Addicted to Addiction?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Lament of the Second Born Child

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

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

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

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

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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!

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.


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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

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)

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

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

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?