Special Message to Spammers

No. I can unequivocally state that I do not, in fact, want to increase the girth of my, er, male member. What with me not having boy parts and all. Just so you know. So please stop sending me Special Offers.

Especially those ones in Chinese, for obvious reasons.

I mean, honestly. Why don’t they send out spam the same way they distribute Happy Meals at McDonald’s? “You want one cheeseburger Happy Meal? Okay… boy or girl?”

Royally Screwed

As I sat at a traffic signal a few moments ago, stopped at a green light, my feelings quickly descended from the heady heights of annoyance– I mean, STOPPED! at a GREEN LIGHT!– into the realm of somber thoughtfulness, which was most likely a natural progression of thought due to the mile-long funeral procession crossing in front of me through the light.

And as I watched the cavalcade of mourners roll slowly by, preceded by motorcycle police officers with their sirens and lights providing guaranteed right-of-way to the hearse containing the casketed remains which followed closely behind, something pretty earth-shattering occurred to me.

See, I suddenly realized the only time I will ever be treated even remotely like royalty– with cavalcades equipped with sirens and lights and special flashers, and adoring family and friends following me around– I will be totally DEAD. And thus, completely unable to enjoy the experience. And heaven knows that my family and friends won’t have a good time, what with being all wrecked with sadness and whatnot over the tragedy of their loss. You know, of me. Right? Right?! Dude, I’m saying.

In what universe is that fair?

Benjamin Franklin once said, “Certainty? In this world nothing is certain but death and taxes.” And today I suddenly realized that in both? Well, I get totally gypped.

I’m Taking a Stand

Pockets are handy. You know? You can put stuff in them. You can keep your hands warm in them. Sometimes you find money in them. See? Handy! I am going to take a stand and say that pockets are good.

So yesterday, when I found myself pocketless– don’t ask how this happened, I have no idea what craziness compelled me to buy pocketless pants– I was at a loss. Where was I supposed to put stuff? And what if my hands got cold?! Huh? What then? And I’m not going to lie, a little windfall of forgotten change for a Diet Dr. Pepper would not have been unwelcome, thank you VERY much William Willet. (Damn you, Daylight Savings Time! DAMN YOU.)

So when I realized it was imperative to my workday productivity– and quite honestly, my usefulness as a human being in general– that I get caffeine in my system, like, STAT, I was like, “Oh, NO!” Right out loud, just like that. Because of the pockets? That weren’t there? Hello? Where was I supposed to put my MONEY? Honestly. I can’t just walk around clutching a dollar. Do you know how often I misplace my belongings? Do you?! Do you know how often I absently set things down and walk away? DO YOU?! Well, it is OFTEN, I tell you what. Which is very inconvenient, I must say, especially when that thing I set down is my wallet (in a grocery cart) or my child (also in a grocery cart). Oh, that last part was a joke. Clearly! I would never misplace my children! As far as you know!

And then, as so often happens when one’s back is pressed to the wall, I had a moment of epiphany. Heart hammering, I checked to see if the coast was clear– ohmygosh!– it was– ohmygoodness!– so without further hesitation I folded up that dollar bill and tucked it right into my bra. DUDE! I know, right?! I employed the classic bra stash! And let me tell you, that is not something I had ever considered. Not even remotely. I mean, as far as I’m concerned, the bra? Not exactly sartorially relevant in my life. Hey, I’m just saying that it doesn’t have to work very hard for me, and seems more of a nuisance than a help, what with the slipping straps and the stress of coordinating colors and whatnot. And let’s just say that the women who regularly bra stash as portrayed in TV and film are not exactly my peers in the *ahem* boobilicious department. Yet, here I was, actually getting some mileage from my heretofore irrelevant undergarments! SWEET.

Well, let me tell you, once I realized that my money was safely stowed away, safe from being misplaced, I felt pretty good. Sassy, even. I had MONEY in my BRA. How cool is that?! As I strolled with a bit of a jaunty air– hey, don’t judge– to the employee lounge, I imagined all sorts of other items that could be stowed away… business cards, sticks of gum, credit cards, notes with passwords or phone numbers… oh, the possibilities!

As I approached the vending machine, I decided that loose change was out of the question, clearly, but was a price I was willing to pay for peace of mind when I am caught pocketless and unawares. Coming out of my pleasant reverie, I nodded hello to the person standing at the next vending machine. Then I noticed the fifteen or so other people in the lounge, milling about. I could feel their eyes on me. Watching. Waiting. It’s like they KNEW or something! And they were judging me for my wanton ways! I mean, there was MONEY in my BRA! And, what? Was I just going to reach in and brazenly pull my dollar out of my bra, just like that?! Good LORD! I hadn’t thought this through!

STOP STARING AT ME! I thought, my heart beating wildly…

As a line began to form behind me, I realized I would have to suck it up or remain in my present state of decaffeinated non-productivity.

Caffeine won.

I slowly turned back to the machine, took a deep breath, and with my flushed face proudly held aloft I reached into my shirt, fished out my folded dollar bill, and snapped it open with a flourish. Ha! I thought. Take THAT, judgmental bystanders! And when that can of Diet Dr. Pepper finally dropped– thunk thunk! – I calmly retrieved it… and I got the hell out of there, vowing to donate my pocketless pants to the needy and leave bra stashing to the experts, by golly.

So… yeah. Pockets are handy. I’m taking a stand.

Random Thoughts on a Dreary Thursday Afternoon

Okay, I’m not sure if any of you have ever lost consciousness before, so let me just say very quickly here: Don’t do it.

No, seriously. If you can avoid a situation in which there is a possibility you might lose consciousness, by all means, do so. Whatever you do, do not pass out. Especially if you have foolishly locked yourself in an ER restroom where no one can find you until you come to, drag yourself up from the floor, and stagger out to find a nurse. Or, you know, anyone who will make the world stop spinning. It is NOT fun. Not fun at all. Trust me.

Just FYI.

Also, this? This right here is exactly what happens when you send a man to get support supplies after you bust your ass. Wait. I have to say, it seems like there should be something after that, doesn’t it? Like, “I busted my ass doing this report and this is the thanks I get?!” Or, “Hey, don’t bust your ass trying to get this done, it’s not that big a deal, yo?” You know? But whatever. Hee. I said “but.” Which totally sounds exactly like butt! Because it is a homonym?! Or more specifically, a homophone?! Hee! BUT.

What?

Oh yes… THIS is exactly what happens!

I know, right?! It’s like he just walked into CVS and grabbed the biggest, brightest, most gosh-awfulest butt-support-donut EVER and was like, “Dude. Cat will so totally love me for this. I am the best husband in the entire universe. I wonder if my bike pump will fit this bad boy?” And I was like, “Oh, the HELL you say?!”

I mean, guys? It smells like those kickballs you used to check out from the P.E. teachers at recess! Yeah. Like that. And I can totally bounce it and it makes that rubbery BOING! sound, which I demonstrated to several of my very impressed co-workers. Well, once they recovered from the blinding shock of the Manic Panic Orange, that is.

Honestly.

Thank goodness for my spare office hoodie, that’s all I’m saying.

So… think anyone will notice?

American Idol is WAY more exciting.

Dude. How very anticlimactic.

So, apparently the Surprisingly Essential First Page contest judges have not watched enough American Idol to learn how to go about informing the public about the contestants’ elimination from a public contest. Right? All I’m saying is they obviously don’t have an appreciation for how awesomely the judges and my wee Ryan bring the UN!COMFORTABLE! to the elimination process. Like the time– during the Best. Results Show. EVER.– when my Ry-Ry was all “Chrisyouaregoinghometonight.” And Chris Daughtry was like, “What in the which where? WHO IN THE WHAT NOW?!” and Kat McPhee was trying to do the Snoopy Dance of Joy and cry at the same time, and Taylor Hicks (soooooulpatrooool) and Elliott Yamin were like “Yes!” (*fist pump*) “Wow, sorry, dude”? And Chris was pissed– like, seriously, he looked like he wanted to reach through the television and kill me dead– but it was just so AWESOME?! And now they use Chris’s song as the farewell (AKA: See Ya, Wouldn’t Wanna Be Ya) song and he is totally kicking ass with his very own band which he named after his very own self so it all worked out in the end? You know?

Because, honestly… how fun was THIS?! No fun at ALL, that’s how fun! We put ourselves out there, lay it all on the line, and what do we get? Nothing! A big ZIP. Nada. Zilch. ZIPPO. What about the bottom three? And the agony of staying in the bottom three until “after the break”? And where was the anxiety? The tears? The almost unbearable stress? The gratuitous “You look great tonight” and “You moved me”? The thinly veiled homophobic posturing? HUH?! Seriously. I’m saying.

But I have to give the judges their props, yo? 675 entries? Hey, I mean, Simon, Paula, and Randy get a gagillion contestants or whatever, so they could be all like, “Oooh, ‘wah!’ 675 entries? Bitch, please.” But there’s THREE of them– not just two, right?– so there you go.

But whatever. I’m not discouraged. No worries. As God is my witness, if Chris Daughtry can headline his own personal shouty band, I can get myself published.

So it’s all good.

Cat, OUT.

Driving in Cars With Drama Queens

We now join a conversation “between” Alli and Momma in the DWM car, already in progress…

“…and it wasn’t even a big deal, it was just one little mistake– are you listening, Momma?– but they wouldn’t let me help and we were getting graded on cooperation and stuff, so I told the teacher I wanted to help but they wouldn’t let me– and that’s not cooperating, is it, Momma?– I mean, it’s not my fault they lost points because we were supposed to cooperate, and it was just, like, one point or something, but then she was all like, ‘What’s that all about?! You ruined our grade!’ and she got all worked over and stuff and she told the other girls not to play with me at recess– which is so rude, huh, Momma?– and then guess what? She started to cry.”

“Wow,” I replied as I flicked my turn signal blinker and glanced over my shoulder at my blind spot. “Lots of drama in the third grade, huh?”

“I know! I mean, she got so worked over, Momma! For one teensy little mistake! And it was pretty much their own fault, anyway, if you ask me, so, you know…”

I merged into the right lane. “Well, hopefully by next week your project partner will have forgotten all about this.”

“Yeah.” Alli sighed heavily. “Man… what a drama queen.”

Feeling Saucy

Look how tall my gals are getting to be! Shazam!

Hannah (birthday girl! woot!) and Alli are feeling quite saucy today, bee tee dub, due to some seriously sassy straightened hair! Now some of you may know of the curly-haired gal’s secret pining for stick straight hair, with blunt cut bangs and no fear of frizz, and by golly, today these two little girls were living the dream!

Well, except their hair isn’t quite STICK straight, there is nary a bang in sight, and a little humidity would poof those hairdos right the hell out, but whatever! STRAIGHT HAIR! On Hannah and Alli! It’s like, a miracle or something. A birthday miracle!

No, I’m not tearing up… there’s just a speck of dirt in my eye…

Ponderings and Musings

1. Should I put all the old baggage– the disappointment, the acrimony– behind me and reconcile with American Idol? As much as I hate to admit it, I miss our times together– the laughter, the tears, the recaps– and there’s just so much HISTORY there, you know? It is a tough call… should I throw caution to the wind and jump back in?

2. In this fierce political environment, what is the proper response in casual conversation when a person suddenly makes a vulgar or disparaging remark about a political party as a whole– such as “Democrats are so [choose an expletive]!” or “All Republicans are complete [insert vulgarity here]!”– presented as a statement of fact, with the assumption that everyone else in the group totally agrees? Pushing aside the obvious inadvisability of gross generalizations, not everyone is interested in turning a watercooler discussion about the latest episode of Gossip Girl into a political debate. Hrm… how to diffuse? Must think of witty, all-purpose comeback…

3. When did pom pons get so small? When did that happen? Cheerleaders at televised sporting events look as if they are clutching candy wrappers and waving them at the crowd with their twiggy little arms, all, “See? I eat! See?! I’m not starving myself to fit into my size 0 cheer ’skirt’! Take THAT, biznitches! Wooooooo! Number OOOONE! YEAH!” Right? Weird.

Why I Love My Job, Reason #258

Oh. Em. GEE. Guys? GUYS?! Guess WHAT?! I arrived at work, and there they were! I kid you not! Just right there! In my cubicle! There I was, moseying into work, just minding my own grumpy Monday morning business, then BLAMMO! TASTY BEVERAGE! So beautiful, like a towering pyramid of caffeinated goodness, all geometrical and Dr. Peppery and whatnot…

*sigh*

Ha! Take THAT, 3rd Floor Lounge Diet Dr. Pepper Thief.

Just Wondering

I’m just wondering if it is kosher to sneak walk into a lounge super early in the morning and buy several cans of soda from the vending machine. You know, at one time. Like, “Do de do de do, I’m just dropping quarter after quarter after quarter into this machine and buying up all the soda– clink, clink, clink, THUNK… clink, clink, clink, THUNK– even though this isn’t even my floor and why on earth do I even need six cans of soda at 6:00 a.m. anyway, do de do de do…”

Oh, I’m not judging. I’m just throwing it out there. Because what if lunch time rolls around and someone is craving, say, I don’t know, a Diet Dr. Pepper, for instance, and some person who doesn’t even work on the 3rd floor has already snuck gone into the 3rd floor lounge super early in the morning– you know, before any sane normal person has even thought of indulging in a tasty soda beverage– and bought all the cans? Can you imagine the disappointment? Especially when it is discovered that all that remains in the vending machine is grape soda? GRAPE SODA?!

I mean, that kind of sneaky behavior just seems like it might be selfish. And bad manners. To me, anyway. But I don’t know. I could be totally wrong. I’m just saying that other people may want some Diet Dr. Pepper, too, but they have been taught from an early age that it isn’t polite to hoard the soda that is purportedly intended to be shared in an equitable manner by everyone on the 3rd floor– a floor on which some people who are stealing purchasing all the good soda may not even work, I might add. I’m just asking. I realize I could be completely wrong here.

In any event, all of this is not to even mention the fiscal ramifications of such greediness behavior. I mean, why do we have access to wholesale warehouses like Costco or BJ’s, if not to supply selfish people consumers with cases and cases of any type of soda they desire? All at a reasonable price designed to fit any budget? Hey, I just think a membership at a wholesale warehouse seems like a more fiscally responsible choice if a person is looking to buy in bulk. All those quarters add up, you know. That’s all I’m saying. But who am I to say? I’m not the soda police.

I was just wondering, is all.

A Special Holiday Message

( I couldn’t let this beautiful season pass without expressing a heartfelt message of holiday cheer. So… yah. Here it is. Music in this podcast provided by the Podsafe Music Network, with Santa Claus is Coming to Town by Dokken. Yes, I said DOKKEN.)

Ha, ha, ha! Merry Christmas, everyone! HA, HA, HA!

Oh… didn’t you hear? In Australia, street Santas are being encouraged to replace “ho ho ho!” with “ha ha ha!” You know, because all that deep “ho ho ho!”-ing scares the children? Not to mention the blatant sexist connotations inherent in the traditional phraseology?

Then again, potentially any large man in a red velvet suit with a scraggly white beard could scare the everlovin’ bejeebies out of a child, especially when said child is coerced into sitting on the man’s lap while “He sees you when you’re sleeping, he knows when you’re awake!” blares in the background.

But that is totally beside the point. Belting out “ho ho ho!” at all those unsuspecting children? All they want is a candy cane, after all. That could damage a child’s psyche, that’s all I’m saying.

Yup. Leave it to Oz to straighten out Santa Claus and his Eurocentric, closed-minded, rigid value judgments. I mean, ‘ho’? And what about ‘naughty’ and ‘nice’? Hello? Who is he to say?! Huh? This is the 21st century, Santa. We don’t burden children with labels that could damage their self-esteem. We prefer “obedience-challenged” or “potentially disruptive on a large scale.” And EVERYONE gets a present. But I digress.

So, the family and I just finished singing a rousing chorus of ‘Rudolph the Differently-abled Reindeer-American,’ which is one of our favorite Holiday Ballads of Strictly Secular Joy. Those are always fun this time of year! Good times!

Aw, I kid. Kidding! My family and I are in fact quite full of the holiday spirit and are feeling extraordinarily thankful for the blessings we have received this year.

Speaking of blessings…

Top Ten Lambson Moments of 2007

10. Buying Guitar Hero and rocking out as a family. Need I say more?

9. Allison discovering acronyms, and-after hearing that I made bran muffins-skipping along behind me and happily yelling out for all the neighborhood to hear “Yay! Mom, Come on! Let’s go eat a BM!”

8. Hannah telling Tanner she loved him, just out of the blue, then-after Aaron and I finished cooing, “Aw!” and “How sweet!”-shrugging and admitting, “Yeah… that was an awkward moment.”

7. Breaking up with American Idol so we could have those three nights per week of our lives back.

6. Making wedding videos and Public Service Announcement vidcasts with the kiddos. Just for the heck of it.

5. Hannah yelling, “Momma! Swinging with the wind rushing over my toes is my favorite way to swing! (flinging hair as if she were the Breck Girl) With the wind in my hair!… While wearing a skort!”

4. Allison proudly showing off her new gerbil, then announcing, “One of them I thought had babies, but it was actually only his tentacles.” Then, after our explosion of laughter, insisting, “No! I’m not kidding, guys! Those tentacles were HUGE!”

3. Scoring an interview with actor Michael Muhney (AKA: Sheriff Lamb)-from my favorite TV show Veronica Mars-for my sleeper hit vidcast, Veronica Mars REWIND, (Michael Muhney says I “rock”… Booyah!)

2. Tanner auditioning for and WINNING the lead part of Charlie in his school’s musical production of Roald Dahl’s Willy Wonka.

1. Crawling into bed at the end of the day and cuddling up with a novel, smooshed between my kiddos–smelling of playground sweat and sunshine–eagerly devouring novels of their own, the only sound the whisper of turning pages, the rustle of blankets, and occasional bursts of laughter followed by silly passages read aloud for all to enjoy. No television. No phone. No computer. No radio. Just my kids and me tucked away from the world, immersed in worlds of our own… together.

And I mean this… happy holidays, y’all.

Triennial Wild Hair… Cut

The cutting… the coloring…

I can’t help myself. It’s a compulsion, I tell you! A COMPULSION!

I cannot be held responsible for my coiffuring compulsions. Just so’s ya know.

Confessions of a Desperate Working Momma

I was once banned– that’s right, I said BANNED–from the TWoP boards for one teensy tiny moment of indiscretion–moments after the season four finale of American Idol–in which I may or may not have–I’m not sure, it’s all so hazy now–POSSIBLY suggested that all the Carrie Underwood haters just go ahead and SUCK IT. I know, right? What’s up with THAT?! Give a gal a break, yo? I was understandably carried away in the moment! I think! Again with the haziness! Honestly. And I liked my old TWoP user name, too. You don’t just come by sweet user names like that one every day, that’s all I’m saying. I mean, how wickedly cool is the na– well, my super cool, now unfairly defunct TWoP user name so isn’t the point. Whatever.

Ahem.

Then what IS my point? Oh! Yes! I have one!

Carrie Underwood haters? SUCK IT!

Hoo!

Aaah, the sweet, unmoderated freedom of blogging…

Feels GOOOOOOOD.

Poster Boy for Term Limits in Congress

(AKA: More o’ dat Questionable Political Commentary I’m always bragging about…)

Congressman Pete Stark? Watch closely now.

Here’s the line:
_____________________________________________________________

a

a

a

a

n

d

.

.

.

Here’s you.

Ponytails Be Gone

Chopped!

And, you know… blonde.

On a completely different note, the way the four desks in my cubicle space are set up situates all of our phones at close proximity to one another. Because of this, my colleagues often unwittingly throw me into the realm of Too Much Information. Oh, you know what I’m talking about. You’ve had those phone conversations at work! Don’t lie! The ones you think no one can hear? But people actually CAN? Hear them, that is? As a result, when friends or family get in touch with me while I’m at work, I am so inhibited by the thought of being overheard that I am forced to take on a voice reminiscent of the soothing, pillow-talky, late-night radio personality voices of yore, which inevitably provokes the person on the other line to demand, “Hey, are you mad at me? No? Depressed? Sick? What’s wrong with your voice?” And I have to patiently (and quietly) explain, “No, dummy, I’m at WORK.”

And that is no small feat, I tell you what. Because I am normally a Loud Talker on the phone, you see, and apparently my abnormally calm, oh-so-easy-on-the-ears voice freaks people the hell out.

Personally, I’m thinking this desk formation violates the fundamental principles of Feng shui. I don’t know about my co-workers, but I’m worried about my ch’i.

TechnoGeekery, and I’m going back to Cali, to Cali, to Cali…

Not that all y’all need any more reasons to mock me, but my new TechnoGeekery podcast is up.

TechnoGeekery Show #7: Breaking Up With Blogger

This week, the question du jour asks about transferring all of one’s posts from one blog host to another. Well, you know how the song goes: They say that breaking up is hard to do…

But it doesn’t have to be like that, and this week’s episode of TechnoGeekery shows you how to break up with Blogger–and move right in with Wordpress.com–in a snap.

Plus, there’s singing! And “Leave Wordpress ALONE” gal! And did I mention the singing?! Super bad singing?! Because there’s that.

That being said, I’m off to California! I’m going back to Cali, to Cali, to Cali… Will I have time to blog? Huh! I don’t think so.

Oh, I kid! I’m attending the Podcast and New Media Expo in sunny CA with my Mommycast BFF’s (TechnoGeekery is part of their new Mommycast and Friends channel at Podango! Woo!) this weekend, so there will be bunches and bunches of technogeeks around playing with techno gadgets and vidcasting and blogging and stuff. I know, right?! Heaven on earth.

More Toilet Etiquette, AKA Quest for a Lost Civilization

Never–under any circumstances–should the handle on the INSIDE of the bathroom stall be wet. Never! Do you hear me, people?! Never EVER! What are we… Neanderthals? Are we a civilized society or WHAT?! Huh?! WELL?!

Now, if you will excuse me, I have a second date with industrial-strength disinfectant soap and some nearly scalding water.

*eeuugh*

Customer Service Crisis

It used to be that cashiers were all friendly and gabby and customer service-oriented. Hell, back in my high school days when I worked the cash register at Burger King (shut up) I was all ABOUT the customer service! With the smiling? And the polite chit-chat? And the attention to detail? And the speaking of English?

Not so anymore! No, sir! It seems that lately, I’ve had to forgo the retail chit-chat and spend the majority of my time just trying to understand what the frak the cashier– whether at the drug store, the grocery store , the drive-thru (dyeh! “through,” damn it! “THROUGH”!)–is trying to say to me.

Honestly. Just last night TGIM and I made a quick stop at our local drugstore for some earplugs so I could make it through the night without walloping him or violently shoving him over on his side in order to make the horrid–horrid!– snoring go AWAY. As we were checking out, I stood next to him at the counter, engrossed in OK Magazine (Britney jaccuzzied nekkid, y’all! For reals!), as TGIM waited, cash in hand, for the total.

“Seebee yacaw?” I heard the cashier say.

Silence.

I looked over at TGIM, who had that hunted, I don’t know what the freak is going on look on his face.

“Seebee yacaw?” the cashier repeated. A bit testily I might add.

Silence.

TGIM stared blankly at the cashier for a moment, opened his mouth as if to say something, thought the better of it, glanced at me, then back at the cashier.

Luckily I am nothing if not a Super Saver, so despite the rather thick– now, I’m going to go out on a limb and call it Asian– accent (I didn’t take the time to ask him the specifics of his ancestry, me just buying ear plugs and all, but I’m fairly confident in my profiling skillz), I knew what the grumpy man wanted. “Our CVS card is in my wallet,” I told the cashier, “which is at home.”

TGIM’s face cleared. “Oh!” Then his smile faded. “Oh.” Because we like to shop the sale, yo?

Figuring we were good to go, I dove back into my magazine. (Adam Sandler is using a BUTT DOUBLE in his new movie? Get out!)

“Fo numbah?”

Silence. Then, “Um, Cat…?”

I must admit, the only reason I had a clue what the man said was because I know that at this particular store when we are too disorganized to know where our Super Saver cards are– as they have apparently broken off in the dark recesses of our purse, somewhere alongside a lone breath mint and the coins we can always hear clinking in there, lost forever and ever– all we have to do is rattle off our phone number. Which I did. It didn’t process. I tried again. Still no luck. TGIM said, “Let me try mine.” Before he could, however, the cashier barked out the total and put his hand out for our money.

No sale price for us!

Now let me tell you, when I was a Burger King employee, you–as the customer–Had It Your Way, damn it! YOUR WAY! And if employees weren’t all cute and perky and personable at the register, they dragged your non-customer-service-oriented ass back to the fiery pit of hell that is Broiler Duty, by GOD, they did!

Well, except if you were TOO perky and personable, like those times I’d spot a cute boy at the front counter, and I would drop the Chicken Tender I’d been snacking on and race my friend Shane (whose flamin’ gayness was only superseded by the bigness of his Flock of Seagulls ‘do) to the registers where we would jostle for position and hurry to be the first to greet the customer–”WelcometoBurgerKingMayIHelpYouGetOFFme!”– thus securing the sale. Although if girlfriend thought he could out-perky me, he was seriously trippin’. I was a CHEERLEADER. Just sayin’. Then again, if his choice of coiffure was any indication, I’d say “seriously trippin’” was a safe bet. But we were FRIENDLY, see? And spoke with the English? That’s all I’m saying.

But whatever.

My point, you ask? Well… I don’t have one, really. It just bugs me that because I spend so much time at the cash register simply trying to be understood (or to understand), I can’t make with the friendly. Or Shop the Sale. OR finish even one measly magazine.

*gasp*

OMG. I just realized! If customer service continues in its downward spiral into the proverbial toilet… I may have to start subscribing to magazines.

Ah customer service! Ah humanity!

Thank you for not sticking your nose in my uterus.

My good friend Kelly over at Klog wrote of an experience she had last weekend at a hotel when an uppity hotel employee who was supposed to be restocking the continental breakfast bar began to harass her and her hubby Rob for a bit about their duty to procreate.

No, seriously. She was neglecting the bagel bin to harass them! Honestly. I would have been all, “Hey! Stop your yammerin’ and gimmee my bagel, lady! I’m HUNGRY!… Oh, and do you have any more of those little cream cheese packets?” (I’m a little testy when I’m hungry. Low blood sugar, and all that.) But that is so not the point.

While I was appalled at the effrontery of the neglectful bagel re-stocker, I will admit that I definitely think it’s natural for people to go all Pregnancy Patrol and say things like, “Oooh, y’all are so cute! You’d have the prettiest babies!… so what’s up with that?” It has something to do with the human imperative to procreate. Oh, and that categorical imperative which requires that nosy people get all up in a person’s bidness. And I do think there is a compliment in there somewhere. People think you’re pretty! And would have cute babies! At the very least… flattering, right? Not that flattery will get up at two a.m. to feed a hungry baby, but still… you’re pretty!

However… while perfect strangers have every right to see a cute young couple and think something along those lines, it is a very different thing altogether to express said thoughts aloud. So very inappropriate! Good lord. I agree with you, Kelly. People DO need to stay the hell out of a person’s uterus, the bizzyotches. I vote that you go with the “I have sex JUST for fun” t-shirt. Think of all the fun confrontations… I mean, conversations that bad boy would cause! Am I right? (I like the “Thank you for not sticking your nose in my uterus” slogan idea, but I think it may leave things too open to interpretation… oh, you know who you are! **cough**NILBO**cough**)

On the flip side:

If you’re me, you get, “Good lord. Are all those yours? [insert look of abject horror] Wait… you don’t plan on having any more of them, do you?”

Or– if you’re a part of TGIM’s family– you get, “When are you having more?!”

Coincidentally, just the other day as I sat in a salon chair staring with fascination at the sticky, tin foil faux hawk my stylist was creating with her crazy mad hair-coloring skillz, the usual questions began. And, as usual, they drifted into kid territory.

“What?! You have three kids?! THREE?! Wow! When did you start having babies? When you were twelve?! HA! HA! HA! How old are they?… Oh my GOD! Did you MEAN to have them so close together like that?! That’s crazy!… Hey! Can you believe she has THREE kids?! Yep! THREE! She looks twelve, right?! HA!”

At this point, everyone in the salon was sneaking stealthy yet totally obvious peeks at me, the crazy lady, the abnormally fertile momma. Hey. Don’t get me wrong. I like attention as much as the next attention whore, but at that moment, strangely, I was wondering why it is that the earth never opens up and swallows you whole when you WANT it to? Because honestly… where could I go? With the freaky foil faux hawk? And the prolific procreation skills?

But then my hair turned out all cute and stuff, so I was like, “Eh. That’s me. I’m a child-birthing fool… with some super cute hair! Take that, loudmouthed, rude stylist who I will totally be coming back to because LOOK AT MY HAIR! Cuteness.”

So, you see? The madness? Sorry, Kelly. Babies or not, it never ends.

Gonna Miss the Buggers

I have been a bad, BAD blogger, my peeps. Lo siento mucho, pero no era mi intención. But here are some PICTURES to make up for it! Eh? Eh?! Okay… well, how ’bout THESE, then? C’mon! See?! With the SAGUAROS?! Saguaros have got to be worth something. Just sayin’.

So, here’s the deal. TGIM and I have been traipsing all over Arizona, which, HELLO HEAT! Anyhoos, it’s the yearly trek Out West to drop the kids off with the grandparents in Podunky Small Town Arizona, and boy howdy is it hot here. And don’t give me, “Well… at least it’s a DRY heat…” Are you FREAKING KIDDING ME with that?! It’s ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-SIX DEGREES outside! I don’t care if the heat is dry, I am burning up! BURNING UP, I tell you! Honestly. When they call Phoenix “The Valley of the Sun,” they mean it literally.

You don’t buy it? Okay, well, let me tell you, on the Fourth of July it was so hot that when we pulled into my sister-in-law’s driveway and opened the car door, the wave of heat was so intense it took away our breath and nearly tumbled us back into the car. And then? As we struggled out of the formerly air-conditioned car– now roughly 110 degrees and rising as we let all the cool air out– we were all, “If we can just make it to the house, then we’ll be able to breathe again! And maybe we won’t melt! Or have a heat-stroke and die right here on this pavement radiating with thousand-degree heat!” But when my sister-in-law took about 60 seconds longer than should have been necessary to answer the door (like her three-year-old NEEDS help on the toilet?! whatever?!), I am positive I suffered some sort of mini heat stroke (although TGIM tells me I was just being a big ol’ drama queen– I know, right?! RUDE.) and nearly collapsed on the spot.

Anyhoos, we’ve escaped the heat of Phoenix and are now safely established in Podunky Small Town Arizona, where my mother is introducing me to culture, like, “Flip This House” and “Confessions of a Matchmaker,” and I have just finished a wedding video for my brother-in-law, who is getting married on Saturday. Gettin’ hitched, if you will.

Good times, these.

Yet all the while, I am dreading tomorrow, when TGIM and I head back down to Phoenix to catch our flight home. But not because of the heat. Nope. I probably won’t even feel it this time around. Because I’m leaving the kiddos here. And though I know they are in safe hands, and I know they are in for a summer of swimming at the pool, biking at the park, hiking around town, and playing with cousins and friends… I hate to go. Because our house is so, so QUIET when they’re gone.

So quiet.

*sigh*

I’m gonna miss those buggers.

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