Yesterday, just as I finished writing my blog, complaining about how it was Thursday, I did something fantastically stupid.

I like to let my coffee sit on the burner until it's really hot, because if I don't it gets too cold when I add the cream. So I had just poured myself my second cup of coffee and returned to my computer for 15 minutes more of pure zombification when I reached for my coffee cup....

....and promptly let go of it.

My hands do that sometimes. It sucks.

So I spilled the scalding hot goodness all over myself AND my desk AND a little on my keyboard AND my work clothes. Oh, AND the floor AND the wall. Yep, it was everywhere, and I had 15 minutes before I needed to leave for work. Awesome. So I quickly pulled off my clothes, trying to avoid any lasting burns (which I managed, but the skin on my thighs was mighty red all day) and scrubbed the floor and wall. Pretty sure my neighbors got a good look at all my business if they were looking into my windows, but I figure that anyone who takes the chance and decides to look into my house deserves to see what he sees. Ha.

So, floor scrubbed, I turn around to see that the ivory quilt my mom gave me as a wedding present has a huge brown splash o' coffee running down the corner. Crap. So I pull that off of the bed and run (still naked...don't judge) to the kitchen to rinse it in cold water and spray some Shout on it. No time to wash it.

Then, I go back and take a shower and pick out a whole new outfit, which consisted of my favorite shirt and pants (stretchy goodness will always save the day).

Aaaaaand at this point I'm 10 minutes late to work. Fortunately, I had misjudged the time I needed to be there, so it was fine, but holy cow. That sucked.

The rest of the day was outstanding, though. I can't figure out if that was due to the fact that I was wearing really comfortable clothes or just that the morning was so bad it made everything else better by comparison. Oh, well. New Mexican food for dinner tonight, so my day will just fly by.

Mmmmm. Cheesy goodness.

Yep, that. Be jealous.

Thursday is upon us. I should've known it was coming, because Thursday almost always follows Wednesday, and that was yesterday. Ugh. I hate Thursday.

Being more positive doesn't work out so well for me, at least not at 6 in the morning.

I will try to focus on the fact that I learned about snarts last night (thank you, Liz Lemon) and I made one heck of a batch of pear butter (secret spice...can't tell you, as I think I may make one million dollars from it) and I'm selling my homemade shrug thingies like crazy (the ladies love them).

Those are good things, right? Enough to counteract the ugh that I'm walking into, right?

Yeah...going to keep telling myself that.

I have discovered that, rather than being one of those awesome people who don't give a poo about what other people think of them, I am, in fact, the opposite. So much so that I do things to try to make people like me even when I know that this kind of thing won't really make them like me: They'll like the things I do for them, which isn't the same at all.

Or is it?

I think, maybe, yes. Maybe bribery and general ass-kissery is the way to go. Maybe I need to bake everyone's favorite cakes and buy them all ponies and bring a unicorn into work (not going to lie...I would probably be impressed with myself if I could do that) and put up flowers everywhere. And pretend to be interested in things which really actually make me puke. I am going to be so successful if I can actually follow my plan. Everyone will love me and I'll get a raise and strangers will want to be my patrons (hint, hint) and I won't even have to sing at auditions anymore. They'll all just know of my awesomeness and they'll hire me straight away.

Yeah, that's the ticket. Now I just need to get me some niceness. Ugh again. Maybe I'll just stick with my bad attitude. It seems way easier this morning.

Someone posted this sign on Pinterest yesterday that said something about a person saying, "I'm bored," and how it's not really a relevant statement, ever.

Really?

I haven't been bored in ages, but when I was ten, I was bored all of the time. I would love to be bored. I really do not see how people with other people to take care of get anything done, because I am constantly running behind, which makes me crazy.

Or maybe I was already crazy.

Is it only the crazy people who think they're already crazy, or is it non-crazy people who are aware of what crazy is, so they really aren't, but they are aware of how they're teetering on the edge of a big old craziness abyss?

I think maybe that one's me. The one that involves teetering. I loves me some teetering.

Digressed there, a bit. Did I have a point? I don't think so...I have a to-do list today that's about a mile long and I don't see any way I'm going to get all of this crap (yep, most of it's crap) accomplished if I keep sitting at my desk, whining and then writing a blog about it.

I also realize that I haven't had any bodily function stories in ages.

More failure. Ugh. I hope I do something really splendiferous soon, to make up for it. Ha ha ha....that's about as likely as me eating beets for lunch.

It really stinks when life gets in the way of your job and there's nothing you can do about it. For instance, I am having a massive amount of toothache. Yes, it's been going on for a while, and yes, I do work for a dentist so I could've just said something about it, but I was giving it time. I'm convinced that most of my ailments are psychosomatic anyway, so I assumed that my toothache was happening because I'm not in love with that particular line of work right now.

Yeah, it's not that.

Moving on to yesterday, I probably need two root canals (I'm going to the endo guy for a consult, but since doing all the bite test action yesterday, my teeth are on fire...maybe I should call the office and cry for some pain meds...I do mean actually cry...it happens more often than you'd think) and since then, both teeth are non-stop killing me. Seriously. For reals.

Whine whine whine whine whine.

Anyway, I had a rehearsal last night for a paying gig. A really really well-paying gig. And I blew. Big time. It was very very bad. I blamed it on my teeth, but was it really my teeth? I think it was, but it was still embarrassing. I feel that if one is a professional, one's personal life should never, never interfere with a job.

That may be a lump of crap, though. I tried really hard and just failed spectacularly.

Oh, well. At least it was a rehearsal and not a performance. I hope I can get this taken care of before the real thing in a few weeks. 

Ugh. 

I need some ibuprofen.

So I failed. I failed, failed, failed, failed, failed (my husband hates it when I say that, but it's true). I failed at apple butter, which should've been a simple and easy process, except for one thing: I don't have a food mill.

See, I thought a food mill was the same thing as a food processor, because I've never needed one before. It is totally not the same thing, fyi. A food processor looks like this:

While a food mill looks like this:

So, yeah, not the same thing at all. And the silly thing is that I was trying to save time (and I thought it might give it a fuller flavor) to cook the apples with the peels and cores intact. 

Oops. I was very, very wrong.

So I ended up spending three hours processing a batch of apples just to get 2 quarts of pulp (most of that time was spent with me trying to push mushy apple goo through the holes in the bottom of my big plastic strainer while crying...it didn't work at all) and then cooking the pulp for another couple of hours, trying to get it to the right consistency, which didn't happen.

So we now have four jars of apple syrup, which tastes delicious, but is completely liquidy. Crap.

What am I to do? Well, for starters, I'm doing it all over again today, but with pears and a different recipe. I've got my peeler out and I'm all ready to go. It will work. If not, I may have to do something drastic, like purchasing a gallon of a fruit butter and then re-canning it and taking the credit. Yeah. I'd go there.

But I won't have to...I will win...I will. Probably.

The newest crafty craft I'm working on got finished yesterday. By me. Kind of proud. This is it.

In case you can't tell, it's a shrug. I'm not exactly sure what that means, but it's like a jacket that doesn't button. I made it with this fuzzy yarn that's called bouclé. For those of you who don't know, bouclé is French for "pain in the butt." Seriously. I almost quit a few times, but it's definitely the prettiest thing I've ever made. Even my husband thinks so, and that's quite a compliment, because I'm pretty sure he's honest about my crafts. Most of the time.

So, happy Friday. I'm sure I will have started on something new by the end of the day, but since my list of things I want to do is growing larger by the minute, I think I may just be in over my head. Or I may just have absolutely no time to do anything but craftiness until I'm 80, by which time I will no longer give a crap. Huzzah.

After having completed two successful ponchos and two successful pairs of slipper socks, I am now working on a shrug, which I'm guessing is just like a sweater but it doesn't button in the front, and really, if it looks like crap once I get done with it, I'm going to cry. I was going to get it finished yesterday, but then I realized I've fallen way behind on my bagel-making, plus we needed cupcakes for a semi-special occasion, so I did that. So, yeah, it's pretty Martha Stewartly up in here, except that all of my junk is crooked and she's generally much better at doing the evil smile than I am. My Grandma was the master at that smile when I was little, although now that she's not dealing with a house full of screaming kids, she doesn't do the smile.

It's kind of sad, really. It was the kind of smile that said, "Hey, now. You're welcome to keep doing that horrendous activity, but if you choose to do that, there are going to be consequences, including (but not limited to): Spanking, yelling, grounding, public shaming (that was my favorite) and/or any and all forms of work to be used as a punishment, the most likely being cleaning toilets or windows."

Yep, that was all in that smile. You knew you had about a minute before the stuff hit the fan and you were going to be in a world of hurt (not necessarily physical, but, boy, could my grandma give an effective spanking...and I totally deserved it). Martha Stewart has nothing on my grandma. Well, except the fancy cooking part, but I'm pretty sure she doesn't have any screaming children running around, distracting her. That would totally not be allowed.

I need to work on my evil smile.

Yesterday, we happened upon a place that sells frozen yogurt. Not only do they sell frozen yogurt, but they have twenty or so different flavors AND a person gets to make her own so she can take as much as she wants, AND they post the number of calories per ounce so it's trackable, AND there's a topping bar so the frozen yogurt can be topped exactly perfectly right.

It's like heaven for fat people. Well, fat people who like frozen desserts. Count me in that group.

Wait, though. There's one thing I forgot to mention. They have Magic Shell. Not only do they have it, they have multiple flavors of it, including:

Yep, there's Cupcake Magic Shell. I had no idea that even invented, but let me tell you, it is delicious. Like, crazy delicious. Like, "I've been singing a song about it all morning and I'm going to start pestering the manager at my local grocery store to put it on his shelves" kind of delicious.

And you can out it on anything. Anything at all. If you have your own bottle, which I don't. You could even put it on pancakes. It wouldn't turn into a shell, but you'd get that delicious cupcakey goodness.

I guess I could just have a cupcake, but then I wouldn't get to experience the delicious waxy crispyness that the Magic Shell brings to the table. I even had mine with SPRINKLES yesterday, for crying out loud. I had cake batter fro-yo with RAINBOW SPRINKLES and Cupcake Magic Shell. There was some magic happening there, let me tell you. I could almost see the unicorns. Screw ambrosia...THIS is the food the gods eat on Mount Olympus.

I'm pretty sure the gods all have massive weight problems or else they have those ridiculous kinds of metabolisms that allow all sorts of food to be eaten without weight gain. They are lame. Or, they would be, if they were real, but fortunately for us, they aren't.

If they were, they'd probably eat all of the Cupcake Magic Shell and leave me with none. And then I would cry.

 

When it's raining outside, it makes me want to sleep. I first discovered this on a trip to Oregon with my Dad, because we went to visit my grandparents and I think I must've slept about 20 hours a day. Or more. I don't really remember much about that trip, except the headboard on the bed I was sleeping in. It was a really old headboard that they had gotten from one of their extended family members, and it had been in the room of a little boy, and he had carved little wieners in it that weren't visible except when someone was lying on the bed, depressing the mattress a bit. That was hilarious to me.

So, in between giggling about that and watching The Price is Right (and eating fried pies, which are, of course, God's gift to mankind), I slept.

This week has been like that so far, except that I can't sleep all day. But I really really want to. A lot.

Maybe I'll make fried pies instead. They are truly amazing, but I've never made them because I have this fear of making anything deep-fried (i.e., that I'll splash hot grease in my face and it will melt off like that guy in Raiders of the Lost Ark). Maybe that should be this week's project.

Because we need more fried foods and/or pie. Yeah.

This past week or so was really fun, while also being really lame. My husband and I had a nice Sunday together and I got my house ultra-super-mega cleaned, but I was also on the receiving end of some strange behavior that I don't quite get. It hurts to know that people you thought would accept you unconditionally (because you accept them unconditionally) have all of a sudden decided that you're a problem. So criticism about your life is still hunky-dory, but none is allowed about anyone else.

That's fine. I'll take the teasing and joking about my issues, rather than everyone going all silent when I have to straighten every picture in the house or when I take ten minutes in the bathroom because I had to clean the faucet.

So when I go to wash my hands for the tenth time since you've been around, go ahead and say something if it makes you feel better. It's something that I have to deal with every day anyway, and I prefer to laugh about it, rather than being upset that anyone mentions it, because it really is rather embarrassing and painful at times, but I'd rather approach it like it's something funny.

Ha ha. My neuroses are hilarious, aren't they? Actually, to me, they are. Funny is way better than being uptight and self-righteous about a crappy situation we all know exists. I know that the way I am is not normal. I don't expect everyone else to do the things I do; that would just be ridiculous. Don't you think?

Ugh. Times infinity.

There may or  may not have been some lying in yesterday's post, regarding time spent making socks. There is no way I could get completely finished with both socks in two days; therefore, I will amend my statement by saying two and a quarter days.

There. Now I feel better. I did get one sock completely finished, and the other one is done and just needs to be sewn together. I'm pretty sure these socks are going to give me super powers when I put them on, so I think everyone should just watch out.

You know my super power is going to have something to do with unicorns, right?

I actually prefer Pegasus, because Pegasus is magic and can fly and has wings and there's only one Pegasus (I believe I've discussed this before, but since you'd have to wade through a vast sea of crap to get to that post, I figured I should just mention it again). Unicorns are still awesome, though.

Happy flipping Friday...I think I may have gone insane (oh, and if it's your birthday, this unicorn's for you...just in case you needed more).

I am making a pair of socks. It is my first attempt at actual socks, although I tried a pattern for a pair of slippers a while ago and ended up with a very cute pair of slippers for someone whose foot is what I would estimate to be an adult size three. Not a kid, because no kid's foot is going to be that stocky.

Anywho, I got the first sock done last night and am starting on the second one today and it makes me wonder who in the hell ever thought of these things? I mean, it takes me two days to make one pair, and I'm guessing someone really fast could put them out in, say, two to four hours. Now, if we're counting time as a factor in the cost of the socks, these things cost five bucks for the yarn (if you use the cheap stuff, which I am) and then perhaps minimum wage, since I can do other stuff while working. So if minimum wage is $10/hour (it's not, but I really think it's much too early for any more complicated math), I'd say these socks cost me an estimated $75.

Whoa. These are the priciest socks I'll have ever owned. Since I'm making them with scrap ugly yarn, they're going to be for me, but my next pair may be for someone else. Yeesh. I'm extravagant. I think I may eventually get the cost down to around $45, but I don't know if I can do this in less than four hours. We'll see.

So, the next time you get something homemade and you think, "Wow! What a piece of crap!" in your head, remember that you may very well be holding a $500 sweater in your hands.

And say thank you.

In case you were wondering: Yes, I do watch a lot of TV and movies and listen to a lot of music. I mean, A LOT. All caps. Therefore, I think I'm probably the best person to judge what is and what is not worth watching and/or listening to, don't you? Of course you do; otherwise, why would you be wasting your time reading this ridiculous crap?

Napoleon Dynamite is a cinematic masterpiece. I don't throw that word around every day. Well, maybe I do, but this time I really mean it. ND includes the best song ever sung by a main character in a movie. I know this because I woke up with it stuck in my head this morning, and I haven't seen the movie in months.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ERCzN91JicA

Actually, pretty much everything that Kip does in this movie is my favorite.

Actually, pretty much anything that Kip does anywhere, anytime is my favorite. The following is from the ND cartoon (I'm pretty sure it tanked, which makes me cry), and it illustrates the versatility of Kip.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-aoPEeIAnSw

Dang. That's Emmy-worthy, right there. Watch out, Kelly Ripa.

My husband is a huge Justin Bieber fan. Okay, not really, but he was forced to listen to a Bieber song on the radio once and he thought that it was so intensely horrible that the world should know the kind of danger that could be involved if we let the Bieber take over. So I thought I'd analyze this song/video so everyone can see the kind of danger we're in.

My husband said the song had something about being someone's gold or something, so I'm assuming the song he referred to is one entitled, "As Long As You Love Me." I'm guessing the Biebs has a wee co-dependency issue, but there isn't anything inherently threatening about that title.

So the first minute of the video is pretty much Academy Award material. Biebs is talking to a girl's Dad about her, and the Dad is telling him that his daughter needs a man, and I guess B isn't that man. Actually, I think he looks more like a lady dressed as a man, but that's beside the point. Or is it? Maybe Justin is trying to tell everyone something, with his flippy hair and bad-ass denim vest. I think that, in the next few minutes, he's going to show us all just how manly he can be. He's looking pretty....well...apathetic, but I can just tell that that apathy is going to turn into some....well...let's call it almost-anger.

Oops. I was wrong. After the acting part came whining and an "I'm about to cry" face. Wait, they're going to run away together? How can he even drive a car? Uh oh, you know he's mad because as he's singing about the seven million people in the cruel world and whatnot, he's doing a little pop and lock. They could be starving and homeless, as long as she loves him. 

Bieber, if you were starving and homeless, there's no way you could get the product you need for your hair to survive. Keep that in mind. And should you really be encouraging other 12-year-old couples to run away together? I think that's a bit irresponsible. I like the crying baby he uses in the background of the song.....oh, wait. That's his own voice, dubbed in.  My bad.

Wait, why are you starving and homeless if you can turn into precious metals? And why would you turn into silver or gold if you could turn into platinum? That's way more valuable, plus it's a lot more durable. Oh, yeah, I forgot: It's just a song. I'm getting sucked in to the fine, fine drama being played out before me on the YouTube. Hey now, Bieber, calm down. (I can tell he's getting really upset because he's either having a tantrum or all of those high-pitched lalalalalas are akin to Billy Elliott's angry dance, and in a minute he's going to show us all an even manlier side of his manliness. If he adds a tralalala, I'm going to run for it.)

She could be his Destiny's Child? Didn't that group break up? Just wondering. At this point, I'm not even following the lyrics anyore. I'm just trying to understand the rich tapestry of story that is being woven before my very eyes. For instance, does he not know that his girlfriend's Dad is Michael Madsen? Have you seen Sin City? That guy will shoot you in the back. Seriously.

Uh oh. Big Sean (I'm assuming that's the rapper guy...I'm too old to know these people) is in the house. Or, more accurately, the parking garage. It kind of looks like he's wearing a string of pearls, so you know he's classy, plus he just said Hallelujah, so he probably goes to church. I'm going to vote that he's not part of the Bieber threat. I think he just wants to dance around in a garage full of sexy ladies and really, who doesn't want that?

Can I just say, again, that there's nothing hotter than a guy who looks like he's a four-year-old about to have a tantrum because his mom won't let him have the blue sippy cup? Yeah, B has that down. Okay, back to the video.

This is definitely the best part of the video, so you should feel free to just fast forward to the last half minute or so. Michael Madsen is beating the crap out of Biebs for trying to run away with his daughter. This is the best thing I've ever seen. Ever. If I had a kid and my kid tried to run away with Bieber, I'd beat the crap out of him, too. And from the looks of it, I'd just get my six-year-old daughter to do it, because poor Justin does not put up much of a fight. 

I guess Justin Bieber is not really a threat to the world's safety. His lyrics aren't much of a threat, as they make no sense at all; the high-pitched lalalalalas are probably the most dangerous part, but I think he sings so high in some parts that only dogs can hear him anyway and dogs have really sharp teeth, so I think they can take care of themselves. The two biggest threats, in my opinion, are his dancing, which is fabulous and ever-so-ghetto, and his hair, which we all know is taking over the world by storm.

You know you wish you had a Bieber cut.

So, basically, I think we're not in any danger, but keep your eyes peeled for a ladyboy with fabulous hair and smooth dance moves who tries to run off with your teenager in a big fancy car, stopping along the way to pick up a rapper wearing pearls and a group of dancers in a parking garage. If that happens, just call Michael Madsen or a first grade teacher of your choice. Either one of them should be able to hook you up.

Here's the video, in case you're curious. You're welcome.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R4em3LKQCAQ

Over the weekend, I had my own, "I'm a big kid now!" moment. I learned to pee in the woods.

For those of you who weren't part of my childhood, I'll let you in on a little secret: I could never pee unless I was at a toilet. I realize that sounds like it would be normal, but I had to pee a lot when I was a kid, partially because I had a tiny bladder and partially because we would all get laughing so hard that if I hadn't peed recently, I'd pee my pants.

Thus, the need to stop and pee by the side of the road. The problem was that it wasn't like a trickle. It was like those sprinklers in the ceiling of an office building that spray down everything in sight. So, when I had to pee outdoors, the basic theory was that we should just remove all clothing from the waist down and then just stand back and I'd have to bathe afterwards.

Ew.

But no more! I can now pee in the woods. My sister explained the stance to me, and I discovered that if I get really far down, much further down than I had previously tried, I pee just like a normal person. So there's really nothing wrong with me anatomically, I just wasn't doing it right.

We figured this out because our campsite had no bathrooms, only an outhouse that was so disgusting I wasn't even allowed to take a look at it. Not that I wanted to; the smells emanating from that little building were so bad, I didn't even want to check it out for myself. Apparently, there were several full fly-strips and the floor was covered with a thick carpet of dead flies. Delish.

Granted, the first evening, before my sister explained the pee stance to me, I did try to pee in the woods, and...well...it didn't go so well. However, I brought extra pants, just in case, so it was fine. My husband even had a camping shower with him, so I felt like I could keep trying. That night, I just removed my pants completely when I had to go. After that, though, my sister told me what to do, and the next morning I walked up the hill to the stumpy area in the middle of some trees and tried it and it was a success.

As I walked back down the path toward our campsite, I could hear The Eye of the Tiger playing in my head. It was a very triumphant moment.

The second morning, I walked back, still feeling very proud until I heard one of the hillbillies from the campsite across the way telling his friend that he'd just seen a lady peeing in the woods. Oh, well. At least he hadn't seen a lady peeing on her pants in the woods.

Yeah, we're going camping today. And even though we're camping at a site that is probably less than an hour away from my house, I have this overwhelming desire to put everything I own in my car. Why?

There might be bears.

You know it, I know it, we all know it. Bears are everywhere when you're camping. They can multiply instantly, and they have superpowers, such as being able to tell which one is my tent, aiming for it with their ferocious cuteness, then taking a swipe at my head and leaving me with one ear. If I have all of my crap with me, this will somehow stop them.

This is my first scenario. The second one involves explosive diarrhea and no toilet paper or hand soap. Ugh.

The final scenario, which I know is going to happen, no matter how many Off candles/sprays/etc. I bring, is the whole West Nile Virus scenario. I don't even know what that is, but if they gave it a real name instead of one that is chock full of scientific Latin terms, it means that if I get it, I'm screwed.

So, yes, I'll be the one out there with the bug spray and the sunblock, hiding from bears in my sanitary tent that is full of games and toilet paper. 

Nature is the best.

We're going camping this weekend, and I'm pretty excited about it. It's also my sister's birthday today and I'm pretty excited about her present. Exciting exciting exciting.

How can they expect me to work when I'm this excited? Huh?

I think today should be a notional holiday. Tomorrow, too. I think that wish is due more to my discovery of the wonders of Hulu Plus than anything else, but still.

Usually my sister's birthday conjures up images of a Bacchanalian Fiesta (yeah, not just Bacchanalian or just a Fiesta...both), but this year she has a class this evening so we're just going to a movie afterward.

This weekend, though? We're going to sit in our camping chairs and do nothing until someone calls the cops.

Aaaaaawwwwwwwwwwwwww yeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh!

(Old age makes you sore. I don't know if you've realized that. When all I want to do is sit in a camping chair with some iced tea and a book, I know I've reached that special age where I should be taking Geritol and watching the Hallmark Channel.)

Alright, off to work. I suppose they'll be wanting me to wear pants. Next thing you know, they'll be wanting me to bathe. Gadzooks.

Today happened to be weigh-in day at my house. I lost a pound and I was really happy about that, except for the fact that I believe I've lost this pound before, and every time I get back to it, it's harder to lose.

Why is that?

Don't tell me it's because I'm getting older, because I am not. I AM NOT. My skin is merely getting looser because I'm losing weight, not because I'm turning into a human prune.

Right?

I actually don't mind the getting older part as much as I mind the sea of skin that is accumulating just underneath my chin. Pretty soon, I'll be creating windstorms just by turning my head too quickly. I may even look like a turkey in time for Thanksgiving this year, which I think would be very festive, don't you?

Especially if I learn how to make turkey sounds to complete the look.

If I combined all of the loose skin under my chin and on my upper arms, there's probably enough to cover a whole person. I should probably donate that to some charitable organization. You know, for skin grafts and whatnot, but the person that receives the skin would probably end up with turkey neck, too. I think it's contagious.

Yikes. This is a problem. I think maybe that means it's time to stop losing weight so my skin doesn't get any looser. Maybe it's time to go on a diet to gain weight.

Sadly, that wouldn't involve any extra effort on my part. But it would be much more fun, all the same. And it would totally have to involve cinnamon rolls.

We live in a house that's almost fifty years old, so we expect some problems. You know, it's pretty drafty in winter so we're re-doing the windows as we can, there's no a/c so we have window units and fans and we try to use airflow and suction to spread the cool. Oh, and no garbage disposal (ugh).

The worst problem? Wonky plumbing.

Apparently, the old lady that used to live here had the Roto-Rooter guy scheduled to come out here every six months, and he'd ream out the pipes and she'd be good to go. For another six months.

No one told us this when we were buying the house.

We can't figure out the issue, so my husband is going to dig out our plumbing to find it. For seriously.

See, it's not just that the toilets won't flush. It's that there's absolutely no warning. It can happen at any time. You finish your bathroom break and push down the handle, only to see the water level rise and none of those kids you just dropped off going down.

It's really disgusting.

And I have one of those really old toilets in my bathroom that I'm sure is a water waster, but that bad boy can flush anything. ANYTHING. A hamster, a shoe, half of a Thanksgiving turkey...anything. It's lovely to know that no matter what a person can dish out, my toilet can take it.

Except when the stupid plumbing stops working.

So now I can't go pee, and if I do, I can't flush it. I know the whole, "If it's yellow, let it mellow" thing, but I just can't bring myself to leave a toilet full of pee just sitting there. I mean, what if someone comes over and looks in my toilet and sees it all full of pee. Ew.

The plumber will come out today. I know he will. I just know it. He has to. 

I may die if he doesn't.

Just in case anyone out there needs help in this arena, I wanted to share my top ten hints for dressing for an evening at the opera.


1. Make sure that you wear something that's just a little too warm if you're going to be outdoors. Nothing says, "I love the arts!" quite like a sweaty forehead and clothes that are sticking to your back.


2. If you are over the age of 70, you are required to wear a brightly colored dress that cuts off at mid-thigh, a pair of patterned tights, crocs, a bouffant hairdo and clown make-up. Note that I said required. I think it's some kind of law that they snuck in with a bill that said, "Killing other people is illegal...and women over seventy must wear...to the opera."


3. Young men should always take a first date here, and they should always make sure they look like they put on a suit without showering first. Because, really, poor hygiene is just smoking hot, and pretty much guarantees that you'll get past hand-holding on that date.


4. To go along with number three, young ladies who are being taken to the opera on a date should definitely wear their shortest, tightest dress. Nothing says classy like a dress that lets everyone see the goods up-front.


5. All women under the age of forty must wear dress shoes that are a size too small or too big (you make the call), and that have at least a five-inch heel. Women over the age of forty may wear these, too, but it's not a requirement. Make sure that you teeter crazily on said heels, so everyone around you gets to make bets on when and where you're going to fall down.


6. If you're going to the opera in Santa Fe, it's perfectly acceptable, even desirable, to dress up like a turquoise cowboy. That way, no one will know you're a tourist.


7. Clashing animal prints? Yes, please.


8. Bring the smallest bag you own, then cram it full of all of your crap so it looks all stretched out and lumpy, because you don't really want to carry around a big bag with you all night, do you? And you know you're going to need 47 Q-Tips and a pack of ballpoint pens if you don't just go ahead and bring them.


9. Hearkening back to number three, just don't shower. Anyone. There's nothing like listening to beautiful music and having the smell of b.o. and the feet of the guy behind you gently wafting into your nostrils.


10. Finally, if you're Robert Redford, make sure to wear a white blazer. You know, so you can remain incognito.

Some weeks, I feel as though my voice studio is in an Agatha Christie book. More accurately, I feel as though it's in the book, "And Then There Were None," except it's really the movie version of the book, because there's music involved.


And people keep disappearing.


I've lost so many students this summer, it's almost unbelievable. I lost another one this week that I thought was a permanent fixture in my studio. Let's just say that I now have fewer students than I did when I was serving my teaching apprenticeship, back in 1999. 


Dismal.


Why are singing lessons not looked upon as being as intellectual as lessons in other forms of music-making? We do all sorts of learning about composers and style and harmony and rhythm, theory stuff, practical stuff, life application stuff (for those who are interested). Come on, people. Singing is gud fer yer brayn.


I hope that, as the Fall approaches, I get some new people in my studio. Otherwise, I would have to think about (gasp) shutting this thing down. That would make me very very sad, and you wouldn't like me when I'm very very sad.


Mostly, I cry a lot and ask if you think I'm pretty; it's sort of like me when I'm drunk and/or me when I'm tired. This happens at our house a lot. My husband needs an emergency exit.


So, if you're reading this, go get your kids in some lessons. Real lessons in some kind of art with a real teacher. It's important for their little brains and it'll give someone like me some work to do. It's also way better for them than another DVD or a computer game would be. They'll get someone who listens to them for a whole half-hour (ish) every single week and they'll feel valuable. (Remember this as they kick and scream about practicing. Hahaha.)


I knew I should've majored in underwater basket-weaving. Crap.

Ugh, so here goes: I just thought I'd mention it, since everyone else seems to. So, here's the thing: I guess the guy didn't just come out and say what everyone thought he did. They asked him his opinion, and he gave it. So that part of it I have no problem with. He's entitled to his opinion, just like every one else, and all of this uproar has caused even more people who agree with him and/or his right to free speech to put their money in his cash registers, so it kind of backfired anyway.


Now, here's my problem with the whole thing: Why are people using this as an excuse to be hateful? I'm pretty sure God doesn't hate gay people, and I'm pretty sure God also doesn't hate fast-food loving fat people. I'm pretty sure he loves all of us.


So shut up.


I read a comment yesterday about how awful and bigoted fat people are, and it really upset me. I don't believe homosexuality is a sin and I am fully in support of marriage equality (I think marriage should be a spiritual issue, not a political issue, and if you don't like it, then don't do it). I am no more bigoted than anyone else...because, come on, doesn't that illustrate the point that we're all a little bigoted? My big obvious sin, the one of over-eating (which I do believe is wrong, as it's unhealthy and yada yada yada), is one that I have to struggle with every day. I'm pretty sure Mr. Perfectpants doesn't realize that I have to eat so few calories in order to maintain any weight loss that I'm hungry all of the time, achy all of the time, and super flipping cranky all of the time?


Yeah, so watch out.


You may think you're just standing up in favor of the gay community, but putting down a whole group of people and making sweeping generalizations makes you just as bigoted and hateful as some of the people you say that you detest. I voice my opinion to my very close friends and family, but I am also of the opinion that voicing said opinion is a little meaningless and has little to no effect. So, here's what I do:


I love everybody. Whether I agree with them or not, I love them. I try to be kind and I try to be helpful to them, and I try to support people when they may need to know that someone has their back. Whether I agree with them or not is irrelevant. If I believe what I say I believe, I am not the person who gets to judge whether or not something is a sin. Now, if someone is doing something harmful, I'll say something. If I have a friend who is using meth, for instance, I'm probably going to share my opinion on that. If I have a friend who's dating someone I think is a douchebag or a cheater, I'm going to say something.


Otherwise, I'm going to worry about my own problems and vote for the politicians with whom I have the most political thingies in common and be nice to puppies and help old ladies cross the street and make sure that my gay friends know that I love them and I don't think of them as sinners. I just think of them as having different taste in partners than me, and really, who doesn't? If I couldn't have married my husband, it would've been awful, and just think what would happen if someday they said two fat people couldn't get married. We would be in deep doodoo.


Maybe just eat where you want to eat, support the causes you believe in with your vote and your wallet rather than your words, and live and let live. Remember, there's lots of things that you do that are called sins in the Bible. Maybe it's God's call to decide what to do about that. Maybe you just do the best you can so you can show other people that loving God doesn't necessarily make a person into a loud-mouthed a-hole.


Not that I'm not a loud-mouthed a-hole. I totally am.

Why is it that when there's money in my wallet, all shiny and ready and expressly put there for the purpose of buying clothes, everything on the shelves is either ridiculously priced or there's nothing in any store that I can squeeze over my ginormous cranium/arms/belly/patootie? Conversely, when I don't have any money, everything fits and looks great and is on sale. Every stinking time.


Maybe it's just me, but I have noticed that this happens every single time I go shopping. We generally buy clothes around September and February when they're at their lowest on the clearance rack (yeah, I'm cheap), so we budget for a decent amount of money there, and we also sometimes budget to replace certain things; for instance, I got some new walking pants last month because my old ones had lost all their stretch and I spent my entire walk pulling them up and then removing the wedgie I had just caused.


There isn't always a lot of choice on the clearance racks so I sometimes end up with clothes that aren't my favorite, but will be just fine. I am on the tall side and I have broad shoulders along with a plentiful supply of extra padding, so many times I have trouble with finding only shirts that have arms the size of a four-year-old or I have to wade through oceans of short shorts in size 5X to find anything decent. There is the happy occasion when something really cool ends up on the clearance rack and it's in my size and a good color for me, but not often enough that it's not an extremely exciting moment for me.


I have been known to shout, "Huzzah!" What of it?


Anyway, we went to Santa Fe to look (mind you, just look) at these two stores that we had heard were awesome. They were. Thus, I found a billion things that I loved. All of them expensive and miles from being in my budget (can't do the regularly-priced items if I'm buying more than one thing...it's pretty much against my moral code). Ugh.


I'm still annoyed today. I don't like a lot of clothing stores as much as I liked that one. They had all sizes, from super tiny to shirts that were actually one size fits all (really!), and their prices, while being high, were quite a bit lower than the other stores on the SF Plaza (so it was basically like their version of Wal-Mart).


Why am I annoyed? Because I know that the next time I have money to buy clothes, I'm going to go back and they won't have anything that I like, or they will have reduced all of the armholes on all of their shirts and purchased all of their fashionable skirts in size two, which means that the only thing left for me will be an massive rack of muumuus in the back corner. Then I'll be sad and be forced to walk over to the Häagen-Dazs to drown my sorrows, and that's not going to help the clothes situation, either. Argh.