We had family come up this past weekend, and we took them to a restaurant that we had eaten at several times prior. It had been great every single time, so, of course, this time, it sucked.


Ugh.


This has happened a few times: We like a place, decide we should take so-and-so there when we're going out to dinner with them, and it then becomes awful. I think we could probably close places down just by having friends meet us there. Really.


There is only one kind of food that this doesn't happen with: New Mexican food. Maybe that's because New Mexican food is just the best kind of food that there is, or maybe it's because the kind of place we go to for the best NM food is vastly different from the kind of place we go to for other nice evenings out.


For a nice evening out with friends, we pick a place that has nice ambiance, maybe a good selection of wines or some kind of awesome mixed drinks and enthusiastic servers who make a person feel really superior because of his food and beverage selections.


New Mexican food? Not so much. Any place that looks really shiny and new and clean is bound to have crappy food. Find an older, more run-down place. A bulletin board with business cards on it or some kind of stand where they can sell handmade jewelry (bought in China) should be in the entrance area, and you should hear some kind of either heavy metal or mariachi music blaring in the kitchen. Cooks singing along to the music is a definite plus. Portions should be ginormous and everything should be completely covered in cheese. Make sure the menus look really filthy, as well. Look around for that panic that occurs in a person's eyes when the water in his glass is getting really low and there's no waiter in sight, but he just can't make himself stop eating until he gets a refill. That's a sign of a great meal with NM food. It has to be good enough to warrant the severe burning that happens when the water runs out before the food does.


The flip side of this, of course, is that bad NM food is worse than other kinds of bad food. This is a train wreck that can't be watched by outsiders because they're too busy running for the bathroom.


Yeah.


If it tastes funky, whatever happens, DO NOT EAT IT. You will pay. If you already ate it (because really, anything covered in cheese automatically becomes edible), just remember: You'll be alright. Its nothing a bottle of Pepto and some ginger ale won't cure.

I broke down and joined Pinterest. Everyone was talking about how great it is and I thought I'd give it a go. Here are my thoughts:

First of all, I like it way better than Twitter. Twitter was too aimed at other people and the pressure of coming up with clever tweets on a daily basis was way too high for me, seeing as how most people probably don't appreciate my fart humor nearly as much as I do. Oh well, at least I think I'm hilarious.

Secondly, I like pictures. A lot. They are colorful and pretty and I think I may need 500 boards because I don't like the whole mixing of topics thing. 

Which goes along with the third thing: Why the cuss do they give me a bunch of pre-named boards? That isn't going to divide up my pictures properly. I made my own boards, named Random and Crafty-something-or-other (I can't remember...it's been like a day) and now I'm super unhappy because I know I need to go back and organize.

Finally, I think I may be in trouble. There are way too many crafting projects on there that look like ultra super mega fun. I do love to craft, particularly when I'm going through an "I hate my job" phase, which, for me, has been going on since 2010. Yep. I hate it but I'm sticking it out. Weighing my options.

Maybe I need to make an I Hate My Job board.

Maybe I need to get a better attitude and just be glad that I have a job.

Maybe I need to distract myself with bright and happy images of what thin people have in their homes, wear, do on weekends, and eat and drink (without fear of whether or not their pants will fit on Monday). 

Aaaaand we're right back to why I joined Pinterest. Ah, it's the fricking circle of life. I think I may need more coffee.

Mostly, I would just like to avoid the hepatitis. A, B, and C. All of them.


Is that so wrong?


I'm not judging people that have it. I know it's not as though they went to the hepatitis store and picked up a case of C, but I'd really like to avoid that as long as possible.


Thus, my usage of half of a tub of sanitizing wipes yesterday.


I can't help it; it's almost as though I can feel the germs on my hands and I must wash it off ASAP.


ASAP.


Plus, I know that hepatitis A, at least, is transmitted through fecal/oral contact. Fecal. My fear of poop? Totally rational. 


So lay off. I just want to avoid all of those transmittable diseases through a program of intense washing, followed with sterilizing wipes and then more washing. And then some more washing. Not with antibacterial soap, though; I just use the normal kind and scrub the crap out of my hands.


Literally.


Poop is bad.

It seems to me that the people who post the most stuff on their Facebook pages about activism are the ones who are the least likely to actually do anything really effective about the issues they supposedly care so much about. I do have some friends that I know for sure actually do shop only at local grocers and health food stores and don't ever go the the evil Wal-Mart, or people that are actually politically active in a real, non digital way; however, these people are few and far between. Mostly, people just seem to post stories and then that's about it.


I say, if you believe a certain way, then it's a lot more valuable to drag your butt to the polls and vote, shop locally, or take the dang bus than it is to simply beleaguer your fb friends with your multiple high-and-mighty opinions. Vote in all of the elections, including (and especially) the small ones: County council, mayor and the like. That's probably going to work out a lot better for you than putting up posters about how good/horrible the president is, or how no one should ever feed their children anything with sugar in it (that one seems realistic). I also enjoy the inevitable animal cruelty ones, who are posted by people that I know have way more animals than they can afford to care for properly. Maybe think about that.


Also, when I see you driving to the grocery store five times in a day, it makes me think that maybe you ought to re-think your stance on global warming. You know, combine trips or something if you care so much. Oh, and also...you may want to try not running your a/c all day long. Enjoy the sweaty goodness that will come with that glow of self-satisfaction as you bask in the heat and humidity.


Me? Why, I don't really have any deep feelings at all, so I'm good. 


Really, though. Can't we all just try to be sensible? I don't waste gas because it's a waste, but I'm not walking a mile and a half in the heat to go buy milk. I try to support local businesses because I hope others will support me, but there's no way I'm going to buy a $5,000 couch when the big stores sell one I like for $500. I don't abuse children, animals or my elders, so I think I'm good there, and I drink organic milk. The produce is too expensive and, really, I don't eat enough vegetables anyway so I don't see it making a big difference to my health. Oh yeah, I vote. Every election, every time. Voting is kind of a big deal.


There, now. I've survived all of these years and I'm just fine. If you believe in a cause, that's great. Just believe in it in real-life and not just on the Facebook, por favor.

I have this relative who's about to have a baby and I'm very excited about it. Mostly because it contributes to the cluttering up of my Facebook page with baby pictures (I'm not being sarcastic here...I flipping love pictures of babies and puppies and pretty much anything else...I think it might be the bright colors), but also because I'm pretty sure her kid is going to be fun.


Why shouldn't she be? I mean, the rest of the offspring of my cousins have been cute and funny, and they're only tiny little kids thus far, so we obviously dominate the world with the coolness of our gene pool. I think we were programmed to have cool kids, probably by our Grandma. Well, those of us who are having kids are having great ones. The rest of us get to sit back and watch the coolness happening and then get a good night's sleep. Ha ha ha.


Anyway, I'm pretty psyched to see how this one's going to turn out. If she's anything like her Mom, we're all in a lot of trouble. Especially her Mom. I realize that this probably isn't encouraging, but this is the person who could argue her way out of anything by the time she was 8 months old. And I don't mean 8 months on the outside. I mean pre-birth. As in, I'm pretty sure, although I wasn't really there, that she actually argued her way out of the womb because she was ready. She doesn't strike me as the type that would just sit back and let birth happen. I'm pretty sure when she was done, her day-timer alarm went off in there, and she said, "Alright. It's time!" And it was done.


Most of you would think this sort of behavior is a little advanced for a fetus, but if you knew her, you'd know that it could've totally happened that way.


Have I mentioned she's a lawyer? I mention it every five minutes when I'm around her, because I'm sort of trying to live vicariously. She doesn't use it enough. If it was me, every time I wanted anything, I would say, "Excuse me, I realize we're all in line for the toilet, but I need to get in there first. I'm a lawyer." I would then watch all the ladies step aside, sort of like Moses and the Red Sea, and proudly go in to do my lawyerly business.


Alas, when one is a musician, this doesn't work (I don't even want to think about what would happen if I said that, except substituting 'receptionist' for 'lawyer'...the results could be tragic). The only time the phrase"...because I'm a musician" works is when we're discussing why someone sucks on American Idol or whatever. Then, though, it's mainly just me, shaking my head and trying not to sound like a douche while explaining why I don't like those kinds of shows (no one on there is any good at the kind of music I do, anyway, so my area of expertise is way outside that circle), and still sounding like a stuck-up hoity-toity poop-head.


Maybe I should use stuck-up hoity-toity poop-head as my new occupation. "Excuse me, but I need to get my Starbucks right away. I'm a stuck-up hoity-toity poop-head."


Yeah. That works. Now, where was I?


Oh, yes, yay for more babies. We've already got several keepers, so I think this one's going to fit right in. On the proper day, exactly nine months to the minute after conception, this Mom's going to look at her watch, and say something like, "I think it's time." Then she will composedly get to the hospital and inform them that she will be needing her birthing room, where she will quickly and efficiently deliver that baby. Because she's a lawyer.


Did I mention that I've decided anyone with the temperament to be a lawyer has superpowers? They do. So watch out, everybody. There's another member of our happy little clan on her way, and I'm pretty sure she's going to be a force to be reckoned with. Because her Mom's a lawyer.


http://www.dailymotion.com/video/x8k4i0_saturday-night-live-the-view-star-j_fun

Airports are a great place to people-watch. I would probably go there on weekends and just sit and make fun of everyone all day long if they'd let me, but that would probably be some kind of violation of some kind of law, and I'd end up get strip-searched by the TSA. 


Which is fine, except I'd need to know when it would happen so I could wear suitable undergarments and bring lots of Kleenex for the inevitable crying.


However, I had a plane ticket this time, so they couldn't kick me out. I will now share my adventures with you. They're not that adventurey, but pretend like you're amazed. It'll boost my self-esteem.


The weekend had an awkward start when, after going through the x-ray, it was decided that my purse contained a small metal object that looked dangerous. The agent was going to use his utility knife to cut my purse open, but finally agreed to listen to me as I pointed out that the zipper did, in fact, open, and that was where the object was located. I had left my cool little Leatherman tool (which, by the way has scissors, tweezers and pliers...no knife) in my purse's "secret" pocket. Along with an assortment of lady products, all of which I'm sure he thoroughly enjoyed handling. Maybe he learned a valuable lesson, too: Zippers sometimes open pockets. No utility knife needed.


I had to walk all the way out and go back to the car, because I wasn't going to check my bag just to put that tool in there, but I didn't want to throw it out, either. It's awesome.


Wait. Now that I think of it, the awkward start really happened on the way to the elevator after parking the car. Yep, because that's when we realized that my mom's bag, in spite of being cute and ever-so-stylish, did, in fact, weigh 500 pounds, which meant that there was no way she could carry it. Even for five minutes. So guess who got to carry all of the carry-on bags?


Yep. Good thing I'm built like an ox.


Anyhow, we finally got on our plane (after an hour-long delay) and made it to our destination.


The weekend was actually great...I always worry a little bit because sometimes for no good reason at all I get really freaked out and weird about germs, but I didn't. Also, we stayed with some really fun people who had an ample supply of alcohol and cake, so that was also good (there was actually cake-flavored alcohol, so they pretty much had all of their bases covered). I went to a baby shower and wasn't forced to play any games that involved diapers, and that was also wonderful. I learned a lot of travel tips, got to hug my Grandma multiple times, learned some new slang for use in the ghetto, and got to bring home a fancy cigar for my husband, so I'd say the weekend was definitely a success. My family is pretty gosh darn awesome.


However, when we got back to the car after flying home (the airport was not even remotely interesting or hilarious on the way back), we realized that we'd lost our parking ticket, so we had to pay an extra day's parking, and then my Mom realized that she'd left her iPad on the plane, so she has to drive back to the airport and pick it up (they found it, thank goodness).


So, yes, adventures with travel. I highly recommend picking up a bottle of the cake-flavored vodka for use before, during, and after all trips. It seems like that's the key to vacation success.

I'm going to design a new pill. A pill that makes people less stupid. That will be taking up lots and lots of my time from now on, so I'll probably have to quit my job.

If I do that, though, I won't need to invent the pills.

What to do, what to do?

Maybe I could just work on it in my spare time, but it's pretty urgent. I mean, there are some people out there that are a kind of stupid that is just unbelievable.

Unbelievable.

Ugh.

I won't even need to market it. Once people get wind of this kind of drug being available, they'll line up to give it a try, right? I totally would. Why are the drug companies not working on this?

I could probably use some, myself. We could all use a little less stupid.

Yesterday was the last lesson for one of my college-bound students. This particular student happens to be one that I think will keep singing, as he seems to really enjoy it. Anyway, I gave him a piece of advice that I think bears repeating:

Life is crappy. Always.

I think that's a useful lesson to learn, and I'm sure I've addressed it before, in many ways. Life will never get perfect. There are moments when it seems like there aren't any problems and it'll be all smooth sailing from there on out.

Yeah, no.

That's when the car breaks down or your dog dies or you get a horrible bout of Norovirus that leads to a situation in which your voice teacher sees your naked butt while a tiny little Indian doctor who speaks very little English is giving you a shot to stop the barfing.

Or maybe that's just me.

My student seemed to think this advice was depressing, but it's really intended to be the opposite. See, we're all in this together. Everyone is constantly getting smacked in the face by life, so we shouldn't ever feel that we're alone in the crappiness.

I thought, when I graduated, that life was going to get so much easier now that I had control of the reins. This was a stupid way to think. When you have no parents to blame everything on, life gets a lot more complicated because you realize a lot of that crap you blamed on your parents was actually your fault. Geez.

Anyway, maybe if we didn't always think it was us against everyone else, the bad things wouldn't seem so bad. We all have burdens to bear and poo to deal with, forms to fill out and jury duty, weight issues and skin issues, smell issues and (my favorite) germs. Lots and lots of them. Our species keeps on going, though, and we find new crap to contend with (because, really, most of the problems we have to deal with stem from the mistakes that we make).

So, love everyone else, and maybe they'll love you back. Put up with everyone else and maybe they'll put up with you. Because you truly are awful. Really.

Or maybe you're not. We'll see if anyone brings me a drink today, and maybe I'll change my mind about that.

Now, as we all know, I have a bit of the OCD. Just a tad. A wee skosh. 


Okay, apparently I have a lying problem, as well. Anyhow, I guess I should say that I don't like to touch things that I consider dirty. Most people are probably that way, to some extent; it's just that my list of dirty things may be slightly longer than other people's lists.


Yes, anything touched by another person is dirty.


Anyway, there have always been certain things that I considered completely out of the question. Wearing anything used, for one thing. However, recently I had to wear a (used) costume, and that costume included (used) shoes.


After sanitizing them and them re-sanitizing them, and then letting them sit in a hot car for 12 hours to bake and then sanitizing them one more time, I wore those shoes, and I didn't catch any nasty foot diseases (at least, not as far as I know). I then went on with my life, continuing to purchase and wear only new footwear, and not thinking about it at all.


Until yesterday.


My sister and I went thrifting and our first stop was an upscale thrift store (which benefits homeless animals, so I didn't feel as grumpy about the higher prices). My sister found a really nice new purse, and as I looked around for a treasure, I saw them: beautiful used shoes.


Now, I have NEVER looked at used shoes, but these ones just called to me. I picked them up, and they had absolutely no wear on the inside, and no tread missing from the bottom. I'm guessing they weren't worn more than once. Here's the kicker: I wear a size 11 shoe. 11. Most of the shoes that fit me were either designed for drag queens, which means the heels are way too high for me to maneuver in, or they look orthopedic, or they cost more than my entire shoe wardrobe put together. I rarely find fashionable, affordable shoes in my size in neat colors and whatnot, and when I do, it's usually a closeout or clearance deal and I get pretty worked up about it.


So there's the dilemma: Really pretty shoes, in my size, great color and style, decent price, and they look new...but I know they're not. I debated and debated, almost putting them back for good. Then I did it. I got out my $12 and put the shoes on the counter and bought them.


So now I have a beautiful pair of used shoes (yes, I did the whole sanitizing procedure a few times) sitting in my closet. I just hope I can actually wear them.

Apparently, I have something in me that is so ultra attractive to the older folks out there that I should try to bottle and sell it. How do I know? Because I have an old man stalker.


Mr. Mothball (yep, he has mothball breath) waits for me at any and all public events that have anything to do with music and asks me to go on dates with him. Every event, even ones in neighboring towns. He even tried to go vote with me when I went to the polls for the primary election, but I got him to back off before I sat down at the makeshift booth (I think my party affiliation made him unhappy, though, and I thought that might deter him from having future contact with me, but no such luck).


Mr. Mothball, I am a married woman, and even if I wasn't, the fifty year difference in our ages would probably be a deterrent, even if your breath wasn't. I am not now, nor have I ever been, attracted to fanny packs, the smell of Ben-Gay, or ear hair.


Lots and lots of ear hair.


Did I mention the mothball breath?


I realize I should be flattered by this attention, but why couldn't it have been someone who isn't creepy? Or at least someone with better breath because, well, it's pretty gagtastic. I stand there, smiling and trying to be gracious, while holding back the urge to expel the contents of my stomach right into his face. Actually, maybe if I did throw up on him he'd stop....


It's an idea, at least.

I am so thankful to be part of a family that has a sense of humor. Especially about the less genteel aspects of life; namely, farting. I firmly believe that all families can be divided into three categories:

1. Families Who NEVER Laugh About Farting.
These families treat farting as though it is some sort of shameful practice, along the lines of witchcraft or dog-fighting. If a person is in one of these families and lets it rip in front of the others, he or she is immediately shunned until proper penance has been done. I believe it's sort of like when someone Amish uses electricity, but more severe.

2. Families Who Occasionally Laugh About Farting.
These families laugh about farting, but only a little bit and just in passing. It's tolerated, but not encouraged. These are the kinds of families where there is a lot of hugging and talking about feelings, but not a lot of mockery. I'm pretty sure these are the people they hire to be in commercials to sell car insurance and dryer sheets.

3. Families Who ALWAYS Laugh About Farting.
I don't mean to say that families have to laugh about farting to have a sense of humor, but, well, they kind of do. I mean, it's not like a person can help it. Sometimes, you just have to let it fly. Why not embrace it? When we were little and someone would cut the cheese, my Mom would look at us disapprovingly as we rolled on the floor in laughter while trying not to die from the smell. My Dad would then remind her that even babies laugh at toots. Babies. Now, babies are not typically evil, unless you are in a horror movie, so how can a little gas pollute your soul? The air, maybe, but not your actual soul (you knew that was coming). It took a few years, but my Mom came around, and now it's kind of like a contest. I'm pretty sure I have the burping part down, but I think my Dad still wins when it comes to farting, especially if you consider tone to be important, which we do. Outsiders, like my husband, are generally shocked and horrified at the competitive level we've achieved, but I'm pretty sure they're just jealous because we're having way more fun than your average family. All of the time. We're also generally gagging from the horrendous stench that someone just let loose from a place that smells suspiciously like the bowels of Hell (but really, it's just from the regular kind of bowels, ha ha ha). There is also a lot of mockery, but that's a different topic.

Holy cow. My family is AWESOME. You should definitely be jealous.

Let me just say that when I exercise, I do not look good. I realize most people don't, but I'm pretty sure that if we ranked people in order of physical hotness while working out, I would be somewhere in the bottom ten percent. This is probably because I am angry and resentful that I have to exercise in the first place, and in addition, I do not enjoy it, nor will I ever enjoy it, and I pretty much want to die the entire time it's happening. Plus, I've been told that I'm a handsome woman, which is definitely not in the realm of hotness; more along the lines of Bea Arthur than Megan Fox.

So I don't look like Miss Merry Sunshine (but when do I ever, really?).

Thus, I would like to applaud the braveness of the two missionary ladies who attempted to stop my husband and I while we were out walking the other day. Seriously. We had to be one of the scariest looking couples ever, what with my general expression of irritation with the world, and my husband's ferocious hill-climbing face going on. We had just reached the place in our walk where we're going about as fast as we ever go, and we were getting close to the end of a longish incline, and these two missionaries pop up from out of nowhere(keep in mind, they're doing all of this while smiling and looking not-so-sweaty), and ask my husband if they can read his t-shirt.

Really.

This is one of those scenarios I wouldn't have believed if it hadn't happened, merely because I would've thought they would've addressed this in missionary training. DON'T STOP PEOPLE WHO ARE EXERCISING. Particularly if they're chubby and look like there's a possibility of them removing your head. We had such a good pace going, too. They were super nice and all, but come on.

They were skinny, so they obviously exercise a lot (I have to tell myself that because if I would've accepted the fact that they were both just naturally skinny, I wouldn't have been able to control myself). They should know better. Argh. They're not going to convert someone by destroying any forward momentum he may have going, no matter how polite they are.

They were very brave, so I will give them points for that. They probably shouldn't try it again, though. I may not be able to hold back my inner Incredible Hulk.

Dear Lady Who Works At The Grocery Store,


I am your customer. That means I am at your store to purchase products. Your store has already purchased those products from a supplier, and when I purchase the products from your store at a slightly higher price than the store paid for them, the store makes what they like to call a "profit." This "profit" enables the store to pay your salary.


Don't give me a nasty look when I happen to need something on one of the shelves you're stocking. I could just as easily go to a different store or buy the item online, and your store could have to shut down, thus cutting off your income supply. 


That's the way it works.


Plus, I can always wait for you in the parking lot and we can throw down. That's how I roll.


Love,


A Customer (Who Didn't Get Enough Sleep Last Night And Is On Her Third Cup Of Coffee, Which Isn't Doing Enough To Improve Her Craptastic Mood)

Lately, it's become apparent to me that some of you who are now, well, carrying around a little bit of extra poundage, did not grow up as fat girls. Therefore, I will now share some of my tips with you for dressing successfully and camouflaging those unwanted extra bits of you.

First, make sure to always wear light-colored, tight pants, such as leggings. That way, the cellulite will show through. It isn't as bad as you think it is, anyway, so go for it!

Second, buying a bra that fits well isn't really important. Those back bulges happen to everyone, so just get the tightest one you can squeeze yourself into, disregarding the fact that you have now created a pair of back boobs that may or may not look similar to this:

Nice. Now, for our third step, we are going to examine the length of that skirt you're wearing. All fat girls have good legs, right? So make sure that your skirt is short enough that you wouldn't have been allowed to wear it in Middle School, and be sure to bend over a lot so everyone can see just how good the backs of your upper thighs look. Yes, they do look as awesome as you think they do. Those lumps only show up when you're turning around to look at them in the mirror...they totally go away when you're standing normally.

Finally, it's important to show a little bit of tummy and to keep that shirt nice and snug. You wouldn't want to be caught wearing ill-fitting, loose clothing, now would you? You should probably continue to buy your shirts in the same size you wore in high school (you'll probably drop those few pounds you've gained any day now), and definitely show off your sexy abs. No one wants to look like a toothpick, and you'll definitely be more attractive to others if you let them see the goods up-front. A little curve outward is completely normal, and rest assured that the ultra thin material in that tank top you're wearing really does cover up any slight imperfections you may have. An added bonus is that you can show off those toned upper arms you've been working so hard for.

In case you haven't noticed by this point, I am being sarcastic. Do not do any of these things. Cover yourself up. No one wants to feel the breeze created every time you're wearing a tank top and you wave at a friend. Your thighs DO look like cottage cheese, and you have a beer gut. Buy some clothes that actually fit, and never, ever wear white leggings. And yes, you do have back boobs. If your cup size is larger than a B, you're going to need more than 2 hooks to support those bad boys. Trust me, the people standing in line behind you at the bank will thank you.

Sometimes, I feel as though I'm in a time warp (not the fun Rocky Horror Picture Show kind; rather, the normal non-fun kind), and I've been magically transported back to seventh grade. Ah, Middle School.


Come on, people. Really.


I am not perfect. I can be just as manipulative and passive-aggressive as anyone else. The difference is that I'm good at it, so if I'm going to manipulate someone, he or she won't even know it's been done. I choose not to manipulate people, because I think that's taking unfair advantage of others who didn't get the same kind of training I did. It's like Jedi school, but without the lightsabers.


Taking this into account, I'm still feeling rather fed up with everyone who has decided to fight battles on Facebook. Again, not perfect over here. I have not, however, lost all ability to communicate my displeasure face to face. IN PERSON. This is because...wait for it...I'm a grownup.


Grownups do not make pissy Facebook statuses in response to everyone else's pissy Facebook statuses. They simply stop reading them, or they just roll their eyes and laugh it off. We don't use Facebook as a tool to tell other people how we feel about them and receive constant validation in return. Facebook is a place to play games, have brief birthday contact with people one hasn't seen since high school, and to put up pictures of puppies, children, and funny sayings.


It is not going to teach anyone else a lesson, and most of the time attempts to have any meaningful impact on someone else's life are going to be thwarted.


Can't we all just be nice? I am happy because I choose to be happy, not because my life is perfect. My life is super un-perfect, and I grumble and groan and complain in my blog, but I choose to be happy. I choose to love other people. Everyone. Even people I don't really like. Still love them (except for that one stinky lady, but I'm pretty sure she's not human...I think she may be some kind of space alien, sent to suck out our souls with her overwhelming stench and her evil...I said I wasn't perfect, and I'm working on that one).


I complain here because I don't want to complain in real life. I do way too much screwing up to want to place other people under a microscope. I don't look any prettier under that thing than they do. If someone hurts one of my friends, I will cut him. Or her. Otherwise, I will try to put up with things and hope that I can correct my own mistakes and it will make enough of a difference that I can stand it. Or that someone who is actually capable of doing something about the situation will notice whats happening and take action (highly unlikely, but technically possible). 


So, I love you all, but sometimes the nastiness and passive-aggressiveness makes me want to put the smack down. The odds are in my favor, too...have you not seen my Popeye-like forearms? We do not have to all be best friends just because we're thrown together eight hours a day. So maybe be an adult and take care of your emotional business on your own time. We've got work to do, and when I'm in there, I want to be like a machine. There should be nothing higher on my list of priorities than getting as much work done as I possibly can. I have had unbelievable amounts of stuff go down, and somehow made it in without complaining. I have a chronic illness that makes me feel really horrible every single day of my life, and I still get up and go in. Everyone is capable of that. I promise. Go in and work as hard as possible. It may not be more enjoyable, but the day certainly goes by faster and there won't be anything to feel guilty about when it's over (yes, I feel guilty when it seems like I didn't work hard enough...as I've said, I have issues).


I'll do the same, and I won't think bad things about anyone else, and I'll smile and be kind, because maybe I just like being nice to people (maybe that's part of what makes me happy), and everyone else will do it and it'll be like a big old hippie commune, minus the drugs and the b.o. Well, most of the b.o.


Jokes are optional, but I really like them. A sense of humor goes a long way. Maybe I'll think you're smiling because you're nice, while you're really laughing at me on the inside, and that's okay.


I'm probably laughing at you, too. Aren't we fun?

Right now, I am thanking my lucky stars that I wasn't brought up in a Jewish household. Why, you may ask? Because I am learning the music to sing at the services for Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, and while it is very beautiful and I enjoy the Hebrew very much (it's got a lot of fun, spitty consonants), it makes me wonder how anyone can be in church for that long (it's pretty much an all-morning type of thing) without giggling.


I'm going to giggle. I just know it.


There is a particular word that sounds like a silly way of saying a certain female body part and every time I get to it, I laugh. I'm trying really hard to get over that, because I realize that I'm not four, but it's really really really funny.


Really.


Oh my goodness. I'm going to be in trouble. These people are paying me to help make their service special, and I really love the solemnity of the texts and the whole idea of having a day of atonement and all that, but still.


This is going to be rough.


That's what she said.


Oh, crap. I need some lessons in how to make things not funny, and also in how to not think things sound kind of dirty when they aren't. It's a good thing I don't have children, because my father taught me this way of thinking, and I know that I would most definitely be passing that gift along. 


It's nice to be able to laugh at everything. I do mean everything. We laugh at sickness and death and all sorts of mayhem. I mean, what else are you going to do? It's not as though you can stop those things from happening, but at least you can laugh at them instead of feeling like poo about something over which you have no control.


Plus, as I've said multiple times, the day farts are no longer funny is the day I'm going to just give up on life.


I still think I need some kind of "off" button for this giggling thing. It would be nice to make it through an entire church service without laughing because some lady walked down the aisle with her skirt tucked up in her pantyhose or because the guy reading a text made a mistake and pronounced something in a weird and/or humorous way. Geez.


It would also come in handy next time we're planning a prank on someone, because I always ruin it with my laughing. That's why I need my sister, so I can help with the planning stages, and she can do the actual prank part.


None of this is helping with my churchly dilemma, though. Oh, well. I guess I'll just have to figure that one out later. Maybe I can just hold in my giggles until I have a bathroom break.


Or, maybe, just maybe, the people in the synagogue will have a good sense of humor and not freak out every time I smile and shake a little, holding my laughter in. Yeah, I'm holding out for that option.

Since I'm pretty much a famous writer now, I hope you appreciate these nuggets of wisdom I'm sharing with you. After all, I did have my review published in the local newspaper, and I'm pretty sure my mom has shown it to the entire world.


So, yeah, famous.


Of course, today at around three o'clock, when I'm in a hurry to get out of work and I have ink all over my right forearm and my face hurts from smiling at people even when they're rude to me and my ear hurts because I just got yelled at over the phone because some guy needs an appointment at a time when no appointment is available, then talk to me about the perks of being famous.


Being a grown-up kind of sucks.


However, this weekend and next week are going to help remedy that greatly. This weekend is going to be seriously awesome. I've been planning it for...oh, I don't know...FOREVER, and I'm so excited I can't sit still in my chair. There may be some pants-wetting action. It's my husband's birthday and it's going to be off the hook, yo! For reals (if you didn't read that with my voice in your head, sounding exactly like Flava Flav's voice, you should probably go back and try it again....it's much more fun that way)! Can't say what we're doing, as it's a surprise and he's pretty much 50% of my blog audience, but whoa.


Then, next week, Riedel family fun and togetherness time shall commence, meaning mostly that I'll be watching a lot of RuPaul's Drag Race and Amazing Stories with someone who understands my need to talk at the TV and run away when someone does something embarrassing. That will just enhance my TV-watching time immensely. Huzzah!


See, children, that's how adults get through life: We plan little happy activities for ourselves so when three o'clock hits, we don't take a bat to our printer, which has just jammed up for the ninetieth time, or start swearing at the next lady who comes in to ask if I know what that sore on her arm is (yeah, we're not that kind of office, but it happens all of the time). We just imagine piña coladas or maybe some hot buttered toast, depending on what floats our boats.


At this point, I have nothing left to say. I shouldn't ever mention toast, as it's too much of a distraction and now I can't think of anything else. Happy weekend...I leave you with the divine image of toast. Steve Jobs toast.

Oh, yes. I realize this is becoming more of a grammar blog, but really, people, what must I do to make you see what a dire situation we're all in?


AAAAARRRRRGGGGHHHHH.


Today's topic is the phrase "would have," or, for many of you, "would of."


Would of? Really? Does that look right to you? Oh, and where does the v in "would've" come from? Did it magically appear on the back of Dumbledore's phoenix, Fawkes?


I don't think so. Fawkes is not in the consonant transportation business, as a rule.


It's "WOULD HAVE," as in, "I WOULD HAVE taken you to the store." Not "I would of taken you to the store." Keep in mind that it's also "could have," or, if it's called for, "should have."


For example: "I would have beaten the crap out of you, but I didn't bring the right shoes for butt-kicking. I certainly should have. I could have driven all the way back to my house to obtain said shoes, but you are so totally and completely not worth my time."


See how easy that is?


I hope you've (you HAVE) all learned a little something today: It's NEVER "would of" or "could of" or "should of." It's ALWAYS "have" after one of those three words.


This isn't that hard, people. Third graders can do this. Well, maybe not, since their teachers are required to make them feel good about themselves before they're allowed to teach them anything, and that's a pretty difficult task, since most of them do nothing but drink sugary sodas and play violent video games. I don't have kids, though, so what do I know? I do know, however, that when I was in third grade, I had a handle on this.


Yeah, I got made fun of. A lot. Want to make something of it?

I'm really not a violent person. I realize that some people, knowing me only through this blog, might mistake me for an axe murderer, but I swear I'm not.


Unless you use apostrophes incorrectly.


I've tried to get the word out. I've tried to make it easy to remember. More than one? Plural, no apostrophe. Belonging to? Apostrophe UNLESS it's the word "its," then, no, unless it's "it is."


Wow! That's super easy (I'm pretty sure you can print that up and hang it on your fridge for further study)!


Still, though, people everywhere continue to use the apostrophe inappropriately and incorrectly. Even people who are near and dear to me. Sigh.


I want to film one of those, "The More You Know" spots that used to play during Saturday morning cartoons. I want to shout it from the mountaintops. "Hey, world!" I want to say, "You're killing me with this incorrect apostrophe usage!"


After this, I'd roll down the mountain and die a very long and dramatic death, sort of like in the movie "Camille" (which I've never actually seen, but I've seen the dying part because it's in the movie version of "Annie"). I will cough lightly and then say something along the lines off, "You killed me with your its."


Then I'll be gone, and it will be all your fault.

Alright, I'm done. I wrote a review, to be published in a local paper. I realize this isn't a super big deal, but I'm a bit of a perfectionist about things that go out with my name on them.


Thus, no name on my blog.


Anyhow, from now until it comes out, I think I may be a nervous wreck; therefore, I will have to think up ways to entertain myself. Today, I will probably bake up a storm, eat what I baked, and then cry about how I'm so fat even though I try to eat well.


Yep, I plan out my crazy behavior. That makes it easier to make fun of, later on.


I think the reason I'm nervous about this review is that it's about singers, and I'm a singer, and I know what it's like to have a review that's disappointing. I also know what it's like to read a review of a show that I've seen that is all sugar and no truth, or where the reviewer was obviously friends with a particular cast member.


That drives me nuts(ier).


So, I'm trying to be supportive while still being honest, which is very difficult, as you all know (or, at least, the women readers know, hahaha). I hope I struck the right balance, because I do think opera is the highest art form out there (other than fart jokes), and I would hate to think that my opinion broke someone's heart or made them feel that I was belittling their expression.


Then again, maybe my little ego is just too fragile and other people are more resilient. I don't know.


Support your local musicians and artists. 


Don't be mean to puppies.


That is all.