories meds? Definitely. But just to be on the safe side? I'm starting to eat my lunch at 11:30. Somebody has got to be on watch when they come with the pods at noon time!

Again, thanks for reading, dear reader. And don't forget to enter our first mysuestories contest here:

MYSUESTORIES: Mysuestories' Very First Contest!!!

I Will Not Beg! I Will Not Beg!!!!!

2009-04-08T19:56:00.003-04:00

OK! This mysuestories contest has been a complete bust so far, ( and while many of you may think anything to do with any hint of boobies is a good thing-this is NOT that kind of bust!! ) this is the bad kind...
As in I have not had even ONE lousy suggestion in the naming of my dearest lap top! Even the Mountain Man hasn't chimed in. (Well, he claimed he submitted a response, but apparently he didn't realize you had to click on the submit button to do so---do ya see what I'm working with here, people?)
Anyway, out of pure self pity and shame, I am extending this same g*ddang contest for yet another week.
Somebody, please!!! Submit a name for dear lappy and put me out of this misery already!
As promised, you can star in your very own personally written by mysuestories tale. Or better yet, I can slander ANY object of your stalkation...

Just please, for the love of all that is bloggy, post a prospective name for my most beloved mysuestories possession.
To catch up on the begining of this sad tale of woe, click here. And post, damn you!

Oh, and dear reader, thanks for reading!

MYSUESTORIES: Mysuestories' Very First Contest!!!

New (and FINAL) winner pick date-----April 17, 2009.

Psst---It's not polite to just lurk in the shadows, you know. I'm just saying!

Chocolate covered Martinis? Almost!

2009-04-07T20:07:00.005-04:00

Last week we here at mysuestories manor were fortunate enough to receive a gift fruit basket from Incredible Edibles! (www.incredibleedibles.com )

From Party Time

Truly a work of art, no?

Not only was the fruit delicious (especially the chocolate covered apples!), but the card was priceless....It read:

What do you mean they brought fruit? It was supposed to be Vodka!
Love,
Dear Friends of mysuestories manor

Anyone can send a fruit basket, but it takes a real friend to know you'd rather have a drink!

Feeding Kids in Today's Economy

2009-04-05T20:07:00.004-04:00

Why is it that I can spend $150.00 on groceries at noon, only to be told by my kids that there is nothing to eat by four o'clock?
What is it about food that comes with more than two steps in the directions that immediately scares off anyone who has never had to purchase their own food?
My kids would literally starve to death were it not for Hot Pockets and Chef Boy R Dee. And, coincidentally, those items are generally left off my shopping list (Hey, I said I'd have kids. I didn't promise to feed them at the cost of my going bankrupt!)
Matter of fact, I went out of my way today to purchase items I knew they wouldn't eat! And think of the savings! Instead of jarred spaghetti sauce, I bought canned tomatoes. They won't even know what they're for! Frozen waffles for breakfast? Try buying powdered pancake mix. That one will be in my cabinets for months! Heh.
Want orange juice? There's the oranges right there in the fruit bowl, sitting next to the never to be made apple juice!
Want your cold cuts to last longer? Hide 'em in a quiche! Planning on hoarding that package of bonbons you snuck into the house? Put them under some vegetables. They wouldn't dare to touch those!
Yep, I think I may be on to something here. I don't plan on shopping again until the cabinets are bare. Tee hee.
Oh, and tomorrow night's dinner? Linguine with garlic and oil. Just as soon as one of those kids learns how to use a pasta machine!
Who says having kids is all work and no play? Hah!

Something New at Mysuestories

2009-04-04T20:26:00.002-04:00

New little tidbit here at mysuestories!!! Click on "In the Kitchen With The Mountain Man" on the right side bar for new receipes weekly......Feedback and ideas welcome at both mysuestories AND In the Kitchen.....
Oh, and constant reader? If, somehow, the Mountain Man gets more followers than mysuestories? Well, let's just say he'd better hide the Ginsu in his kitchen!!!

Thanks for reading... And cooking!

The Killing Fields

2009-04-03T21:12:00.004-04:00

It's a bug's life. Cute movie, no? All those teeny weeny, cutesy little bugs joining forces to overcome the big bad bugs and help each other endure. Heart warming? On the screen, yes. On my kitchen counters? Not so much.

Every spring we get a home invasion from the front lines of the ant hills that lie beyond our home's barriers. It lasts only a week or so. As near as I can figure, these ants are a wee bit ahead of their natural "outside" food sources, so they come to us and all our crumbs to tide them over.

Now, I am usually a most welcoming host to house guests, both invited or not. But I have this uncanny primal urge to squash the shit out of anything daring to crawl across MY kitchen, counters or floors not withstanding. In fact, I have been known to scream "Die, Motherf**ker" while squishing the offending insect.

Now, my most adoring protector and slayer of beasts, (ie: the Mountain Man)gets uncharacteristically nervous upon hearing the words of a heathen warrior spill from mysuestories virginal (All right, readers...a little poetic license here, OK?)-where were we? Ah, yes, the not so virginal bugspeak of mysuestories.... I think the Mountain Man's fear is based largely on the fact that a strange, maniacal grin accompanies my banshee cries as I take the invading insect into my death roll....That, and the fact that I may still carry this urge to kill long after the ants retreat!

Anyway, the Mountain Man thought it best to take the matter of the Killing of the Beasts into his own hands. He ran out to our local bug killing galleria and returned with little bait traps that he strategically placed around the battle front.

These traps promised to lure the ants with a food source filled with poison, which, since ants are such helpful, community oriented little bastards, they would then bring back to their nest (read: battle-bunker)and infect the rest of their little commie comrades.

Well, after a few days of sneaking into my kitchen like Rambo with a knife between his teeth, (although I was armed with a paper towel and PMS...I DID wear a bandanna for effect, though!) I did noticed fewer ants running around my house.

Note: I did not say FEWER ants IN my house. Just fewer ants RUNNING. It appears that the ants invading MY home? They're gluttons, much like the rest of mysuestories manor occupants. Apparently, our combat ants eat themselves into a stupor, and then die before ever sharing the poison with the rest of the ant army back at bunker hill.

Great. Now I've got to purchase enough bait to feed the entire f***ing army, ONE. ANT. AT. A. TIME.

While I'm waiting, I'm honing my Sylvester Stallone attack moves and grunts. Oh, and in case it all goes terribly wrong? I'm learning how to stitch myself up with a boar's hair.

What I want, is what EVERY ant ridden American wants....Is for OUR Country to love us, as much as we love RAID!

Game on.

A Mother's Eulogy

2009-04-02T14:51:00.003-04:00

Life is not measured by the breaths we take but by the moments that take our breath away"- anonymous

As anyone who knows me, words have always come easy to me, no matter whether the topic was a silly little story of high school hi-jinx written for the Internet, or a goodbye poem for my dear, sweet cousin Bobby when I was so much younger than today. And yet today, I find myself at a loss for words - which for anyone who knows mysuestories, that never happens.
These, the most important words I may ever write, do not come easily. So I will write what I know, what I can hold not just today on paper, but in my heart forever.

My mother was also a woman of many words. I have her to thank for my love of words, although hers may have been a bit different than mine.
For my Mary, those words were of sharing a love for cooking, crafts, and a love for all things that a mother could only share with her first born daughter. For this sister, today is a great loss of a best friend as well as her mother.
For Donna, many of our mother's words sounded like "You're grounded", as both she AND our mother tested the strengths of family ties as they tread through the teen years. Between this sister and Cousin Karen, it's a wonder she didn't skin them alive some summers. And yet, as both she and our mother learned, these tests only strengthened their love for one another.
For me, I have my love of words, of always thinking I know EVERYTHING about anything, and that as the baby of our family, I could do no wrong.
For MY Dad, there were words of love, and the endurance of a marriage that spanned fifty four years together, and I myself never heard an angry word between them. His loss, today, to me is the only thing that hurts more than my own pain as I write this. Theirs is a love I could only hope to achieve (though it's not for lack of trying-- AND I HAVE BEEN TRYING!)

There are memories of smoke filled Bingo rooms, where we would run around like Indians until threatened to be tied to a chair. Memories of how our mother would buy us our own cards, but you couldn't yell BINGO if you won and were under 18 yrs old.
There were bowling league nights with Aunt Ellen and Uncle Eddie, and more importantly, pizza and chips for dinner as we watched them play as we did our homework on hard plastic chairs.
We spent entire summers on the docks in Baldwin, crabbing and snapper fishing. Mary, getting bit on the toe by a huge crab, and my mother helping her to catch that very crab, where they then followed it to Mary's plate to the dinner table that night!

As kids, we never had to look for where our Christmas presents were hidden. We only had to find her list of all the toys she bought for us. It was ALWAYS in the BINGO bag. Where else?

The New Year's Eve parties every year! Daddy would get a stomach ache for three days before. And Mommy and Aunt Evy ringing in the New year clear through to breakfast, which my Dad ALWAYS lovingly cooked and served them! And I can't imagine she was hungry after all night with Aunt Evy, but she ALWAYS ate that breakfast!

It is fitting that we are gathered here in our family's church today, the church that has become a symbol of our family's life, our baptisms, communions, and confirmations, as well as those of my mother's grandchildren. This place, the start of our family life to this, the passage of our mother into the Kingdom of God.

Like the ripples in a pond, the work of one woman can spread out and touch the lives of many others.---Anonymous

Our mother.
She IS that pond. And we, her family, her husband, her three daughters, her six grandchildren....We are the luckiest ripples that ever were.

I LOVE YOU, MOM. You take my breath away.

'Nuff said. Tomorrow we will return to our regularly scheduled mysuestories.
Oh, and that contest? Winner to be chosen April 8th.
As always, constant reader, thanks for stopping by.

Mysuestories' Very First Contest!!!

2009-03-26T20:47:00.003-04:00

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 Man...my 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! And....no 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.