my empty marble bag

**What kind of person am I that I can feed 4 pairs of socks into the washer two at a time, and when I retrieve them from the dryer have a total of 7 or 9?
**How come I'm never informed I have a Spongebob sticker on my butt until I've spent 6 hours walking around a zoo?
**I put fishsticks on a baking sheet. Then I put them in the oven at the alloted temperature for the alloted time. So how can they be burnt to a crisp outside and frozen inside? (Sheer haute cuisine, I suspect)
**Why do I always choose the check-out lane and get stuck behind the little old lady who has to write a check for $3.64 to pay for her bananas and loaf of bread?
**If a 7 year old tells you you're a bad driver, is it okay to give him a crack upside his head?
**Why do I feel old because I remember the words to the Fraggle Rock theme song, and how come I'm the only one who remembers the Fraggles anyhow?
(Gobo, Red, Mokey, Boober, Wimbley....and don't forget the Gorgs and the Doozers!)
**Why do people get rude with me when they get a call-waiting beep and leave me on hold in phone limbo, so I hang up?
**Do telemarketers have souls?

The joy of the 4th percentile

My birth control pills, which I have been taking since I was 16 (minus the 9 months or so with the twins) are said to be 96% effective. Needless to say, my husband is strutting around because he is now in that ever-elusive 4th percent of guys. Which also, needless to say, means we'll have another member joining this dysfunctional family this coming winter. His super sperm have no limits, apparently. Happy happy. Joy joy. Cry with us? Rejoice with us? I'll let you know.

My own personal Monster-in-Law

I know, I know. All the stories about horrid mothers-in-law are so cliche. But I was awoken at 11:oo pm last night to be informed my own personal horror would be visiting us today. I would rather have been awoken and told that our front porch collapsed, or the street sweeper destroyed my truck, or even that one of the boys was suddenly a female or something. My husband has no warm and cozy feeling sof rhis mother, either. She visits us once every six months for an hour or two. in another cliche, nothing I do is right. I'm too young for my husband (I really must do something to remedy that), I'm a bad housekeeper, a bad cook, a bad mother. The kids are 4. They always have scatches, bruises and scraped knees. But as soon as she spots one of them, she'll grab them and turn them to me, and this is how the dialogue goes:
MIL: "What happened? What did you do?"
me: "He fell down, Joyce."
MIL: "Why did you let him fall down?"
me: "I didn't let him fall I pushed him down!"
So, now I must be off to clean and polish my house. Maybe I should loofah down my lizards so that any shedding skin doesn't offend her eyes or something. Also, I have to abuse my children a little, so that she can play affectionate-and-caring-grandmother. Plus, I have to throw all my husband's clothes into the yard and grub them up a little, and then leave them in a basket outside the laundry room. (That's a little extra so she can say I'm not taking care of him, either) If I knew what plane she was coming in on, I'd call in a bomb threat. Her #1 reason I'm a horrible person who should not be entrusted with anything? (For real here, people) I'm a natural blue-eyed blonde that stands 5' 7" and weigh 130 lbs. Apparently to her, I don't look "real" and I will probably abandon my family and run off with some Latino lover, only to end up whoring myself on the street for $10 a trick.
On a side note that is completely, totally unrelated: Does anyone know where I can pick up some arsenic cheap? Or possibly belladonna?

Drywall, drywall everywhere, yet all our walls are cracked

My husband has his own, very successful, drywall business. He works for a home manufacturer across the river in Pennsylvania. He is very good at what he does. So why does every wall in our house have cracks in it? First of all, we rent our home. Its large, and old, and contains two rambunctious boys, numerous lizards, frogs, hamsters and such. I guess it's the old adage about the shoemakers kids' going barefoot. He never has the time for our house. But there is dryed up joint compound all over the place. Anyone who's been near the stuff knows that when it dries, it crumbles easily and falls off clothing, skin, etc. I'll tell you this story real quick. One of the boys started running a fever that kept climbing to about 103 degrees. We took him to the ER, and he was diagnosed with an inner ear infection. (Which neither boy has had in his life) While the doc was examining his ear, he noticed a large, infected cut near his eardrum. Cleaning it, he found......a chunk of drywall compound. Resulting from: A wet-willy given to him by his dad when dad had some drywall under his fingernails. How did a normal person like me end up in a life like this?

I'm telling Dr. Phil that you ruined my childhood memories

My heart has sunk. All is lost. Nothing will ever be the same again. They have remade Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. This is the end for me. Johnny Depp cannot be Willy Wonka. It's not right. It's sacrilege, damnit. Gene Wilder is the only Willy Wonka. Why are they doing this to me??? What have I done wrong??? And, now I also hear that a remake of Revenge of the Nerds is in the making. And Howard Stern has redone Porky's. Is nothing sacred? What will I have to look back on after this? Ashton Kutcher as Gilbert and Sean William Scott as Booger? NO!!!! What about PeeWee and Meat? Oh Lord this can't be happening. What next....a remake of Labyrinth, or maybe Sesame Street's Follow That Bird? (Shit, now I went and gave them more ideas)

Why creepazoid??

The first andonly time I have ever heard of this phrase was in a Stephen King book, The Dark Half. It's used to describe a slimy reporter that's a waste of air. But that's not why I chose it. It seems this little guy brought out the worst in everyone. And that seems to be my specialty. Since I started this blog, my husband and they guys who work for him read it everyday to see what I've posted. They've seen I pulled my brother (who's like my best friend), my parents, and even my kids into the mix. They're scared to death of the day they'll see something about themselves. I have the unusual talent to be able to always see the darker, more cynical side of things. In other words, I bring out the worst. People who spend long periods of time in my company generally come to like me. But sometimes my mouth says things before my brain can stop them. So, their baser natures come out in my prescence. And in life, as in the blog, I tell the truth. So one day, I'll have to describe the circus, uh.... I mean his work crew. And I'll probably just tell them I didn't post anything that day.

Eeek! Friday the 13th! and other stupid superstitions

Admittedly, I didn't even remember that today was the most superstitious of all days. The worst thing to ever happen to me on on a Fri.13 was a pop quiz. I'm a moderately superstitious person. If I spill salt, I throw some over my shoulder. I will not split a pole when walking with someone I like (If I don't like them, not only will I split the pole, I'll probably shove them in the street or something). If someone else is washing their hands at the same sink as me, I will not change the soap directly from hand to hand, I'll set it down instead. Ladders are not unlucky. Black cats are not unlucky. The only unlucky thing that can happen would be if you were standing on a step ladder and a dog chased a black cat under it, hit the ladder, and you fell. I can see how that would be construed as unlucky. I will not light three on a match, but only because I'm tired of my broke ass friends mooching everything they can get. If they can't find their own damn match, screw 'em. I will not sit down at a table if the number then comes out to 13. But only for the same reason as mentioned above. Damn moochers. I won't drink out of a cracked glass. But only because that poses some health issues rather than superstitious ones. Breaking a mirror is only unlucky if you have no other mirror. I do knock on wood if I'm speaking of something favorable that I would like to continue. But considering all the cheap fiberboard furniture floating around, most likely it's not real wood anyway. I firmly belive in moons and goochers if my buddies and I are flipping for something. In the case of either happening, I know it's my coins being used and if it comes up a moon, I'll get my dimes back. If it's a goocher, I'll never see them again. Friday the 13th is just another calendar day. It could just as easily have been Tuesday the 22nd that we all got nervous on.

Does the Tooth Fairy have e-mail?

I certaintly hope so, because my goddamn dentist can explain my problem to her himself. The drill-happy bastard ripped out two of my teeth, and wouldn't even let me keep them afterwards. So, here I sit with a mouthful of gauze, two big ol' gaping holes in my gums that weren't there this morning, and I'm not allowed to eat, drink or smoke. Come on, man, that last one is just mean! And I asked him what they did with all the teeth. He said they're sterilized and thrown away. (Which is good, because I had imagined him using everyone's pulled teeth and selling them to spray paint companies to get that weird little rattle in the can) I asked for my teeth. First I got a weird look. Then he told me no. Those teeth had been with me for damn near two decades and I wasn't even allowed to keep them. Bastard. I should've bit him when I had the chance.

More views on our strange way of life

Tattoos. Now, I've got plenty of them. So does my hubby, my brother, and quite a few friends. But sometimes I truly think that people get them just to have them, and not for any meaningful reason. Okay, I'm not saying that every tat has to have deep personal meaning for you. But you should not be able to walk into any ink parlor in the world, point at a random design and say "Yeah, put that on me" The reason for this post is I have a friend, who shall remain nameless. (Actually, I should tell you his name just so everyone can join in on ranking this guy with me) He stopped at our house to show off his new tattoo. He got Mel Gibson's face in full blue & white Braveheart makeup tattoo'ed on his shoulder. It's not bad looking. Pretty good likeness. But what I really, really wanted to know, was why exactly? Did Mel call him up and ask for his pic so he could get a tattoo of him? I doubt it. But, hey you never know. Another dumb guy I know spent three days letting his friend put a tribal design on the back of his neck. Now everyone with ink knows that as it starts healing, some ink will peel away from the skin. Usually it's just a little. But I noticed right off that there was a lot of ink peeling up. One week after completion, and you couldn't even tell it'd ever been done. A 15 year old kid I knew got a weird mushroom tat on his neck, because his girlfriend liked the design. (It was kinda gay looking) They broke up a few months later. I know people that have gotten Nike checks, the dog from Red Dog beer (and we all know how long that stayed popular), the donkey from Retarded Animal Babies, Kenny from South Park, and one girl got a dolphin that looks like Flipper needs some serious cosmetic surgery. But the winner in really dumb tattoos is my cousin. He got a leg with a high heel on the foot done down his left arm, and another down the left side of his chest. So naturally, with his arm pit hair it looks like.....well, hopefully you can use your imagination. But that's not his award winner. He also has a rope tattoo'ed around his neck in a noose style, with the loops of the noose going down his back. Once again, I only asked why.

I'll give up my controller when you pry it from my cold, dead hands

I've been a video game addict since I was 8 and my parents got my brother and me an 8-bit Nintendo. We worshipped that thing. By the time we upgraded systems, we must've had 50 games. (Plus the game Genie and the code books) The bad thing is, it's still hooked up in my parents basement, along with our Atari and the multitude of games my dad collected for it. (Pitfall rocks!)
We took good care of our crap. Hence, my SNES is currently hooked up and entertaining my twins. Kids whining? Throw in Mario Paint for an hour or so. Unfortunately, one mouse causes a few problems. I also have my original PlayStation (now 8 years old) and my XBox hooked up. I admit, our entertainment center looks a little funky with the variety of technology spread all over it. I am a junky. One day you'll probably meet me in a church basement with a "Hello, My Name Is _____" sticker on my shirt. But I know that I won't be alone. For one thing, my brother and my kids will be sitting on either side of me. We have been known to waste whole periods of time trying to defeat a certain boss or get past a particular section. I'm not talking about an hour here or there. I mean 9 or 10 hours. It's really cutting into my Dungeons and Dragons RPG time. It wouldn't be quite so bad if I hadn't found a Super GameBoy. So now I can play all my classic GB games on the SNES right there on my 32" TV. My husband doesn't recognize me without a controller of some sort in my hand and an ashtray beside me. I need help. I know all the Pokemon and their special moves. (No, the kids don't play it. I do) I argue with the boys when they pretend to have trainer battles, and Travis says that his Geodude can beat Alec's Vileplume. I cut in...."No, Travis. Use Charmeleon, rock is weak against plant type!"

Getting My Geek On

I'll start by saying that for my b-day this year, my older brother purchased an XBox for me, and we pimped it out. We did everything but put spinners on it. We yanked the cover off and filled it with blue el-wire and blue LEDs. Then we slapped a retro virus looking skin on it. We also had to pimp out a couple of Mad Catz controllers. Filled 'em with lights, too. So anyway, until two days ago I had a total of 1 game. Tony Hawk 4. So I bought Simpsons Road Rage, Sonic Collection, The Suffering & The Cat in the Hat at a pawn shop. The Suffering is a dangerous game. Leave the lights on when you play this one. Demons and devils and bagpipe lookin' monsters jump from everywhere. The voices in the inemates' head are great. "Calm Down" "No, Fuck Him" But I have honestly become completly addicted to the Simspons and the Cat. Now the movie for the Cat was like a junior Gigli. Horrible. (Not as bad as Garfield though) But I have to admit, the game is cool. It's geared for kids, so it's colorful and loud and fun. But not so easy. It's getting harder and harder. (So what if I don't let the boys get a turn anymore?) If anyone's reading this, I'm dying to know how to get past the car in the garage level. We're stuck and going around in circles. Help would be appreciated. I'll make a trade. I'll give you Road Rage shortcuts in exchange. Now that game is fun. Especially after you unlock Otto & the schoolbus, or either of the snow plows. It's hard to get safe driving bonuses with them, but the Road Rage points go through the roof. So far, I've only earned like 4 million. I need 6 more. I figure if I keep up the pace I'm at now, I'll have it beat in a day or so, but I'll still be wondering in circles on the Cat. So that's what I've been doing for 2 days. Lord, please let the weather clear up so I get expose my vampiric skin and bloodshot eyes to some fresh air and real sun light!

The de-evolution of man

I wasn't sure at first, but now it's become pretty clear that the human race is getting dumber. It's the little things that make the changes so evident. Why is it when the batteries in the remote control are dead, people either push the buttons really hard, or stretch their arm all way out to get closer to the TV? Do you see what I mean? Men and women are likening themselves to Neaderthals everyday and not even noticing. Okay, maybe that's a little too cruel, but we are definitely becoming decidedly un-civilized. The most disgusting display of this? I can tell you. Overweight men who wear t-shirts that hang just an inch or so above the waist of their jeans. Unfortunately, their hairy stomachs hang two or three inchs over the waistband of said jeans. Leaving a sight which is better not visualized, but I'm sure you know what I mean. Don't laugh yet, ladies. Because some of us are just as bad. A tip: if the sweater/blouse/t-shirt is so snug that you have to keep tugging it down every few seconds, then that means it is too small, and find something else to wear. If the bulges that show around your bra are bigger than the bulges in your bra, then, once again wear something baggier. I'm not trying to be mean. (Well.......) All I'm saying is that people don't care how they look or act anymore. I saw a woman in Giant Eagle wearing a faux fur coat, red sweat pants, a floral scarf on her head, and clogs on her bare feet. I'm assuming here that she doesn't own a mirror. In a nutshell people, even if you're only running to Walmart, take a look at yourself as you walk out the door.

My vegan-hippie-nudist-biker parents

Let me start by saying I had a very normal and happy childhood. Seriously. We were close with a lot of aunts and uncles and cousins. We all got together on holidays & birthdays. We still get together and play Trivial Pursuit and have cook outs. Growing up, we were so the "Normal" family. Mom stayed home with us, and dad worked in a steel mill. (still does) We weren't perfect. We had money problems, I smoked too much pot, and my brother skipped a lot of school. But we were happy. We got along. When I reached high school, something happened to my parents. My mom went back to work, and my dad, since he got home form work at the same time we got home from school, became the 'home' parent. He cooked dinner and took care of the pets and stuff. However, at first, my any dinner my dad cooked was something he could throw into a deep fryer, or a variation of Hamburger Helper. He got better and started making these gourmet casseroles and fancy dishes. Now, my parents have always been bikers. To this day, my mother is still the only over 50, overweight female riding a NightHawk in our small town (A fact my friends never failed to remind me of). Anyway, the changes didn't become severe until my brother and I mover out on our own. First, they discovered a Nudist Colony. Now, my folks are both plus-sized people. But apparently they people that also go their are not the Hollywood version of nudists. So my brother and I lived with it. It was like...."Oh well, mom & dad are having a mid-life crisis. They'll get over it" Not a chance. 2 years ago, my brother shot his first deer. (Actually I think it was a just a Great Dane or something.....that thing was puny) I'd shot my first deer when I was 18, but I made sure not to brag to my 'sensitive' parents about it. Jim couldn't keep his big mouth shut about his, though. So my parents decided it was so wrong to kill animals to eat. Hence, instant vegetarians. Not only instant, but extreme, too. They got rid of every animal product in their house. Leather and all. (My father died a little on the day he turned over his well-loved leather jacket. But it found a good home.....with me!) Anyway, so now my parents have eschewed all variations of meat & eggs. They're so fanatical about it that they've started to lean toward the sun light some days. Not only that, but they also take great pleasure in telling everyone else what's in the food they eat. I really don't care how chickens are treated at the farm, I just know I want chicken nuggets, damn it. So that's their story. Normal meat loving people gone wrong. God save them.

Amanda and the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad birthday

I've held it in and it's time to rant and rave. Sunday was my birthday, the big 24. I know, nothing special to write home (or a blog) about, but still it's my birthday. Well, I'd made plans at the beginning of April to have my kids go the the grandparents Saturday night so hubby and I could go out to dinner and enjoy an evening of frolicking naked aorund the house. No such luck. We ended up taking a 2 hr drive to Akron on Saturday morning. For the first time in my life I was car sick. I mean completely miserable. We then spent a jolly six hours with hubby's brother. A man who, by the way, has the personality of soap. I could have spent the day hemming my curtains at home and been just as entertained. But, they hadn't seen each other in years, so I went along happily. On a good note, the boys were remarkably well behaved. Probably because I bribed them with a trip to the toy store and threatened them with cancellation of their sleepover. Well, to make a long story shorter (too late) we got home, my mom picked up the kids and hubby took a nap. Needless to say, we never made it to dinner that night. But I was still feeling pretty lousy, so we stayed home and watched a Star Wars marathon. With a promise from hubby that we'd go out to lunch the next day, I took my aching stomach to bed. Sunday: the big b-day. Picked up kids, got them home and we all got dressed. Since my favorite restaraunt is a bar/diner type place, I called to check their Sunday hours. A polite man who answered the phone cheerfully informed me they were not opened that day. (They've been remodeling) I slunk back into my sweat pants and played my Pokemon game. So, I persuaded hubby to make lunch, saying I shouldn't, couldn't and wouldn't cook on my birhtday. So he made lunch. Steak. Which happens to be his favorite food, and my least favorite. My birthday dinner consisted of leftover baked beans and those butter noodles from a pouch things. Still, I tried not to complain. I managed to not complain until a friend of ours stopped over. He's still in high school, and he's a real sweet kid. He usually plays D &D with us. When hubby and Joey asked me to run to the store with a list of soda and junk food they wanted, that's when I cracked. I was on the verge of asking them to sign an IOU that stated that on their respective birthdays they would be required to be in my services. So that was my day. No favorite meal at Margaret's, no monkey sex, no special treatment. Ah well, maybe next year.